Inspired by Haruki Murakami's "What I Talk about When I Talk About Running," I decided to go for a forest jog in the local park despite having just completed a 20-hour journey by taxi plane and train from Asia less than a day before. I wanted to run among the trees instead of on my usual routes and encountered difficulties almost immediately. So many leaves had fallen that the paths were completely covered and I couldn't tell where my foot would land. A few times I came down on slippery rocks or thick roots and almost wiped out. In my earphones, Murakami was describing the first marathon he ever ran in the sweltering summer heat of Athens along the original Marathon route. The book, like its author, proceeds with deceptive simplicity, describing the practice of running and the practice of writing alongside one another like two companions. To achieve one's goal in either endeavour you must suffer a little more each time until your endurance and strength is built up. Only then can you reap the rewards from being single-minded. As he starts to wither in the scalding heat of Greece, I plodded along an unfamiliar path stepping into ankle-deep puddles and having to slow to a walk as I encountered downed trees blocking my way and steep slopes slick with wet leaves. Eventually I found a wider trail and was finally able to run at a fairly quick pace. Murakami's words were like a sermon and the book a sort of communion across a great distance. I planned to run for 20 minutes at the start and made sure that I didn't stop until the time on my phone told me I could. Murakami's story continued in my ears as I walked back home; sentence after sentence step after step at a steady pace.