Running with Sarah. Part II.

Here's Part I.
http://milanolondra.blogspot.com/2011/03/running-with-sarah-part-i.html

I'm screwed. Sarah accepted. I'm gonna run this evening (Sunday evening).

It's an opportunity that life is offering you. Give up with junk food. Give up with beer. Give up with bad habits and start behaving in a good way. Don't forget you're supposed to run a marathon in four weeks.

The voice of my conscience was speaking. And I needed to listen. Four weeks?! WTF!!

So, I needed to focus on next training, later in the evening. 15 km, at least. Fuel was needed.

It's Sunday. Never forget what Moses said: "remember to hallow the feasts. By eating English breakfast". Two eggs, mushrooms, bacon, two slices of bread with butter. And a cup of porridge, of course. 12 p.m.. 6 hours before running for the second time in a day.

Last one was my second Sunday in London. Ever. The first one was spent by running for 36 km in the morning, and whining for the rest of the day.

I wanted to behave like a real Italian tourist this time. Hanging around in the area of Oxford Street and Piccadilly Circus. Staring at windows. Eating an ice cream. No, ice cream is bad. There's the run with Sarah at 6 p.m..

So I went to a pub and ordered a light lunch. Club sandwich with chicken and bacon. Fried hand cut potatoes on the side. Mayo on top.

"Anything to drink?"
"London Pride. A pint."

This is a real Italian, isn't it?

When I finished my meal it was 3.30 p.m.. I crawled out of the pub, feeling guilty for Sarah. What will she think when I'll puke in the park?

I'm usually very concerned about the food to eat before a race or a training. Not this time. Not this time.

When I opened the front door she was there, sitting in the sofa, surfing on the internet. I can greet her and go upstairs. Maybe she doesn't remember, I thought.

"Ready for running?"

That was my voice. I was actually reminding Sarah that we had planned to go running. What's wrong with me?

"Yeah!" She answered.

At least I can know her better.

She's a girl. She will be slow. We ran the first km in 4'55''.

"Am I slowing you down?"

Dear Sarah. If you knew (she knows now, indeed). I was hoping that you were slower. 4'55'' is slower than usual. It's faster than what I could suffer at that moment.

Suddenly, something strange happened at the end of the second km.

I was talking with her. Pleasantly. And I forgot that I had ate a heavy club sandwich with fried potatoes.

I hadn't really forgot it. It was there, with all its heaviness. I was just running as if it wasn't there.

4th km. Sarah needs to go back home. 11 km are missing. 11 km, like the ones I had in the morning.

It was different this time. I felt pain less than 11 hours before. Sweating like a suine with flu in a sauna. 11 hours later, I could even quicken my pace, have a progression run.

The last 11 km were run at an average of 4'07'' per km. Even too fast.

I made a promise to myself when I arrived home: no more junk food. No more beer. Four weeks are missing, there won't be Sarah next 17 April at the start of the London Marathon.

In order to celebrate such oath, I decided to eat salad. Just salad.

One apple, two carrots, a head of lettuce, two small avocados, 300g of beetroot, olive oil.

 (in the picture: more salad in an evening than in the last 10 years)

O mythos deloi oti (i.e. the moral of the story is that) will is stronger that strength. Your mind can achieve results that your body cannot even pursue.

But at least don't be pretentious with your body. You can win the battle during the day. But your body gets its revenge during the night. Especially after that sort of salad. What an idiot.