Running While Reading, “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running”

One week ago, I began to read Haruki Murakami’s memoir, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Naturally, the subject matter rekindled a dormant desire to run. I gave myself a goal to run everyday for a week and listen to a portion of the book while I ran. Here are the thoughts that resulted thereafter -

It’s most accurate to describe myself as a fair-weather runner. It’s probably not even accurate to call myself as a runner in the first place. But what is it to call yourself anything? How much of our identity is driven by the adjectives we choose to attribute to aspects, habits, eccentricities of our persona? In a contemporary society so driven by identity politics, the manner in which we choose these qualifiers can dictate the series of events that happens thereafter. Once someone starts to call themselves a runner they open themselves to a new category of descriptors — determined, hard-working, steadfast.

These are all connotations indicative of a presumably good character. Would you rather take advice from a runner or a loafer? But what if the runner is physically a runner but internally a loafer? What if the runner who calls himself a runner only actually runs once a week for 1 mile? Can they still reap the privileges of positive associations? How can a single qualifier ever tell us the truth of character?

I like the idea of being a fair-weather runner because of the shield it places around the act, as if I’m telling the world — This isn’t who I am in totality, it may not last — or — I reserve the right to change my mind. It’s an act of self-preservation, not fully wanting to buy into the image. Not wanting the image to be assigned to me so impulsively.

There is one other instance where I have suited up in fair-weather armor — when I describe my relationship to being a lawyer. I went to law school to study entertainment law, figuring that it would get me closer to a world I struggled to break into. I could go to law school and then ease my way into the creative side — hence the early adoption of the fair-weather lawyer persona. I wanted the record to be set straight — I was not a lawyer lawyer; this wasn’t permanent or who I was. Like the moralist attributes ascribed to runners, I felt I could not partake in the labels that came with being a lawyer — serious, logical, stoic, left-brained. Neither running nor practicing law came close to embodying the full portrait of my identity.

I started running around the age of nine. I had just moved to New York City from Akron, Ohio, where I went from an all-girls Catholic school to, what I coined it as a, “Hey Arnold public school”. In Akron I was the outsider — a Turkish Muslim girl who was too young to articulate why she couldn’t go up and take communion during mass. My classmates ate pepperoni pizza, went to summer camp, were girl scouts and did the sorts of activities excluded from the vernacular of the parents of immigrant kids. As the first born daughter to a non-English speaking mother, I assumed the parent-child role reversal early on. I played translator at the grocery stores and was the sounding board to her grievances of American isolationism and culture dysmorphia.

When I moved to New York City, it was as if I was seeing the world for the first time. I emerged from my Midwestern darkness and could now start my life. My school, P.S.6 on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, was famous for being the setting of Kramer vs. Kramer (1979). The diner Meryl Streep stalks her child from was my daily after-school staple. Suddenly, my classmates were from all walks of life — children of doormen and stock brokers. Many of us were first generation Americans, some had just arrived to New York from other lands and everyone spoke multiple languages.

The high of my new school wore off slightly when I was required to choose a physical activity to partake in. My body lacked the ability to even touch my toes and my suspiciousness to community based activities resulted in an early aversion to group sports. I chose the option that felt the least risky — track and field. Thus began my fair-weather journey as a runner.

Surprisingly, I was a fast and steady long distance runner and began to rack up 2nd and 3rd place metallic-colored ribbons in the long distance 3,000 m races. I liked these long distance races because they afforded me solitary time to focus and feel the moment. Running those meters were meditative; my younger self needed healing. I describe those early years in Akron with darkness because of the inner anger that stuck to me. While I didn’t know who I was, I did know that I couldn’t be the person I wanted to be in that type of environment. Running helped release these emotions and allowed me the space and clarity to find joy. I now had the power to run away from a bad situation or things that did not serve me. I could propel myself into the person I wanted to be.

And who am I today?

A fair-weather lawyer turned filmmaker at a crossroads in her career. For the first four years as a lawyer, I worked full time in entertainment legal roles and found time to write and direct my short films. The balance was ideal during this period of my life — I had a stable income, mostly worked remotely so I could take personal, creative meetings during the workday and was overly stimulated and energized by using all parts of my brain — logic & creative.

Last year, I got laid off from my corporate job and the first emotion I felt was relief. The morning of the news, I sat on the grass by the tennis courts in Central Park adjacent to the Reservoir and understood that this was a sign from the universe. Go be a filmmaker Amy — you are free now, what’s stopping you?

And that’s what I did for the rest of 2023. But this time it wasn’t a 3000 m long distance run, it was a 200 m dash to the person I wanted to be. I went on to direct two more short films, produced a short, wrote a feature film screenplay in a writing lab and co-hosted a podcast. I built an incredible body of work over a short period of time.

However, when 2024 rolled around and my severance quickly began to dwindle, the fair-weather lawyer, previously dormant, whispered in my ear. Irrespective of the time spent away from my family, the survivalist immigrant mentality persists. Always have a back-up plan.

So, I took on more and more freelance legal work and clients, naively believing that I could recreate the structure I had the year prior. Not only had the circumstances changed — freelance means you’re your own boss and solicitor — I had changed too. The fair-weather lawyer was increasingly becoming the resentful lawyer. Once again, I asked the universe for a sign- what should I do?

I turned to running and reading Murakami. And the parallels blossomed.

Murakami started aimlessly writing at the age of twenty-nine and published his first novel at thirty. Prior to being a novelist, he ran a successful bar with his wife in Tokyo. After his first book received recognition from a prestigious literary journal in Japan, he decided that he could not be two people. If he was going to dedicate himself to writing, he had to shut the bar and give himself two years to support himself as a writer.

Sure I could have hired someone to work at the bar in my place, but I’m not clever like that. I wanted to dedicate my entire self to writing.

Was this the sign I needed from the universe? To let go, and allow myself, like Murakami, to pursue the life of a full-time creative?

Here are some takeaways from my week of running and reading Murakami:

Day 1:

Murakami changed his whole lifestyle to dedicate himself to writing. He briefly left Tokyo to live in a quiet remote area, slept at 10pm and became particular with who he spent his time with.

Only write until you are 80% spent. Save that 20% for tomorrow’s pages.

Day: 2

Murakami started running consistently at 33. He started running in order to balance his career as a writer. His dedication to running allowed him to persist with his daily habit of writing. His physical stamina directly enabled his mental stamina.

Day 3:

Most runners run not because they want to live longer, but because they want to live life to the fullest. If you’re going to while away the years, it’s far better to live them with clear goals and fully alive than in a fog, and I believe running helps you do that. Exerting yourself to the fullest within your individual limits: that’s the essence of running, and a metaphor for life — and for me, for writing as well. I believe many runners would agree.

Day 4:

In the marathons in Japan, they offer runners pickled plums as a race snack.

Day 5:

Murakami had a phase when he just didn’t feel like running anymore. The romance had passed and he began to focus on playing squash and triathlons. He accepted this just as a fact of life — the cycle was complete. Upon this acceptance, was he then able to rekindle the initial spark that excited him about running in the first place. A new cycle began.

Day 6:

During the years teaching at Harvard and living in Cambridge he consumed copious amounts of: Dunkin Donuts, Sam Adams beer and LPs.

I will continue to run because that’s what I want to do, even if it’s illogical or people warn me otherwise, I’ll continue to do what I want to do because that’s the way I am.

Day 7:

Sometimes, taking time is a short cut.

To grasp something of value, sometimes you need to perform seemingly inefficient acts.

Day 8:

Through the act of writing I wanted to sort out the kind of person I’ve been over these years.