Running a marathon during the cold months and taking part in a triathlon during the summer has
become the cycle of my life. There’s no off-season, so I always seem to be busy, but I’m not about to
complain. It’s brought me a lot of happiness. Truthfully, I am sort of interested in trying a full-scale
triathlon like the Iron-man competition, but if I went that far I’m afraid the training would (most
definitely) take so much time out of my schedule it would interfere with my real job. I didn’t pursue
more ultramarathons for the same reason. For me, the main goal of exercising is to maintain, and
improve, my physical condition in order to keep on writing novels, so if races and training cut into the
time I need to write, this would be putting the cart before the horse. Which is why I’ve tried to
maintain a decent balance.
Meanwhile, running for a quarter century makes for a lot of good memories.
One I remember in particular was running, in Central Park in 1983, with the writer John Irving. I
was translating his novel Setting Free the Bears at the time, and while I was in New York I asked to
interview him. He told me he was busy but if I’d come in the morning while he jogged in Central Park
we could talk while we ran together. We talked about all kinds of things as we jogged around the park
early one morning. Naturally I didn’t tape our conversation and couldn’t take any notes, so all that I
recall now is the happy memory of the two of us jogging together in the brisk morning air.
In the 1980s I used to jog every morning in Tokyo and often passed a very attractive young woman.
We passed each other jogging for several years and got to recognize each other by sight and smile a
greeting each time we passed. I never spoke to her (I’m too shy), and of course don’t even know her
name. But seeing her face every morning as I ran was one of life’s small pleasures. Without pleasures
like that, it’s pretty hard to get up and go jogging every morning.
One other memory I hold dear is running high up in Boulder, Colorado, with Yuko Arimori, the
Japanese silver medalist in the marathon at the Barcelona Olympics. This was just some light jogging,
but still, coming from Japan and running all of a sudden at a height of ten thousand feet was very tough—
my lungs screamed, and I felt dizzy and terribly thirsty. Miss Arimori gave me a cool look and just
said, “Is something the matter, Mr. Murakami?” I learned how rigorous the world of professional
runners is (though I should add that she’s a very kind person). By the third day, though, my body had
gotten used to the thin atmosphere, and I could enjoy the crisp air of the Rockies.
I’ve met many people through running, which has been one of its real pleasures. And many people
have helped me, and encouraged me. At this point what I should do—like in an Academy Awards
acceptance speech—is express my thanks to many people, but there are too many to thank, and the
names would probably mean nothing to most readers. I’ll confine myself to the following.
The title of this book is taken from the title of a short-story collection by a writer beloved to me,
Raymond Carver, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. I’m thankful to his widow, Tess
Gallagher, who was kind enough to give me permission to use the title in this way. I am also deeply