English Version | (Not) eating for sport

At that age when nothing tires or even weighs you down, life was so intense that just remembering it makes me gasp. The beach was a mere three kilometers from my house, so the means of transport was obviously the bicycle. Three months of big vacations meant three changes of skin in a frenzy of BMX races down the Arriba Fóssil da Caparica, surfing, returning home, a hurried dinner and a few more rides to the meeting point where, warm nights in, we did the things that teenagers do, did and will always do. Sometimes you only went in the afternoon, because the Countdown program, presented by Adam Curry, was a stone in the small pond of only two TV channels. Or because lunch had been a stew (yes, Portuguese stew in the summer, Portuguese stew all year round, please) or a sardine like that and, if we take this introductory step back to the 1980s, you should know that in those days you had to wait three hours to digest. But even for that there was a “sporty” solution. Go to the beach and play a game of soccer on the dry sand, as close to the dunes as possible, something that, if practiced today, was certain cardiac syncope. Anyway, this is to say that, even after the arrival of the ZX Spectrum, the guys had what my mother used to call carpenter bugs. The exception was Carlos. We'd call him to the window and, whether it was 9 a.m. or 2:30 p.m., he'd burst in, with a beautiful pillowy hairdo, to say “Not today.” Today was never. The thing is, Carlos is still thin today. Apart from his beer belly, he's still the same. He hasn't suffered “the shock.” That's when you've been “hyperactive” all your life and suddenly, due to major demands, you have to work. That's at least eight hours sitting at a desk from which you only get up to eat, drum roll. Add this to our inexorably advancing age and it's only a matter of time before we're in shape... of a kite. I often look at my son with a certain white envy. He eats like a grizzly bear in the pre-hibernation phase, sleeps like a grizzly bear during the harsh winter and is as thin as a polar bear in the midst of global warming (if you'll pardon the joke on a serious subject). Of course, it's possible to go back to the way things were. Look at the rush to the paddle tennis courts, the amount of cyclists holding up traffic at the weekend, the late afternoon “runninguezinhos” in the middle of the seafront, with their lung alveoli open, like to absorb all the diesel fuel that anxious mothers pump into getting their children to school, buying dinner and going to the launderette while their children sweat through yet another CrossFit machine, unable to accept the expiry of their bodies as something that will always arrive. That arrival can be delayed, of course. What about life? Will it be lived when that decrepitude arrives? How will it be lived? In a motorhome where all you can fit in the glove compartment are pills?

Speaking of pills, I have a sexagenarian friend who takes Viagra the way I used to take pineapple-flavored Regina tablets. “Vítor, that'll break your heart, man,” I warn him, imagining myself far from such a need (but which he assures me appears overnight and never returns, however episodic it may be), to which he replies, ”If I die, I die happy.” It's quite an acceptable philosophy of life, by the way. A long-time widower, Vítor has raised his children, is well off, retired and doesn't owe anyone any money, including the tax office. “I've worked all my life without living to get what I have. Now I want to live and I'm doing it,” he says. He eats lunch and dinner out every day and knows the best dishes in each of the dozens of restaurants where he is a customer, not to mention those he discovers on his where he is a customer, not to mention those he discovers on his leisurely travels, sometimes to see long-time friends who have returned home, sometimes just because. He's never alone, there are always companions for long meals that go on forever, nectars from old vineyards, to the bottom of bottles of good whiskies and bagaceiras. At the weekend, he takes shelter from the hustle and bustle and receives friends at home. He gets down to the pots with the passion of a poet, pairs them with the wines he has handpicked and surprises himself with every last spoonful of some conventual sweet that a lady from restaurant X in land Y has taught him. Is this commonly thought of as living on the edge? Yes, but I can assure you that the man exudes happiness that we can't find in the opaque eyes of a forty-year-old who dreams every day of his two-week vacation in the same place year after year. In his own way, Vítor challenges his body in real endurance races, each time setting new limits that he intends to surpass tomorrow or the next, subject to injury. Isn't that the goal behind practicing any sport? To train every day for an important race? What's important to this man, it seems to me, is to be happy. And in that he is a true champion. I even know something that his children can't even dream of... Vítor paid off the rest of the mortgage for a neighbor, the mother of three children he loves in the building, when she was in danger of losing her home after her partner abandoned her. “I only get drunk for these things,” he joked when he told me. Yes, bad wines aren't his thing. They're like sponges that absorb all the diesel that anxious mothers use to get their children to school, buy dinner and go to the launderette while the kids sweat through yet another CrossFit machine, unable to accept the expiry of their bodies as something that will always arrive. That arrival can be delayed, of course. What about life? Will it be lived when that decrepitude arrives? How will it be lived? In a motorhome where all you can fit in the glove compartment are pills?

Speaking of pills, I have a sexagenarian friend who takes Viagra the way I used to take pineapple-flavored Regina tablets. “Vítor, that'll break your heart, man,” I warn him, imagining myself far from such a need (but which he assures me appears overnight and never returns, however episodic it may be), to which he replies, ”If I die, I die happy.” It's quite an acceptable philosophy of life, by the way. A long-time widower, Vítor has raised his children, is well off, retired and doesn't owe anyone any money, including the tax office. “I've worked all my life without living to get what I have. Now I want to live and I'm succeeding,” he says. He eats lunch and dinner out every day, knows the best dishes in each of the dozens of restaurants where he is a customer, not to mention those he discovers on his leisurely travels, sometimes to see long-time friends who have returned home, sometimes just because. He is never alone, there are always companions for long meals that go on forever, nectars from old vineyards all the way to the bottom of bottles of good whiskies and bagaceiras. At the weekend, he takes shelter from the hustle and bustle and receives friends at home. He gets down to the pots with the passion of a poet, pairs them with the wines he has handpicked and surprises himself with every last spoonful of some conventual sweet that a lady from restaurant X in land Y has taught him. Is this commonly thought of as living on the edge? Yes, but I can assure you that the man exudes a happiness that we can't find in the opaque eyes of a forty-year-old who dreams every day of his two-week vacation in the same place year after year. In his own way, Vítor challenges his body in real endurance races, each time setting new limits that he intends to surpass tomorrow or the next, subject to injury. Isn't that the goal behind practicing any sport? To train every day for an important race? What's important to this man, it seems to me, is to be happy. And he's a real champion at it. I even know something that his children can't even dream of... Vítor paid off the rest of the mortgage for a neighbor, the mother of three kids he loves in the building, when she was at risk of losing her home after her partner abandoned her. “I only get drunk for these things,” he joked when he told me. Yes, bad wine is not his thing.

When A Esfera dos Livros published The 31-Day Diet in 2012, I might have expected it to be a relative success, but not to change minds so much. Ten years after the publication of The Paleo Diet by Loren Cordain, a nutritional approach based on the eating patterns of our Paleolithic ancestors, mere hunters with no knowledge of agriculture, Ágata Roquette once again proposed a drastic reduction in the consumption of carbohydrates such as bread, rice, pasta and potatoes, while giving carte blanche to the consumption of protein. Of course, we're talking about a much more complex work, which presented a weight loss plan with results (proven by so many) in just 31 days, where detailed meal plans, easy-to-follow recipes and nutritional tips were explained, promoting dietary re-education and the adoption of healthier habits without ever dismissing the need the need to maintain physical activity. But let's make no mistake, it was the fact that there was finally a diet that allowed people to consume protein at will (although not at will) that attracted so many people, to the point of generating not only a wave of acceptance of nutritionism as a medical science, but also its relative deification, like miracle saints who are now real stars, guests of honor on TV shows and at pink magazine parties where, of course, there are no shortage of croquettes, which are contraindicated because they are considered processed foods. In fact, and looking at things from the perspective we want in this matter, an effective diet, i.e. one that results in rapid weight loss, also results in some flabbiness that nobody wants. It therefore requires physical exercise. And you can't count on the fingers of all the dietitians and nutritionists who are born today, as if someone had sown the seeds 12 years ago, the people who, because of a book and its results, now have a lifestyle that includes daily runs with a view to some half-marathon, lots of hard walking, long bike rides or even simply going to the gym three or four times a week. Its relative opposite also occurs, so we all know someone who does all this, or even more, sweating their socks off in atrocious sacrifice, suffering horrors with every pedal stroke, aching in body and soul every day, in order to be able to eat and drink whatever they feel like, because the weekend is coming and there's a barbecue by the pool to watch that soccer match or Olympic Games event.

In a vast source like those restaurant menus that we would never eat (because it's a very bad sign), current trends dictate a total of only six trendy diets. That's how it should be, just six dishes of the day, including meat, fish and vegetarian. Paleo needs no introduction, just think of the hominids who, nomads that they were, chased herds in search of their chicha on a stick and didn't know what cereals were or any other crop that could provide them with carbohydrates or sugars. They were therefore the worst kind of people and, since Nature thinks of everything, it's a good thing that there was no traffic or traffic jams at the time, otherwise it would have been a riot of brawls. The consumption of meals with an overflowing plate, like North American meals in a hotel with a buffet, but with a very low-calorie content, is one of the characteristics of the Volumetric Diet. A lunch consisting of two boiled cabbages and a kilo of apples for dessert? So be it! The Detox Diet, on the other hand, requires the supervision of a qualified nutritionist. Because smoothies alone cannot constitute a meal, which is the tendency when you embark on this adventure alone. Although it contributes a great deal to our daily intake of fruits and vegetables that we might otherwise not even smell, there is a wide range of nutrients that we need that cannot be supplied by detox shakes. The ever-present Macrobiotic Diet has been with us for a good few years now. That's why it's been the subject of numerous studies that prove it's a good dietary practice, contributing to a general improvement in health and well-being. It has achieved unprecedented results in the fight against obesity, diabetes, and cardiovascular diseases (including those alarming results of annual check-ups, with terrible cholesterol, triglyceride and hypertension levels) and has even shown positive results in some types of cancer. The Macrobiotic Diet is even said to be a “lifestyle”, a concept that should perhaps be applied to other diets, to avoid the kind of dissatisfaction you feel when, after the 31-Day Diet, and after celebrating the visible results, you go back to the good old binge eating only to realize that you've easily reached a weight far above the one that made you start the diet in the first place. The only contraindication to macrobiotics is a possible imbalance of essential fatty acids, which can be overcome by eating fish or oilseeds two or three times a week. The DASH diet (Dietary Approaches to Stop Hypertension) aims, as the name suggests, to treat or prevent high blood pressure. A higher intake of fruit and vegetables, whole grains, fish, and low-fat dairy products and limiting the consumption of fats, sugars, and salt results in a satiating and balanced diet. If combined with physical exercise, it can have very positive results not only in terms of blood pressure but also in weight loss. And here we come to the queens of diets, the ones that really are a lifestyle, so often accused of turning their followers into mere nags trying to evangelize us. Vegetarianism or veganism are, although very different, grouped together here to arrive at what we would like to explain. The documentary The Game Changers, which overturns a concept that is too deep-rooted not to have generated controversy. A series of top athletes, starting with the narrator himself, the multi-talented martial arts fighter James Wilks, start from a very simple principle: the protein that they mistakenly believe is essential for athletes comes from the meat of animals that only eat plants. You can see what they're getting at, they and the executive producers of this film, which premiered at the 2018 Sundance Film Festival, including James Cameron, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Pamela Anderson and Jackie Chan. Doctors from the US Olympic team claim that animal protein hinders athletes' recovery and performance thanks to inflammatory molecules. There is supposed evidence that eating meat even causes erectile dysfunction, which will cause men who have never even dreamed of being athletes to frown slightly. Of course, such an object immediately received such scathing criticism as “it fulfills almost all the requirements of pseudoscience and none of the requirements of science.” Despite all this, and returning to the more conventional athletes, what we don't imagine is that if we look at the plate of a meal of a high-level athlete, we are very likely to think that it is the dinner of an Olympic sumo champion if sumo were an Olympic sport. It's a common misconception that these people eat little to keep fit. In reality, and in the overwhelming majority of cases, the opposite is true. A physical activity that requires a very high level of performance also requires a lot of energy from the body. And it can only be there or restored if the body is very well nourished. Otherwise, physical activity isn't giving you health, it's taking years off your life. Don't forget to tell this to your friends who started running like crazy and doing their evenings at CrossFit, which is why they “disappeared” from the weekly get-togethers only to reappear a year later, bald and with more wrinkles than a fisherman. As a final note, it should also be said that the athletes' dishes are rich (and very rich) but the nutrients they contain are carefully measured, something we can all do. And sports too. Because being able to eat a lot justifies all the sacrifices.

Translated from the original in the "Winners Never Quit" issue, published July 2024. Full stories and credits in the print version.