InOctober, or maybe November, two thousand fourteen-a lifetime ago to think about it-I discovered Runlovers and its articles. I was working in Norway, at the University of Oslo, and had an extremely standardized life. Work, home, run, home. Same for every day except Saturdays and Sundays when I would go shopping or visit somewhere-always after running a bit.
At that time, I didn’t run as much as I do now, but I still tried to run every day, partly to overcome the boredom due to the enforced loneliness of being in a place where I didn’t know anyone except my work colleagues. I had begun to think, in that late October or early November period when the Norwegian autumn seemed like the coldest of winters I had ever experienced, that it would be nice to do a running race, since there were so many in the area there, and that I would like to do a half-marathon. I had never approached that distance, but I was convinced I could do it, so I was looking through the various Runlovers articles for some advice and motivation. I was convinced and one Sunday in mid-November I ran, for the first time in my life, a race over the Half Marathon distance, just north of Oslo, in Jessheim. I crossed the finish line tired but with a satisfaction I didn’t think I could have, not for something like this, at least until a few months before.
I still did not know that I would run dozens of them and that I would get to run several times even the Marathon, so at that moment it seemed to me that I had reached the maximum I
a man over a hundred and eleven pounds.
could achieve.
The wall I couldn’t see
No, you didn’t read it wrong, although the story should perhaps be told a little better and starting a few months earlier, because the road taken to cross the finish line in Jessheim begins on an early spring evening that same year, when a thunderstorm, one of the many that were dropping rain cats and dogs in the city at that time (so much so that we nicknamed Sassari “little London“), had had the weekly soccer game in which I played as goalkeeper postponed (I was a decent goalkeeper). For years now that had been my only sporting activity, in which experience and the level of play not extreme still allowed me to be able to say a few words, so, convinced of my physical possibilities, I thought that if even if it was not possible to go and play five-a-side football I could go and do at least one
half an hour of running
.
I waited for the rain to subside, put a pair of sneakers on my feet and went out for a run. My expectations were dashed against .
the wall of obesity
. I went into immediate fatigue, found it virtually impossible to run continuously for more than a few hundred meters, and had to do long stretches by walking, but I had set myself to do a half-hour, and that was it. I returned home drenched in sweat, shook my head a little and stepped on the scale. I read the number one hundred and eleven on it, as well as two hundred grams more. Considering that I had also sweated a lot-but really a lot-those three number ones could probably have been a hundred and twelve or more likely a hundred and thirteen. I shook my head again.
It was a Thursday night.
and you know, Thursday nights are the best times to make decisions about one’s life, so I decided I should get in shape.
Having to or wanting to lose weight?
I had never considered my obesity a problem .
. I had never stood in front of the mirror thinking that my body was terrible, or that I was inadequate. It wasn’t that I was blind, mind you, but I had never really cared all that much, and little use had been made up to that point by the invitations of my family and friends to “get back on track.” Plus, until then, my being overweight had not given me major problems in everyday life. Sure, I didn’t always find clothing in my size, and sometimes even just taking the stairs gave me the sniffles, but all in all there was nothing in my life that suggested I needed to change, and I can say that I considered myself a happy person. That evening, however, something had rekindled in my head.
Not being able to do even three hundred meters of running, and the ones I had managed to do had cost me so much effort, had confronted me with the reality of the facts: I had to lose weight.
I had to
, o
I wanted
, that I couldn’t tell now. I couldn’t quite define which of these two verbs best fit my thoughts in those days, but the gist of it was that I should lose weight. So, with a determination I never thought I would have, I made a doctor’s appointment, did the necessary tests and put down an eating plan that suited my situation.
If you’ve read Runlovers a few more times, you’ll know that there’s one thing we always say, which fortunately I also put into practice right away :
You shouldn’t run to lose weight, but you can lose weight to run
. Exercise, while it may help you get your metabolism moving when it is slow, then it is not enough on its own to get you back in shape, and the risk is that you will regain the pounds you lost in less time than it took you to lose them. In my case, given the many – many – extra pounds I had accumulated, the combination
diet + exercise
meant giving a shove to a virtually immobile metabolism, and losing several pounds immediately.
It was easy to lose the first five, and then five more. Ten pounds went away in about a month. It was a lot, but doctor’s visits and tests said I was responding well, so there was nothing to worry about. By the second month seven more were gone, then as time passed and the extra pounds dropped off, dropping the weight became more difficult, but it became easier to run at the same time. Not having lost as much as planned that week was compensated for by having closed the continuous ten kilometers for the first time, or having made a better time on the five, and so on.
By the end of the summer, just before the scheduled time to leave on a work trip to Northern Europe, I was back to the weight I was as a boy, ten or maybe even fifteen years earlier. Still, at night I would often dream of my obese self again, and during the day I would find it difficult to recognize myself in the mirror if I walked past it and took a sidelong glance. This is common in such cases. Then again, it had only been a few months since that spring evening, and that change had been so incredible that it seemed impossible. Yet it had happened ,
I had made it.
.
And here’s why, I was saying, crossing the finish line of the Jessheim HalvMaraton, I thought that was the most beautiful moment-at least sportingly speaking-that a man of one hundred and eleven pounds could imagine experiencing, even though I was actually forty pounds lighter than that.
Talking to my past self
This has happened to me many other times, all the times to tell the truth, of thinking of that man, of my obese self, just before crossing a finish line, and in many cases I talked to him, to the me of that time, to tell him that I was never angry with him, that I was happy with my life then and that I am happy with it now, so many vicissitudes and so many, many miles after that March evening when we decided to change many things. Perhaps I continue to talk to them, to imagine that I can converse with them-somewhat as I am doing now in writing these lines-because I am glad that I have been able to give proper weight to what I eat, to see food as fuel for things to be done and not as an enemy to be fought. Today I can’t imagine my life without running, I can’t think of visiting a place and not running there or crossing a Marathon finish line without smiling. And this I owe, in large part, to not being able to do three hundred meters in a row that night.
Of course, not everyone can achieve the same results and in the same time, nor can we assume that the same things apply to everyone, but the central engine, the one that has to start the mechanism, is our head. We just have to try to understand our body, without hating it, without getting angry at ourselves and without seeking revenge on life. It can be a long process and requires commitment, dedication and perseverance, but it works.
When some times people say to me,“eh, but I can’t, I don’t have time, I can’t do it,” I am reminded of that self who said the same things. Until one day .
Decided to succeed, find the time, make it.
.
As the Americans would say “
it’s up to you
” – it’s up to you.