Dieting is murder on the road. Show me a man who travels and I'll

When Bruce Froemming declared, “Dieting is murder on the road. Show me a man who travels and I’ll show you one who eats,” he was not merely speaking of food, but of the inevitable hunger of the human spirit — the appetite that awakens when one wanders far from the familiar hearth. His words carry humor, yes, but beneath their laughter lies an ancient truth: that travel and discipline are old adversaries, and that when a man journeys through the vast and changing world, the senses — not the rules — become his compass. For to travel is to live, and to live is to taste.

In this quote, Froemming captures the tension between restraint and experience, between the rigidity of self-control and the freedom of adventure. To “diet” is to confine oneself, to set limits and boundaries in pursuit of balance or virtue. But to “travel” is to break boundaries, to cross frontiers, to surrender to the unknown. The traveler cannot always weigh or measure his meals; he is swept into the world’s offerings — its flavors, its textures, its traditions. Froemming’s jesting wisdom reminds us that life on the road demands flexibility, and that to cling too tightly to order amidst motion is to forget the very reason we travel: to be changed by what we encounter.

The ancient explorers and merchants knew this truth well. The caravans that crossed the Silk Road, the sailors who charted the unknown seas — they did not eat by rule or ration, but by circumstance and necessity. In strange lands, they tasted new fruits, unknown grains, unfamiliar spices. Through them, civilizations were nourished by discovery. It was not restraint, but openness, that fed the progress of humankind. Froemming’s words echo this eternal rhythm: that when a man leaves home, his body hungers not just for food, but for connection — for communion with the earth and its peoples.

Yet there is also humor in his lament. To say that “dieting is murder on the road” is to admit that discipline often falters before the seduction of experience. This, too, is deeply human. Even the wisest monks who journeyed across deserts and mountains found themselves tempted — not by greed, but by the simple joy of being alive. To eat while traveling is not gluttony, but participation — a way of saying, “I am here, I am part of this place.” Froemming’s insight reminds us that moderation must bow, at times, to the wonder of the world.

Consider the story of Marco Polo, who left Venice as a young man and returned decades later as a legend. Along the way, he ate at the tables of emperors and peasants alike, discovering not just foods, but the essence of cultures. It was through these meals — these shared moments of nourishment — that he came to understand humanity itself. His journey was not only one of distance, but of taste, of experience, of communion. In this way, his story mirrors Froemming’s wisdom: that the traveler’s appetite is not a weakness, but a window into the soul of the world.

And yet, hidden within Froemming’s humor lies a deeper lesson about acceptance. Life, like travel, cannot be lived by strict formula. The road bends, the weather changes, the offerings vary. To cling too tightly to perfection — in food, in plan, in purpose — is to deny the spontaneity that gives life its color. The wise learn to adapt, to receive what the world gives with gratitude, not guilt. They understand that sometimes, to abandon the diet is to embrace the moment, and to embrace the moment is to truly live.

So, my listener, take this teaching as you would a meal shared with friends on a long journey: with laughter, with gratitude, with freedom. Do not starve yourself of experience in the name of control. Eat the bread offered by the road, taste the sweetness of the unexpected, and let nourishment come not only from the plate, but from the stories, faces, and lessons that accompany it. For one who travels and eats with awareness is not a glutton, but a student of life — one who understands that the body feeds the spirit, and that every taste of the world is a reminder that we are, after all, alive.

Thus, Bruce Froemming’s simple truth endures: to travel is to eat, and to eat is to partake in the vast banquet of existence. When you walk the long road, let your hunger guide you not to excess, but to wonder — for the journey, like the meal, is fleeting, and both are meant to be savored.