Murakami Made Me Do It; or, How I Started Running Properly

I would have loved to have called this third and final blog "What I talk about when I talk about 'What I talk about when I talk about running', but to be honest even by my standards that is rather verbose. Instead, I'll settle for the above title.

October 2023, I found myself six months along from Brighton Marathon and keen to get another under my belt. A promise to myself to run one marathon per year for as long as my body allowed me meant that I had kept my running up. While the distance wasn't comparable to a training block, pace had become a primary concern. Frustrated at being stuck behind regular (if not slightly geriatric) pedestrians during one quick 5km dash, I decided to head around the obstacle and onto the road. In a moment of carelessness, I decided to put all of my weight onto my right foot just as it failed to find a sense of equilibrium on the curb's edge.

"That didn't sound good" said the elderly gentleman I had just passed before picking up the pace in a way he didn't show me that he was capable of. I had heard the sound myself but refused to allow this clear indicator to be anything more than a momentary soundtrack to my run. Up on my feet, I resumed my run. However, I made it no further than 100m up the road before I pulled up and sat down - the throbbing sensation bringing with it the realisation that I may have done a little more damage than initially thought. Garmin paused, I tried to potter on home, at which point I could no longer withstand bearing weight on the foot. In fact, I couldn't even bear the sensation of having a shoe on it.

Having hopped my remaining mile home, I decided the suitable solution was a bath and to try and rest. My body, however, had decided that the suitable solution for a fractured navicular (nope, me neither) and soft tissue damage in my ankle was twelve weeks in a support boot and even longer without running. If you ever find yourself looking for a way to increase the impact of the seasonal depression that comes with the shorter days of the October-December period, taking away one of the crutches for your mental health and replacing it with a literal crutch is a surefire way to do it.

A very, very fashionable boot indeed.

During this twelve-week window, I fell into some terrible habits: eating lots, drinking lots and all without any potential outlet for exercise. Physically, mentally, and emotionally I had begun to feel static - stuck in a depression that felt as though it was never going to end. So, once Christmas was out of the way the boot was off and I had been walking around without it for a couple of weeks - I felt like I was ready to go back. Much to my surprise, it felt okay, and if it was okay for running it was okay for football, surely? Not quite; one dodgy block and it was back to struggle street.

In this second set of time out, I was desperate not to fall into the same mistakes as the last time, so I picked up Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running and what I read changed my life. I braved the streets once more (though not brave enough to don the shoes I wore to injure myself in) with a new mindset. Murakami speaks of running not as a middle-distance runner, but as a long-distance runner. I focussed not on rushing around and trying to outpace others, but on the feeling of running and on the joy that it brought me. Having also read the Bhagavad Gita and reflected on the presence of ego, trying to rid myself of vanity and self-obsession, the learning of Murakami was contextualised into my attitude not just to running but to life as a whole.

Every time I laced up my running shoes, I remembered his words - that I was to run like a long-distance runner and not a middle-distance runner; and I remembered the words of the Bhagavad Gita, that I was to focus on self-improvement not trying to beat others. With a lack of competition came enjoyment. With a lack of ego came an appreciation of every step taking in the world around me. With a newfound slowness came a training block that I wasn't even planning for. Then came the question of what race I was going to run. I picked out the most achievable of the half-term break, October half term, and then had a choice: run a marathon abroad in Istanbul, or run one at home in Chester? I mean, it was a bit of a no-brainer!

For the first time in my life, I treated running as something serious, something to be planned and something to work towards rather than to have a natural ability to either succeed or fail at. Despite a bout of a virus right in the middle whilst I was upping my distance, it was the first time that I had tried to properly follow a training plan. I trained hard. I ran during the I cut back on drinking. I tapered towards the end of trying. The only thing I really got wrong was my carb loading and hydrating, but given the fact that I had so much sightseeing to do in Istanbul in the days before the race, I think I can forgive myself for this one misstep.

The day of the race came around, I left my friends (asleep in the hostel) to get the ferry by myself to the start line in the cold, grey morning - the first time we had seen such a morning during our trip. I had opted to wear a football shirt to represent my hometown and was struck by the fact that there was almost definitely nobody else here who had even heard of Northwich Victoria, nevermind owned a shirt or was stupid enough to run a marathon wearing it.

Man finds name.

The race began, and I executed my game plan. I was focused on setting off steadily and trying to run a consistent race. I didn't want to burn out too quickly, and I didn't want to get carried away. I was acutely aware of everything that I had achieved in the twelve months since the injury. Not only was I running again, but I was set to make a PB. It was all a little bit much to reflect on, and not even halfway through the race I was overwhelmed by emotion and genuinely moved to tears. The sheer resilience of the human body and mind was something that I began to really appreciate and I felt a sense of pride I had never felt before.

Not willing to let myself get carried away, I wiped away the tears and focussed myself on the race. Taking it one stride at a time, and making sure to keep myself steady - working my way slowly towards the finish line and knowing full well that the race was far from over. The usual patterns of marathon running ensued: initially plentiful support, a boring middle section out in the industrial no man's land, several misjudged toilet trips, and some aching calves in the final section. Greeted by my friends 4km left my plan deviated slightly: it felt rude to leave them hanging, so when I saw a beer dangled out into my path, I duly obliged and finished the fucker.

Before long the '1km Left' sign came around, and I recognised the corner. The park leading up to the Blue Mosque was one that I had seen on a walking tour just the day before, so I was aware of the terrain and the incline. The major difference was that where the tour had begun outside the Mosque atop the hill, the race was due to finish outside the Mosque. It took everything I had, but with about 5 minutes left to go my target time of 3hrs30mins - I needed to dig deep. I battled the uphill straight, opting to ignore the offer of a second beer on the hill and instead going for a nod and a wave, and putting my foot down. The incline plateaued, and I was on the final stretch. With everything I had accomplished on my mind - the last 1km literally uphill, the emotions of the preceding 41km, and the metaphorical uphill of the twelve months since my injury - I dug in deep and really went for it in the final 200m. I was amping up the crowd like a rockstar, sprinting past other runners, and I was absolutely ecstatic when I crossed the line with 03:29:53 on the board above me.

You don't have to finish first to be a winner.

The emotions came rushing back. I had done it. I had achieved a PB within a year of an injury that kept me away from any running at all, that had made me feel so incredibly depressed. The highs and lows, literal and emotional of the past twelve months had made me a better runner and a better person. I had achieved something that I didn't think was possible. At least, that was the case until I tried getting up out of my seat on the Wizz Air flight home later than evening.