Toward the end of this memoir on writing and running, Murakami asserts, rather confusingly, that (bi)cycling is somehow different from running: "It's the same movements repeated over and over. You go up slopes, on level ground, and down slopes. Sometimes the wind's with you, sometimes against you." These three sentences could act as a metaphor for Murakami's autobiographical exercise.
The reader watches ideas blur by without any feeling of depth. Any thought of contemplation is swiftly forgotten as, like the rhythm of a jogger's feet, cliche falls after cliche. As always with Murakami, the writing is sometimes beautiful, always pared down and often laconic — yet, occasionally, so laid back the reader gets the impression that a certain Olympian novelist is resting (wrapped in one of those silver-foil blankets) on his laurels.