point where you pass Heartbreak Hill, I felt fine. No problem at all. My friends who were waiting at
Heartbreak Hill to cheer me on later on said, “Haruki looks really good.” I ran up the hill smiling and
waving. I was sure that at this rate I could pick up the pace and run a decent time. But after I passed
Cleveland Circle and entered downtown Boston, my legs started to get heavy. Very quickly exhaustion
overtook me. I didn’t get cramps, but in the last few miles of the race, after passing over Boston
University Bridge, it was all I could do not to get left behind. Picking up the pace like I’d planned was
impossible.
I was able to finish, of course. Under the partly cloudy sky I ran the full 26.2 miles without stopping
and slipped past the finish line, which was set up in front of the Prudential Center. I wrapped myself in
a silver thermal sheet to ward off the cold, and received a medal from one of the volunteers. A wave of
relief washed over me—relief that I didn’t have to run anymore. It always feels wonderful to finish a
marathon—it’s a beautiful achievement—but I wasn’t satisfied with the time. Usually I look forward
to a cold Sam Adams draft beer after a race, but now I didn’t even feel like having one. Exhaustion
had seeped into each and every organ.
“What in the world happened?” My wife, who had been waiting for me at the finish line, was
baffled. “You’re still pretty strong, and I know you train enough.”
What indeed? I wondered, not having a clue. Maybe I’m simply getting older. Or perhaps the reason
lies elsewhere, maybe something critical I’ve overlooked. At this point, anyway, any speculation has
to remain just that: speculation. Like a small channel of water silently being sucked up into the desert.There’s one thing, though, I can state with confidence: until the feeling that I’ve done a good job in
a race returns, I’m going to keep running marathons, and not let it get me down. Even when I grow old
and feeble, when people warn me it’s about time to throw in the towel, I won’t care. As long as my
body allows, I’ll keep on running. Even if my time gets worse, I’ll keep on putting in as much effort—
perhaps even more effort—toward my goal of finishing a marathon. I don’t care what others say—
that’s just my nature, the way I am. Like scorpions sting, cicadas cling to trees, salmon swim
upstream to where they were born, and wild ducks mate for life.
I may not hear the Rocky theme song, or see the sunset anywhere, but for me, and for this book, this
may be a sort of conclusion. An understated, rainy-day-sneakers sort of conclusion. An anticlimax, if
you will. Turn it into a screenplay, and the Hollywood producer would just glance at the last page and
toss it back. But the long and the short of it is that this kind of conclusion fits who I am.
What I mean is, I didn’t start running because somebody asked me to become a runner. Just like I
didn’t become a novelist because someone asked me to. One day, out of the blue, I wanted to write a
novel. And one day, out of the blue, I started to run—simply because I wanted to. I’ve always done
whatever I felt like doing in life. People may try to stop me, and convince me I’m wrong, but I won’t
change.
I look up at the sky, wondering if I’ll catch a glimpse of kindness there, but I don’t. All I see are
indifferent summer clouds drifting over the Pacific. And they have nothing to say to me. Clouds are
always taciturn. I probably shouldn’t be looking up at them. What I should be looking at is inside of
me. Like staring down into a deep well. Can I see kindness there? No, all I see is my own nature. My