The wall of the 30th kilometer. Any book about marathons will discuss it. Apparently, when the runner reaches the 30th kilometer, more or less, the body has eaten up all its sugar, its carbohydrates, and turns onto lipids. Basically, it eats up the fat around the muscles. It is not exactly painful, though by that time most runners have various pains in their legs. But every movement seems to demand a particular effort. However, before any physical symptom, the phenomenon starts with a strange feeling of remoteness. All things, the landscape, seem remote, and cold, and hard. There is no anguish, just a kind of mutual indifference between the earth and the runner, which is not without beauty. At least, it is in no way frightening. Maybe indifference is too strong a word. Distance would be enough, a distance that does not deprive the landscape of its beauty. And there is distance, for you still have twelve kilometers, more or less, to go.

Before the Cap Ferret, I had run another marathon in Paris. It was much easier, for the route was all flat and asphalt: no sandy path in the forest, no dune to climb. I had been running slowly, and I was feeling alright till I suddenly hit the wall, or it hit me, on the banks of the Seine. The first sign was this strange depression. It was slightly before the 30th kilometer. Like the first-time user who laughs his head off, saying that hashish has no effect on him, I would have said that there was no wall for me, and I was just feeling immensely lonely.

It is difficult to describe. In fact, it is impossible. The writer, sitting at a desk or on a couch, has forgotten the pains in the legs, a multitude of unpleasant sensations, the vague worry: “Would I make it to the end?” All that is left is a memory, something to look back to from a comfortable place, something to talk about. It was not at the time.

The same goes for the passing of thoughts. Thoughts pass in the mind differently. The transformation happens early on. Murakami says he doesn't think about anything while he is running. It seems weird to me. Or maybe I haven't reached this stage. But it is true that thoughts in the mind of the runner seem to be fewer, and more simple. As if one would have suddenly turned off a kind of noise, or found a better tuning on the radio. Thoughts seem to pass automatically, through a movement of their own. They come up, one after the other, while you are occupied with something else: just running, or looking at the landscape, or listening to music