As it happens, spending the summer running has made me want to, well, keep running.
Most of this is, undoubtedly, due to running’s mental benefits. In general, no matter how weird my day is or how many inconveniences befall me, a few miles into a run I’ve forgotten it all. But if I’m being completely honest, few things get my hyped to run like Murakami. His themed-memoir, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, has become a sort of sacred text to me, the type of book I always pick up when I have ten minutes to spare. What I’m most drawn to is its matter-of-fact style, where no mundane details are spared, no assumptions are granted, and the appreciations for things like a cold beer or a crisp fall day never falter. Still, at times, it makes you think: “does that really need to be said?” But, like running, every step is just as important as the next and the last. One paragraph that illustrates what I’m talking about goes like this:
As I mentioned before, competing against other people, whether in daily life or in my field of work, is just not the sort of lifestyle I’m after. Forgive me for stating the obvious, but the world is made up of all kinds of people. Other people have their own values to live by, and the same holds true with me. These differences give rise to disagreements, and the combination of these disagreements can give rise to even greater misunderstandings. As a result, sometimes people are unfairly criticized. This goes without saying. It’s not much fun to be misunderstood or criticized, but rather a painful experience that hurts people deeply.
Murakami in Runner’s World, 2005 | Photo by Greg Segall
So, I really like this book. For those familiar with Murakami’s life and work, it’s no secret that he has discerning and diverse tastes in music. His books are packed with references to Burt Bacharach, The Beatles, Marvin Gaye, and Haydn (sometimes on the same page). I personally like to listen to a lot of different music when running, but, embarrassing as it may be, I’ve actually taken to queueing up some of the artists he claims pair well with a warm-up run. I guess bossanova or ‘60s soft rock isn’t going to get me a blistering marathon time, but it’s nice nonetheless. Take it from the man himself:
I love listening to the Lovin’ Spoonful. Their music is sort of laid-back and never pretentious. Listening to this soothing music brings back a lot of memories of the 1960s. Nothing really special, though. If they were to make a movie about my life (just the thought of which scares me), these would be the scenes they’d leave on the cutting-room floor. “We can leave this episode out,” the editor would explain. “It’s not bad, but it’s sort of ordinary and doesn’t amount to much.” Those kinds of memories—unpretentious, commonplace. But for me, they’re all meaningful and valuable. As each of these memories flits across my mind, I’m sure I unconsciously smile, or give a slight frown. Commonplace they might be, but the accumulation of these memories has led to one result: me. Me here and now, on the north shore of Kauai. Sometimes when I think of life, I feel like a piece of driftwood washed up on shore.
It turns out I like the Lovin’ Spoonful, too.