I’m here in New York, working with the Whartons for a week. And as everyone knows, their workday doesn’t begin until they’ve worked out. They don’t just talk the talk and walk the walk. They run it.
For a former marathon runner, I’m embarrassingly overweight and out of shape, so while Jim and Phil were off doing serious Wharton-workouts, I went alone to Central Park and lumbered around for a couple of hours. When they asked later, I muttered something vague about having been with the runners in the park. Technically, it was true. Runners zipped past me all morning. My sweatshirt—dampened by flicking it into the shower and hung behind the bathroom door for effect—and the requisite black runner’s watch would deceive them not at all.
They know me. They know better.
When we greeted each other last night, the bear hugs lasted a few seconds too long. Oh sure, they were glad to see me, but that wasn’t it. They were gauging my body fat content. The Stretch Boys don’t need calipers and a calculator.
I’ll do better. When I’m with them, I have no choice. They take me to restaurants that don’t even serve Diet Coke. We had Tibetan burdock root and organic Japanese pumpkin sandwiches with ginger root tea for dinner last night. I don’t even know what that is, but I’m feeling organic already