So. Let’s say you wake on a Sunday morning in late October to snow, howling winds and temperatures typically found in the Arctic this time of year. And let’s also say that, in what has to be the unluckiest turn of events for lunatics who run 26 miles just for the hell of it, the Lausanne Marathon is passing by your window. Several options present themselves.

Perhaps one could draw inspiration from these marvelous athletes who brave all conditions of climate to indulge their obsessive habits. You could bundle up and cheer them on from the sidelines, handing them tiny cups of frozen Gatorade as they chatter and shiver their way toward being able to say they ran the coldest marathon in Swiss history.

Or you could go for a small jog yourself, returning home without a medal or bragging rights, but triumphant all the same; your feet frozen beyond rescue, your face blue and crusted with frozen snot and spit, followed by days of muscle cramps and possibly amputation of a toe or two due to frostbite.

Or … one could choose a different kind of marathon entirely. Closed shutters to block out the biting wind (and the sight of people with thighs of steel). Flannel pajamas and wool socks, back-to-back Jamie Oliver Cooks episodes, bacon and cheddar sandwiches (doubly special after a two year search for non-smelly cheese and bacon that actually tastes like bacon), giant mugs of creamy Swiss chocolat chaud and then a sprint across the finish line with something like this …

You all know me well enough by now. I’ll let you decide how I spent this first frosty Sunday in Switzerland.

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