C is for castagna

Running in Milan is not as popular as one might think, and I certainly have not been the poster child for committed runners. There are some Italians who run and they seem to like the parks; they also seem to like workout wear from the eighties but who's keeping track?

If you run in Milan, you're running with meandering cyclists, scooters and dogs. And passing through second-hand-smoke clouds every few blocks. An extra bonus is that if you wake up early on the weekends to circle the park, you're definitely going to do battle with the amassing tour groups who huddle on the sidewalk in large confused groups.

I haven't run a marathon in a long time - not since the illustrious 2004 London marathon in which I managed to secure a throbbing sunburn despite London's reputation for an expanse of infinite gray. But there shall be a marathon in my future. Preferably one in Italy. I'm not at the point where I have to figure out where long runs will be found, or choose exactly which Italian carb I will use for carbo-loading but I am at the point where I'm trying to get out there and log some miles.

Now there's a certain family member, who shall remain nameless, who has run a marathon in his sixties and is generally faster on his feet than me. The one thing that can fell this mighty runner is a small oblong bit of nature. His Achilles heel is more like an Achilles acorn and there are stories of somersaults and twisted ankles resulting from these tiny beasts strewn on the path.

In Milan there aren't really acorns. Instead, there are giant thorny chestnuts that come hurtling out of the sky. You can hear them crashing their way through leaves and limbs, so there is warning of their arrival. But looking up to anticipate where the crashing piece of nature might land is really just begging for a chestnut in the head. So I just keep running, looking down, thinking of the unnamed family member and trying to avoid the chestnuts spilled out all over the path.

I should clarify. The chestnuts don't just fall from the tree. The chestnuts fall from the tree sheathed in a thorny suitcase that splits open upon contact with the earth. I ran with the above example for 15 minutes and I had to keep stopping for extra leaves to wrap around the thorns. Because the thorns are so sharp that they kept breaking through the leaves and breaking into my skin. So believe me when I say you don't want one of these lodged in your forehead.

So running in Milan might be unpleasant due to smoking or Vespas or pollution or whatever other part of an urban city gets in your way. Curbs. Lighposts. Whatever. But the real problem is the nature; the tiny small quarters of green you can find in this large city. Because in the parks, in the nature, there are thorny parcels hurtling out of the sky. And these thorny parcels leave behind obstacles that can easily cause a grown man great distress. Just ask my Dad.

He can understand the power of a castagna in the middle of the path.

C é per la castagna.