What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

[Sweder]

Whilst browsing new releases in Waterstones I happened across a copy of What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami and Philip Gabriel. Murakami is someone, like many here, who came to running late and found it soon became an integral part of his life. His tales are more accessible than the elite performances featured in Feet In The Clouds; you can imagine Murakami posting some of his thoughts right here on RC.

Like an RC diary WITAWITAR features thoughts, philosophies and ideas both related to and conured up by distance running. I'm nowhere near through the volume at time of writing, but from what I've seen so far many here will enjoy it.

[El Gordo]

Thanks for the reminder, Sweder. I saw this discussed pre-publication on Newsnight Review a few weeks ago, and made a mental note to pick it up when published. Like most of my mental notes these days, it evaporated.

I'll buy it and read it.

Cheers.

[marathondan]

This was recommended to me recently as well. Thanks for the reminder!

[stillwaddler]

I'll pop over to Amazon and order it.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Being a little slow on the uptake, I have only just read this book.

I suppose it has its good points: the punctuation is pretty much correct and grammatically it holds up, and I quite like the cover.

But is it a good read? Is it a gripping, beautiful tale of running that inspires and warms the heart?

No.

But I'll tell you what is... much of El Gordo's writing is far superior to the stuff Murakami has published. (Come on EG, it's about time you seriously finished that bloody book!)

If you don't believe me, compare anything Murakami has written with this extract of EG's entry from back in Feb, 2005 (and this is just one of many examples of EG's superlative work) - it's wonderful:

===================

Thurs 3 Feb 2005

Three people stand on an isolated patch of Mediterranean beach, staring at the hundreds of flamingos preening themselves at the water's edge.

Behind them lie miles of mottled, lunar landscape. Over there in the far, far distance a sharp eye could just make out a line of cranes, marking the start of one of Europe's largest and most anarchic construction sites. Armies of foreigners, Germans mainly, seem to want to buy retirement homes here in Roquetas, and the skeletons of a thousand concrete mausoleums mark out the final resting place of their sunlit dreams. Se vende, se vende. Nothing exists yet, but it's all se vende.

It's funny that things that are only half-built can look almost identical to those in a state of decay. It's as though the process of construction contains some admonitory, portentous glimpse of the future - if only we are alert enough to catch it.

Here, we are far from the madding crowd", says Antonio suddenly.

I chuckle. "A good description".

"But not original, I know. I am a great reader of Thomas Hardy," he says.

"Well, I don't think he originated the phrase either", I said.

Antonio continued: "I once spent a week in Dorchester, the town that Hardy called Casterbridge". Then he starts to recite a long list of titles he's read. When the Hardy list is finished, he begins on George Orwell.

"Homage To Catalonia, Animal Farm, Nineteen Eighty Four, Down And Out In Paris And London...."

Kerching.

Down And Out In Paris And London. It's a long time since I even thought about that book - perhaps decades - but I'm excited to be reminded of it. "Yes, hold on, Down And Out In Paris And London". I explained that it was one of the first 'grown up' books I ever read.

How could I have forgotten it? It was the book that put a bullet through the head of my childhood. One weekend. Bang. Everything changed. Suddenly, aged twelve or thirteen, I was a semi-adult. Down And Out In Paris And London made me want to change the world, or to change myself so that I could find this other world I'd discovered in Orwell. It was the book that made me restless and dissatisfied with the life I'd been allocated. It prised open the trapdoor to adulthood, and to writing, and travelling.

There isn't much conventional travelling you can do at that age, so you have to run away instead. I ran away four times. The first time was the briefest jaunt, and it's the only one I'll mention now. I was in Devon, camping with some school friends. One day I walked out of the camp without telling anyone where I was going, and hitch-hiked to Dartmoor. My destination was only 80 miles away, but to a kid on his own it seemed a very long journey. In my hand was a pamphlet I'd bought from the campsite shop entitled "Great Moorland Walks".

Arriving finally in Buckfastleigh, on the eastern fringe of the moor, at 9pm, I knocked on the door of Buckfast Abbey, a Benedictine monastery dating back to the 11th century. A monk in a brown habit eventually opened the door. And what a door it turned out to be.

I asked if I could stay the night. He asked no questions. Just said: "Of course. Come in". Brother Joseph was his name. He took me to the large dining hall and sat me at the end of a long, polished table. There were monks sitting at the other end, but they took no notice of me. I remember being given bread and cheese and a glass of cider. They weren't a very talkative bunch.

The bed was hard, and I must have woken every time the bell struck the hour. But I was so excited by the whole thing. I wasn't afraid, and I didn't wonder if other people were worried about me.

In the morning, there was freshly-baked bread and coffee for breakfast. Brother Joseph asked me what my plans were. I told him I was going to walk the Abbot's Way. There was a long pause. "It's a long path", he said. "Are you prepared?"

I wasn't sure if I understood the question. Was he talking about the walk? Or something more profound? I said yes thanks, I was. As I was leaving, I surprised myself by asking: "Do you have any advice for me?"

Without hesitation, he said: "Consider a career in dentistry. Dentists are in short supply, and the pay is good."

With that, we shook hands, and I set off to walk nearly 30 miles across some of the bleakest moorland in England, with no food or water to fuel the journey.

I was on the moor within minutes. It was love at first sight. I was a London kid, and I'd never seen landscape like this before. Bleak and pure, and utterly silent barring the... the wind in the rocks and the haunting, lonesome cry of the curlew.

Within a mile, I was lost, but I didn't mind. I liked it. Some gust of joy had appeared from nowhere, and filled the sails of my imagination. On a day of no food, and only occasional mouthfuls of stream water, it was all I had to propel me through the ten hours it took to reach Tavistock. I'd been on the earth for 15 years, and here was my first taste of liberation. Needless to say, life was never the same again.

I didn't mention any of this to Antonio. I just thought about it for a while, and carried on staring at those flamingos.

My Dartmoor jaunt was the first bit of real travelling I ever did. But there again, I don't really know what "travelling" means. I know that it's not much to do with distance and passports. It's something to do with exploration and moving out of your normal space. Just walking to the Co-op on the corner can be pretty exciting if you keep your senses open. Every time I run I feel I'm embarking on some kind of journey. For me, it's the antidote to rain and cold. It's why I see the weather as a lubricant, not an impediment. If others do see bad weather as an obstacle or an excuse, that's fine. It just illustrates my well-worn point: that we run for different reasons and with different instincts.

[Sweder]

I don't think anyone claimed that book to be a masterpiece, simply an example of the kind of running writing in the published world. I enjoyed Murakami for his views and accomplishments more than his style, and thought others here might enjoy it (which some did).

So far as the EG piece goes you need to go bang your drum elsewhere. We're all shaven-headed, cymbal-clashing disciples here : )

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I don't think anyone claimed that book to be a masterpiece, simply an example of the kind of running writing in the published world. I enjoyed Murakami for his views and accomplishments more than his style, and thought others here might enjoy it (which some did).

So far as the EG piece goes you need to go bang your drum elsewhere. We're all shaven-headed, cymbal-clashing disciples here : )

Well yeah. In my clumsy way I'm just again trying to bug EG about his book.

I did sort of enjoy Murakami - I mean, I did finish it, and was happy enough to have handed over some hard-earned for it too. I preferred "Born To Run" though. I still have your copy too, Sweder. Three of us here have read it now.

[Sweder]

Ah! That's where it is, of course. Please hang on to it, it's well worth dipping into. I'll bag a reprint soon, hopefully with an afterward about Micah True's life and death. I'll need it a) if TOM happens (unlikely) and b) P2P 2013 (odds on)

[Bierzo Baggie]

That book just wouldn’t have been published anywhere if the author’s name hadn’t been Haruki Murakami.

I found it relaxing, occasionally irritating and unintentionally funny. A bit like listening to The Smiths. Didn’t know what to make of it...

Born to Run was an excellent read but again I would take a lot of that barefoot running stuff with a pinch of common sense. At the end of the day they’re Tamahumara indians and we’re not!
I’ve heard rumours of a film in the pipeline. Here’s the final chapter...
http://www.outsideonline.com/outdoor-adv...Horse.html

Feet in the Clouds was the best though!

I miss El Gordo’s prose too. Where’s it gone? The Zurich marathon piece alone probably got me to the finish at Zegama. At the race’s highest point I was hounded by the grim sweeper, some scrawny guy dressed in black who I just couldn’t help visualizing as a bloody great Swiss-bus! But El Gordo kept one step ahead... and so did I.

[Antonio247]

Being a little slow on the uptake, I have only just read this book.

I suppose it has its good points: the punctuation is pretty much correct and grammatically it holds up, and I quite like the cover.

But is it a good read? Is it a gripping, beautiful tale of running that inspires and warms the heart?

No.

But I'll tell you what is... much of El Gordo's writing is far superior to the stuff Murakami has published. (Come on EG, it's about time you seriously finished that bloody book!)

If you don't believe me, compare anything Murakami has written with this extract of EG's entry from back in Feb, 2005 (and this is just one of many examples of EG's superlative work) - it's wonderful:

===================

Thurs 3 Feb 2005

Three people stand on an isolated patch of Mediterranean beach, staring at the hundreds of flamingos preening themselves at the water's edge.

Behind them lie miles of mottled, lunar landscape. Over there in the far, far distance a sharp eye could just make out a line of cranes, marking the start of one of Europe's largest and most anarchic construction sites. Armies of foreigners, Germans mainly, seem to want to buy retirement homes here in Roquetas, and the skeletons of a thousand concrete mausoleums mark out the final resting place of their sunlit dreams. Se vende, se vende. Nothing exists yet, but it's all se vende.

It's funny that things that are only half-built can look almost identical to those in a state of decay. It's as though the process of construction contains some admonitory, portentous glimpse of the future - if only we are alert enough to catch it.

Here, we are far from the madding crowd", says Antonio suddenly.

I chuckle. "A good description".

"But not original, I know. I am a great reader of Thomas Hardy," he says.

"Well, I don't think he originated the phrase either", I said.

Antonio continued: "I once spent a week in Dorchester, the town that Hardy called Casterbridge". Then he starts to recite a long list of titles he's read. When the Hardy list is finished, he begins on George Orwell.

"Homage To Catalonia, Animal Farm, Nineteen Eighty Four, Down And Out In Paris And London...."

Kerching.

Down And Out In Paris And London. It's a long time since I even thought about that book - perhaps decades - but I'm excited to be reminded of it. "Yes, hold on, Down And Out In Paris And London". I explained that it was one of the first 'grown up' books I ever read.

How could I have forgotten it? It was the book that put a bullet through the head of my childhood. One weekend. Bang. Everything changed. Suddenly, aged twelve or thirteen, I was a semi-adult. Down And Out In Paris And London made me want to change the world, or to change myself so that I could find this other world I'd discovered in Orwell. It was the book that made me restless and dissatisfied with the life I'd been allocated. It prised open the trapdoor to adulthood, and to writing, and travelling.

There isn't much conventional travelling you can do at that age, so you have to run away instead. I ran away four times. The first time was the briefest jaunt, and it's the only one I'll mention now. I was in Devon, camping with some school friends. One day I walked out of the camp without telling anyone where I was going, and hitch-hiked to Dartmoor. My destination was only 80 miles away, but to a kid on his own it seemed a very long journey. In my hand was a pamphlet I'd bought from the campsite shop entitled "Great Moorland Walks".

Arriving finally in Buckfastleigh, on the eastern fringe of the moor, at 9pm, I knocked on the door of Buckfast Abbey, a Benedictine monastery dating back to the 11th century. A monk in a brown habit eventually opened the door. And what a door it turned out to be.

I asked if I could stay the night. He asked no questions. Just said: "Of course. Come in". Brother Joseph was his name. He took me to the large dining hall and sat me at the end of a long, polished table. There were monks sitting at the other end, but they took no notice of me. I remember being given bread and cheese and a glass of cider. They weren't a very talkative bunch.

The bed was hard, and I must have woken every time the bell struck the hour. But I was so excited by the whole thing. I wasn't afraid, and I didn't wonder if other people were worried about me.

In the morning, there was freshly-baked bread and coffee for breakfast. Brother Joseph asked me what my plans were. I told him I was going to walk the Abbot's Way. There was a long pause. "It's a long path", he said. "Are you prepared?"

I wasn't sure if I understood the question. Was he talking about the walk? Or something more profound? I said yes thanks, I was. As I was leaving, I surprised myself by asking: "Do you have any advice for me?"

Without hesitation, he said: "Consider a career in dentistry. Dentists are in short supply, and the pay is good."

With that, we shook hands, and I set off to walk nearly 30 miles across some of the bleakest moorland in England, with no food or water to fuel the journey.

I was on the moor within minutes. It was love at first sight. I was a London kid, and I'd never seen landscape like this before. Bleak and pure, and utterly silent barring the... the wind in the rocks and the haunting, lonesome cry of the curlew.

Within a mile, I was lost, but I didn't mind. I liked it. Some gust of joy had appeared from nowhere, and filled the sails of my imagination. On a day of no food, and only occasional mouthfuls of stream water, it was all I had to propel me through the ten hours it took to reach Tavistock. I'd been on the earth for 15 years, and here was my first taste of liberation. Needless to say, life was never the same again.

I didn't mention any of this to Antonio. I just thought about it for a while, and carried on staring at those flamingos.

My Dartmoor jaunt was the first bit of real travelling I ever did. But there again, I don't really know what "travelling" means. I know that it's not much to do with distance and passports. It's something to do with exploration and moving out of your normal space. Just walking to the Co-op on the corner can be pretty exciting if you keep your senses open. Every time I run I feel I'm embarking on some kind of journey. For me, it's the antidote to rain and cold. It's why I see the weather as a lubricant, not an impediment. If others do see bad weather as an obstacle or an excuse, that's fine. It just illustrates my well-worn point: that we run for different reasons and with different instincts.

Yes, very beautiful prose. It brings me back beautful memories of the RC first trip in Almería. Looking forward to that beautiful book from EG.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

And you're such a gentleman, Antonio. It's great to have you on RC.

[suzieq]

Thanks for reprinting EG's write-up from 2005. It is beautiful; as only EG can do. Brought back wonderful memories of the first trip to Almeria as well.

Suzie

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Thanks for reprinting EG's write-up from 2005. It is beautiful; as only EG can do. Brought back wonderful memories of the first trip to Almeria as well.

Suzie

It is beautiful writing Suzie, and I'm really missing not being able to browse through EG's entries as I used to. Let's hope he gets them back online soon. I kept a few, but there are many gems in there currently lost to us.

[Sweder]

I don't claim to have any inside info but IF I were planning something based on my online stuff I might feel inclined to take it off-line for a while. I could be way off base here, just don't give up on Le Grand Fromage just yet. A man who writes as well as he does a) will always write, if only for himself and b) is bound to feel inclined to share with others, as and when.

[Seafront Plodder]

I can also reveal the shocking news that I've started a proper new post summing up the highs and lows of the year so far, and what's in the pipedream, er sorry, pipeline.

Hurrah

[El Gordo]

I don't claim to have any inside info but IF I were planning something based on my online stuff I might feel inclined to take it off-line for a while.

I may steal that line. It sounds kinda convincing.

@MLCM - you wouldn't make much of a hacker -- Old site

Curiously, the final entry on the old site is also an Almeria report.

Maybe I should hide everything in between, in any case. Re-reading that last entry, from Feb 2010, regarding the prognosis from the sports clinic, sounds bizarrely contemporary.

The kind comments are appreciated.

Off to the gym.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

@MLCM - you wouldn't make much of a hacker -- [b]

A fact about which I am not ashamed!

Thanks EG. Nostalgic wallowing has recommenced!

[El Gordo]

I've put the blog back up -- sans update. Trying to bully myself. I hope I can explain someday.

[Sweder]

Hooray! It, ah, may have had a few hits lately ...

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Hooray!