“Alcohol converts to sugar through the liver,” I observed. “You’re not going to be able to dip into fat stores with sugar in your bloodstream.”

“Watch me.”

And I did. Paul began his training with advice from athletic friends who biked and ran and began by walking briskly up our long driveway and breaking into a jog once he hit the street and disappeared, in ancient t-shirts and gym shorts. He began to chart his progress and there were days in the late summer, when he would be careful, taking lots of water and walking great chunks of his route but still taking forever to cool out, owing to the humidity.

The pounds obligingly began to disappear and by week three, his spare tire looked decidedly as if it had a leak.

Well into his second month, believing if one looks professional, one will act accordingly, Paul invested in garish neon running gear that would wick away his sweat and keep him safe from hunters, trained on his loping, carefree gait through the countryside, as well as new shoes and a special water bottle that hooked to his waist. The massive salads and stir-frys continued as did the weight loss. And come October, he ambitiously entered a local half-marathon of 13.1 miles, to be run in November.

“You sure you’re ready?”

“I’m ready.”

The big day arrived and as my mother, three days earlier, had suffered a broken hip and was in hospital, I was sitting with her and could not attend, but followed every Facebook update and text with anticipation. Paul had modestly remarked that he would be happy “just to finish the thing,” even if it meant walking over the line, but his last two weeks of distance work had been relatively comfortable and he bounded over the line attired in his chartreuse jersey, handily beating his personal best time during training, and finishing 119th out of 183 runners.

His beanpole doctor finished fourth and both received medals and gobs of free breakfast casseroles.

A couple of days ago, Paul mentioned an upcoming marathon in Asheville, which he noted, was a qualifying race – for the Boston Marathon.

What else from a man who makes his own puff pastry?