•
Rating: I realize it's pure egocentrism when a girl from the organization approaches me to ask for the bib back; I don't even listen to her and indulge myself in paying 20 € (a fortune) as a deposit to take home the tangible memory and flaunt it like the scalp of a Yankee. The usual unlucky bastard who can't enjoy personal success without the approval of others. I'd pay to have the pathetic video capturing me, full of lactic acid, awkwardly moving, crawling like a worm to photograph that piece of fabric on the carpet at home from every possible and imaginable angle. The egocentrism of the human being is vomit-inducing!
I realize that those kilometers are also an escape from the everyday life that disgusts me and leaves me indifferent with its bullshit, rhetorical speeches, and smoke-filled evenings that make me miss those friends who put a ring on their finger and eventually disappeared without ever having read a single page of Tolkien. The priceless solitude of a sport among stones, animals, and silence, with a heartbeat gone wild as a thundering soundtrack.
A sheet of paper when making love to the flame of a lighter takes the shape of a closing hand, and that black fist was me a few meters from the finish banner. Unable to breathe fully, so cold was the air I had inhaled, unable to drink a beer (damn, I was really dead!) generously offered by a Venetian guy. I remember that day when I witnessed the row of fast-walking runners passing by, just above the Passo Pordoi between two wings of the crowd. With my mouth open, I offered them my admiration in the form of a gaze and simultaneously had already decided that I would be there at the next edition. I've always done various sports, and though I've never had the numbers to excel, I've always found it easy to learn and never be a burden or a joke. Genetics provided me with good coordination, 7 liters of lung capacity, and 45 resting heartbeats: so I told myself run Forrest, damn it, run!
Setting a goal, raising the bar every year has always fascinated me; a sort of fight against the routine of gray everyday life and something capable of soothing the competitive nature that has always accompanied me since I was as tall as a nightstand. That's how I found myself panting and without more energy at the KIMA finish line. The starters are just over 150, but only about forty know what they're getting into: with my DIY training, I'm not among these. I fall in among the last ones, and I'm right since in the end, half won't reach the finish line or won't be able to pass the very strict time limits imposed by the regulations, under penalty of exclusion. I have never embarked on such an absurd distance (50 km) and especially such an imposing elevation gain in ascent (almost 4000 meters), and I know for certain that if I let myself be carried away when I seem to be feeling well, halfway through, I'll run out of gas, and cramps and a consequent downhill injury will become all too real. The path develops over a moraine for 30 km: enormous moving granite boulders of a glacier now melted, in a lunar environment of rare beauty. I stop at all 13/14 refreshment points to properly assimilate minerals, fruit, water, chocolate. But what worries me are the chains (a sort of easy via ferrata) that you have to descend from the 7 passes you need to cross. You don't have a harness, and what seems trivial can become very dangerous if you arrive at these points without the necessary lucidity. When the little shoe finally meets the asphalt road, I see again an open-hand parade, a fade-away basket, a slam dunk within three meters, a backhand volley and God knows what else. Somehow now, I know with absolute certainty, the finish line will be crossed. It doesn't matter much if the first one could already be back in Spain. Only a really limited number of people can complete this race.
When I get home and impose another 20 minutes of stretching, I place my swollen feet on the bed: I will lose four nails within 2 months; the color is a verdict. A couple of chapters and then, before closing my eyes, a warm sadness rises, twisting around me like climbing ivy, which is what I constantly seek and which warms me when I return from a crossing, a glacier, a peak, a trip, a book, a film, an evening with friends. That feeling that enters me when something beautiful ends and makes me want to embark on another; the push that makes me move my ass from the couch and prompts me to be a sponge and try to renew interests and goals. It's likely that from here to the grave I'll practice other sports, but as long as my knees, breath, and ankles hold out, I'll find the time for a run at sunset or dawn among the stones of my mountains full of silence: the best way to relieve all tensions and find that feeling of well-being and satisfaction that makes you feel alive, very alive, almost burning.
Loading comments slowly
