I read Haruki Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running 20 years ago, when it came out. I remember being fascinated by his account of running marathons and participating in triathlons, mostly because I’ve never been athletic and found it incredible that a man almost 20 years older than I was then could be so fit. Of course, Murakami had, at that point, been running for more than 20 years, and after that much time and that many miles, of course he was fit. After I finished the book, I must’ve lent or given it away to someone, because my copy is gone. No matter. I needed to read it again, so I got another.

Why did I need to read it again? I’m giving a talk about writing as an embodied practice next month, and I’m looking for examples of writers who talk about it that way–as something we do with our bodies as well as with our minds. I had a vague notion that Murakami observes something like that. And, yes, he does:

Writing itself is mental labor, but finishing an entire book is loser to manual labor. It doesn’t involve heavy lifting, running fast, or leaping high. . . . The whole process–sitting at your desk, focusing your mind like a laser beam, imagining something out of a blank horizon, creating a story, selecting the right words, one by one, keeping the whole flow of the story on track–requires far more energy, over a long period, than most people ever imagine. You might not move your body around, but there’s grueling, dynamic labor going on inside you. Everybody uses their mind when they think. But a writer puts on an outfit called narrative and thinks with his entire being; and for the novelist that process requires putting into play all your physical reserve, often to the point of overexertion.

I think that’s an accurate observation, although my experience is limited, compared to Murakami’s. I think it’s accurate partly because I’m convinced that our brains are not separate from our bodies, that they are part of our bodies, every bit as physical as our biceps or ulnae or kidneys.

And again I was amazed that a man my age–well, a little younger–could be so fit. I’m not unfit, not at the moment, and the other night I even jogged five kilometres home across Wascana Centre from the university, mostly because I was very late for my dinner, and I’m proud that I can do that, but compared to Murakami, I’m kind of a slug. I haven’t been running for two decades, but I’ve been walking five kilometres or so more or less daily for one, and I love what that has done for me. I crave that exercise now, and because I can’t imagine life without it, I dread the day when, because of age or injury or illness, I’ll be forced to stop. But that day has yet to arrive, thankfully.

I wonder what Murakami is up to now, 20 years later after writing What I Talk About When I Talk About Running (yes, he’s alluding to Raymond Carver, and in the afterword he thanks Tess Gallagher, Carver’s widow, for allowing him to do that). Is he still spending time in Hawaii, running in the refreshing ocean breeze? Is he still completing triathlons and struggling with the swimming and cycling parts of the race? I have no idea. I hope so, although he’s 77 now, and maybe his running has slowed to a walk. He’s still writing, though–he published a 1,200-page novel two years ago–and I’m inspired to read more of his work. Maybe not a 1,200-page epic, though; I’m not sure I have time for anything that ambitious.