With a marathon only one week away, I thought that going to Italy would have been a nice way to train and relax, far from London's temptations. Damn wrong.
Coming back in May is becoming a sort of tradition. I came back in 2004, 2005 and 2006, every time for a different reason.
This time I just wanted to help my sister to install internet at home and relax before I running my 9th marathon, the 50th Isle of Wight race (somewhere between England and France)
I have to admit it: for many, many weeks I didn't drink much at all. One or two cocktails and half a jug of Sangria in Madrid with Lindsey and some random Guinness in London. This is at least 6/7 daily alcohol units less than my average.
I tried to stay away from alcohol and focus on getting back in shape (running a marathon ain't the easiest thing in the world), and, until I reached Gatwick, everything was great.
Then, for reasons unknown to myself, I couldn't say no to a free taste of whisky at 11am in the departure area at the airport. And, just like Barney in the Simpsons, as soon as I tasted the sweet juice (made in mysterious way) I know I miserably failed my task.
I thought I was a lucky guy though: with so many friends happy to see me again, someone would certainly stop me from drinking too much, especially if I could explain my reasons.
They were very supportive: they listened to my stories, and they offered me drinks. Paid for more drinks, and listened to more stories. Nobody ever stopped me. I guess they know me better.
Every morning I woke up around 8.00, said hello to my dad and my dog, and got back to sleep. Then I woke up and had a shower and ate lunch. Then I ran for a while, under a sun probably too hot. Back at home, out with my dog again and then a visit to the Texas Town pub, to finish the night eating and drinking.
The perfect way to get ready to run 42km. But hey, if I completed a marathon 24 hours after getting drunk and lost in Las Vegas, then I'm sure I can do it again.
Gualtiero visited me from Milan. He moved there, and now he's working and enjoying the city in a way that I never did.
I guess that for him must be like London was to me.
He'll get sick in few years time, and he'll move somewhere else. At least he's doing something.
We played miniature golf in a sunny Saturday. The game was exciting (as exciting as a game between crap golfers can be), and I managed to win only at the last hole, after 17 holes trying to catch up with him.
His disappointment was soaked the same evening with wine at the Fiera del Centenario di San Vittore, a party for people who lived a very long life.
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