The Art of Going Hyperphagia

I'm sitting at our favorite bakery in Andorra, first proper snow falling outside, Duke at my feet. I've just ordered a second breakfast. Not because the first one wasn't enough, but because apparently my body has decided we're now operating on a hobbit meal schedule. I'm halfway through a flat white—which is weird because three months ago the thought of milky coffee made me reach for espresso instead. Something has shifted.

For the first decade of my career, I treated winter like an inconvenience to be outrun. I literally fled hemispheres to avoid it—when Europe got cold, I'd chase eternal summer to Australia or South Africa. Winter meant slower times, heavier legs, and the constant fear that everyone training somewhere warmer was getting ahead while you froze.

We were watching a documentary the other night about bears in Alaska. They have this thing called hyperphagia (hi-per-FAY-juh, for those playing along at home). It's that phase just before hibernation where they eat up to 20,000 calories a day and gain four pounds daily. The term literally means "over hunger."

Here's where it gets interesting: Bears' bodies change how they process fat, prevent insulin resistance despite massive caloric intake, and somehow manage to lose 20-40% of body weight during hibernation while maintaining 100% of their muscle mass. The dream, right? Nature figured out a long time ago that you can't burn both ends of the candle year-round.

And humans? Even with central heating and artificial light, we still follow seasonal patterns. Research shows people eat significantly more carbohydrates in fall, our metabolism shifts between summer and winter, and our brains process glucose differently based on daylight hours. Thanksgiving timing isn't random—late November sits right at that threshold where historically humans paused, ate well, and prepared for lean months ahead.

Every autumn, the same pattern. I'm getting more steps to the snack shelf than on my actual runs. Training that felt effortless in July now requires an actual decision. Not because something's wrong—just because my body has apparently decided that November means constant, low-grade hunger and a strong preference for staying inside where it's warm.

For years, I fled to the southern hemisphere and it felt strategic. Then it started feeling exhausting—constantly disrupting rhythms, never settling. I was basically that bear trying to catch salmon through February. Committed, but fundamentally misunderstanding the assignment.

The shift came when I finally let myself experience a full European winter while training. Not fighting it. Just being in it. I noticed my body wanted different food—heavier, richer, more substantial. The espresso naturally switched to flat whites.

Nature designed a system where you don't need to be peak-everything, all-year. The winter builds the spring. The hyperphagia phase creates the capacity to thrive when the season turns.

I spent fifteen years training like there were no seasons, spending months at a time in South Africa or Australia. It worked. It also meant I never let my body do what it's been programmed to do for thousands of years: respond to winter by shifting gears.

I assume most people reading this aren't fleeing hemispheres, but are avoiding the concept. Same gym intensity in January as July. Same expectations. Same guilt about wanting pasta at 4pm or reaching for a second breakfast like some endurance athlete who's turned into a part-time hobbit.

What if you just... let yourself go a bit hyperphagia? Not checking out. Just acknowledging that your body has been reading the calendar since before calendars existed, and maybe it knows something.

The hill behind my house will be there in March. It'll probably feel easier then. Not because I trained through winter like a machine, but because I rested through winter like an animal.

Nature figured this out before we did. Maybe it's ok to embrace it.

From the corner table,

Jan