There’s no desire to go out for a run. Because it’s foggy and cold. Because there is also wind and, in the countryside where there is no shelter, there are freezing gusts that pierce your bones. There’s no desire because it’s dark, because after a certain time it’s perhaps more convenient to take a break, because you can easily run tomorrow…And instead we go. Because running is a spiritual exercise. Especially in the dark of a winter evening. There is an unhealthy sense of responsibility in marathon runners that leads them to win the challenge with the laziest and wisest part of themselves, to beat the anxiety of going out with the headlights off, leaving behind the lights of a city that in the heat is preparing for dinner and which, in the play of contrasts, appears very distant. And the further away you go, the more the words of someone who elevated running to one of the many forms of art come to mind: “I face the tasks in front of me and complete them one by one, until I run out of strength. I focus my attention on every single step, but at the same time I try to have a global vision and look far ahead. How my race time and my place in the rankings are judged, and how my style is considered, is of secondary importance. What matters to me, for the runner that I am, is crossing one finish line after another with my own legs. To use all the strength that is necessary, to endure all that I have to and in the end to be happy with myself. Learning something concrete – as small as it is but concrete – from the mistakes I make and the joy I feel. And race after race, year after year, arriving at a place that satisfies me. Or at least come close. If there is ever an epitaph on my grave, and if I can choose it, I would like these words to be carved: “Murakami Haruki, writer and marathon runner. At least he didn’t walk until the end.” Because say what you want but I’m a marathon runner…