Here's to the Lady Who Runs

Giulio is in love. Or at least infatuated with a little girl named Antonietta who is in his class at school. Last week he came home and told me that he wanted to go play at Antonietta's house, OK I said, even though I have no idea what Antonietta or her mother look like. My dropping Giulio and running in the morning, already late for work and dashing back with only a minute to spare in the afternoon when there is only Giulio and two other little boys whose mothers are later than me, leaves little time to get to know the names and faces of the other mothers. Then next day as we were walking to the car he mournfully told me that he has asked Antonietta to be his friend and she had said no.
“Why did she say no?”
“Because.” was the mournful answer, and then, “Mommy, I’m sad.”
The next day Lorenzo got Giulio from school and when I came home with Livia Lorenzo met me at the door with the question, “Whose Antonietta?” It seems that Giulio had tried again to be friends with her and once again his request had been denied, leaving him feeling hurt. Now my feelings went from amusement to annoyance. Who was this witch and why was she tormenting my son like this? Didn’t she know that she would rue the day she turned him down, that she would one day see that he was the best thing to ever happen to her???
The next day Giulio and I sat at them kitchen table eating clementines, the house was quiet, Lorenzo was at work and Livia was down for a nap. I decided to try again.
“So Giulio, what happened with you and Antonietta?”
“I asked her to be friends and she said no,” he said matter-of-factly, chewing on a piece of clementine. (I know, can you believe it, Giulio is eating something that comes from the ground!!)
“Who is Antonietta friends with at school?”
Giulio always knows the fragile social web that makes up his nursery school class.
“She’s friends with Sara.”
“Are you friends with Sara?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She can’t be my friend because Antonietta won’t be friends with me.”
It all seemed incredibly complex, especially for children who are barely four. I stupidly thought that Antonietta would be like Giulio, whose likes and dislikes can change in a matter of minutes, and yet here is someone who is dug in deep in her refusal.
As I have mentioned in previous posts, I have taken up seriously running again off the treadmill and outside thanks to the little push my brother gave me when he was home. Last week my neighbor Eugenio saw me coming back from one of my runs and asked me how far I had gone. ‘Oh, about 4 miles,” I told him. ‘Is that all?” he said, sort of joking, but sort of not, and it made me think of what Tim Parks says in his wonderful book about Italy, “Italian Education” about how Italians don’t do sport unless they are a) very good at it and b) intend to do it at the highest level possible. Meaning that I shouldn’t run unless I’m actually planning on running the New York Marathon, that the fact that I run because it’s good for my health, helps reduce stress, and basically makes me happy is entirely beside the point. I offer the excuse that I have to go to work in an hour and suddenly all is forgiven, it is understood I would have run for hours if didn’t have to go to work. Eugenio then tells me about a road race in a nearby town that’s happening on Sunday. There are four possible distances one could run, 6k, 10k, 14k, or 21k. The last two sound a bit daunting for the present, but the 10k sounds manageable. I ran a 10k once. 12 years ago. However I have been running a lot now for almost three months and having a goal would be nice so I tell Eugenio I’m interested and he says that in that case we can go together on Sunday, can I be ready by 7:30? I decide I’ll let Lorenzo have a few hours alone with the kids.
I was just about to leave at 7:20, Lorenzo was still in bed, though Giulio had just finished breakfast and was about to watch “Dumbo” when I heard Livia wake up. I pulled on my running shoes, gave Giulio a kiss and booked it out of there, deciding I would let Lorenzo deal with her for once. As I waited in the driveway for Eugenio to come around with the car I see the shutters in our living room and then in the kitchen open, so I know Lorenzo is up too.
I remember reading a book in college about life in Italy where basically the author sees one lone jogger as she arrives in Milan and then doesn’t see another one for the whole rest of her stay in Italy, which gave me the long assumed opinion that Italians didn’t really do sport, except football and racing with cars and motorcycles. Living here I have found that actually Italians are very athletic people, at least the men are, what with the swarms of cyclists I see on the road everyday, and the men and women I see out pounding the pavement on the bike path that goes by our house. I know several “bike widows” as I called them, condemned to pass long Sundays alone with children as their husbands go for 80 mile bike rides. This morning as we arrive at the event I see swarms of people in running gear, some warming up, some stretching, some already competing. It is a “non-competitive race” meaning that from 8 until 9 you start and you run or walk the distance you choose, no one has numbers, no prizes are given for 1st, 2nd, or 3rd, but really just people running cause they want to. The race, no matter what distance you run, ends in the football stadium with everyone having to do a final lap around the track before crossing the finish line, where everyone will get something for running. Eugenio and I sign up and pay then strip off our coats, (it was really cold this morning), warm up, and then suddenly Eugenio is like, ok, we’ve started. And apparently we have, crossing over a white line painted in the road. I’m expecting Eugenio to take off, even though he did tell me he was out of shape, but he stays with me though I told him not to worry and go if he needs to. We don’t talk, I mean, we are racing, and there are thousands of people and the walkers are a pain in the butt walking six abreast in some places. There are old people, young people, people with dogs, people wearing running shirts with the name of their town’s running team on them, people bundled up in coats, and one man wearing shorts and a tank top which leads me to believe that he is running the 21k. The course takes us through the center of town and then out into these frosted fields which are very idealic and then suddenly we are running along these roads that are really meant only for trackers and are filled with stones and so I have to be very careful and concentrate to avoid spraining my ankles and so I don’t really get to enjoy the beautiful country scene, the sun shining, the gleaming frost, and then on the far side of the field, the 6 lane highway. After 2k I see a sign indicating “refreshment” and I expect people to be handing out cups of water that we will take without slowing down and then throw them on the ground when finished. It is too cold to do the dramatic pour-water-directly-onto-face move that you see at marathons. I turn the corner and find a large group drinking what appears to be hot tea and just standing around like you would after church on a Sunday. The walkers, apparently. I push through them, and here on the other side the course goes off in different directions for the various distances and I turn to check with Eugenio to make sure we are going on the right one, but he is gone, swallowed up by the tea crowd and so I go on without him.
I won’t bore you with the details but when I finally get to the stadium I’m feeling good, a little tired, but basically good and when I get over the finish line I find there are people handing out small cartons of milk and here I discover the best part of road races in Italy: the food. Instead of the usual bananas, breakfast bars, and Gatorade that you find in the States after road races, there are platters of bread and jam and bread and Nutella, and more hot tea, and over on the far side are the “Alpini” with their feathered caps grilling those wonderful large sausages and giving out those sandwiches that Lorenzo likes so much. The thought of eating such a sandwich after a race and at nine in the morning does not appeal to me, though others dig in with no problem. I do however eat piece of bread and Nutella without feeling the slightest bit guilty. When Eugenio comes across the line a full ten minutes after me(!) and informs me again that he is out of shape, we go to collect our “complimentary household items.”
“Waddaya want?” the guy distributing them asks me.
“Watcha got?” They’ve got candle holders, vases, picture frames, ornaments…...
“A picture frame, please.” And I collect my ugly silver plated frame that I probably won’t ever use but I am thrilled to have.
I’m feeling pretty good as we walk back to the car. I ran the 10k in the same time I ran it 12 years ago but today was a slower course with all the walkers to get around as well as the kilometers of rocky path that I had to really be careful and slow down for, so I’m thinking that maybe it is true that having a baby can help a woman athlete. Apparently they do these kinds of races every weekend in the small towns around here so next Sunday Eugenio and I have agreed that will go to the one closest to us. I wonder if this means that he will start running again. Apparently he ran a marathon 7 years ago and since then has gotten increasingly sedentary, though perhaps my beating him today will be the motivation he needs to hit the road again.
So here’s to my new life—A mommy who races!