It’s all going too well now: I find myself scouring the horizon, wondering where exactly the shipwreck will happen.
The coast of Sicily looks a decent bet. The telescope moves from smoky bars showing the Champions League semi-finals, to quaint ristoranti overflowing with hearty regional specialities.
How long could I stay on my feet in a place like that, surviving the temptation to tackle a plate of cassata, washed down with a very large glass of one of the island’s famous dessert wines? The first mouthful would be enough to generate an out-of-body experience. A few more glasses of Marsala and it’ll be the more familiar out-of-head variety. Short-term bliss, but I fear it could be the pin that pops the health bubble.
Best appreciate the opulent fruits of asceticism while I can.
The big fat hairy unknown is how far I can enjoy the culinary sensations of Italy AND retain that permanent fresh-from-the-airing-cupboard body-glow that I’ve grown accustomed to recently. Vital question. I’ve often said on here that momentum is all. Whichever direction you’re headed — up or down — the longer you let it run, the harder it becomes to turn around (though naturally, it’s easier to fall than it is to rise).
If I can break that tendency, or at least bring it under control, I can look ahead to limitless tranquility. The world is my cloister.
It’s not quite a plan, but I’m musing that if I could make do with frugivorous, purgatory breakfasts and light salady lunches — chased through my intestines by litres of water — then there’s every chance I could knock out a longish lope around the antiquities and along the coast road in the late afternoon. And if I manage that, I’d feel better about an evening of pasta and puddings and alcohol.
It’s worth a go.
This morning, I woke at six-thirty and went for the run I’ve waited more than a year for. The gate has swung open again, and I’m in.
Just two days after I last plodded my usual short route, I did it again, but this time the 3½ pre-breakfast miles belonged to another lifetime — one I thought I’d discarded by Lake Zurich.
The bounce is back. Average pace was a full forty seconds less per mile than Monday.
What joy there is in honest sweat.
