Out-run and out-eaten

After the Notturna di San Giovanni, a 10K in Florence, I left thinking four things:
- Running in Italy is like driving in Italy. There must be rules, I just don't’ know what they are.
- Clocks in Italy are like Saints. These days, their utility is aesthetic.
- Thank God Vivoli stays open until 11PM.
- Racing in Italy can’t get any better than this—what other race will start with a parade (men in tights throwing flags), feature a vocal crowd, and offer views of half the curriculum of Art Hum?

I reconsidered the last point at the finish of a 7-point-something K near Siena, where they gave each participant a bottle of wine. I chuckled to myself and began to think about how my friends would react when I told them this once I got home.

We didn’t go home. Ubaldo had indeed kept his promise to take me with him to races, but, here in Tuscany, “race” also means “dinner” (which is proceeded by a “post-race shower” and followed by “drinks”).

Fast forward to the food: Walking toward the dinner tent, I heard my name. The race organizers were conducting a raffle among participants, and I had won a chocolate pastry! All the participation prizes were food—olive oil, salami, good wine, sweets.

We waited in line to order and get a table. An eight year old served beer on tap, while his mother managed the cash register. As we sat down, one of Ubaldo’s friends uncorked his raffle prize (DOCG olive oil) and poured it over bread for the table. Half a wheel of pecorino rosso appeared (origins: unclear). Then, finally our order: a crostoni platter. Beer. Prosciutto and melon. Pici with ragu. More beer. Mushroom and prosciutto pizza. A pork chop. Orange pastry. By this time, the Italians—most of whom had run sub 2:40 marathons in the last two weeks—started to smoke and speak quickly in dialect. Another round of beer. I checked the time; it was 1 AM.

“Don’t worry,” Ubaldo’s wife whispered to me as she surveyed the mess. “I’ll drive.”