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Rating: On the wooden floor; bundled up in the sleeping bag. Curled up to conserve heat. It feels like I'm watching the scene from outside my body: there I am in an unfamiliar room of an unfinished house, next to four strangers and a brand-new friend, who still has the protective cellophane, with whom I only share a passion for running and the mountains. Above Pozza di Fassa, I watch myself pretend to fall asleep while I hear it coming down. No, I'm not mistaken even if the roof is two floors up. It's not just the wind; not only, at least. It's definitely heavy rain falling, and to dispel the last doubts, here comes the long, unmistakable and thunderous sound of thunder. It falters, loses balance and almost falls. I've been training for months for these 22 km of ascents and descents in the Sella Dolomites, and when the alarm finally goes off, the mist almost covers our destination. The disappointment, the real fear of postponement, we drown on the floor in a jar of Nutella, rusks, fruit and a few words trying to stir a few smiles. "If you still want, in the backpack, I have the sunscreen with protection 30".
Delayed start and modified route due to fog to safeguard the participants' safety. A ton of people, 600-650 who knows?, nervously wobbles all over the village in frenzy while the rain finally becomes gradually lighter. The 22 degrees Celsius of last night are now just a warm memory, now closed and archived in a dusty annual of cold statistics, and now the reality reads a bold 11°C. The tension rises; especially for those, like me, for whom it's the first mountain running race. I feel the need to go to the bathroom. Once, twice and three times in 30 minutes before the fateful start. I would almost be tempted to book a nice appointment with the urologist if they didn't tell me it was absolutely normal. A huge audience of curious tourists, family and friends applaud for the first 300 meters on flat ground. You feed on their incredulous and envious looks as they watch you run uphill: a drug that makes you feel like God. Then, abruptly, for about forty minutes and 800 meters in altitude, nothing. The absolute and unreal silence that covers the stretched-out snake strikes me: it feels like someone put an insulating film over the competitors. You only hear the heavy breathing and the rustling of shoes on the muddy grass. It's as if we've all lost the ability to speak and like mosquitoes drawn to light, we run, more or less pantingly and consciously, towards a gigantic magnet. Numbers pass you by, you pass them in turn and then they pass you again. 318, 601, 22, 308, 54. Fifty-four. It's him, Matteo, who guides me. A friend of friends, I tag him mentally and like a parasite, I follow him; I keep his pace until the crowd bath of Passo Pordoi. A distant noise becomes clearer and clearer as rows of people who encourage you suddenly appear in front of you. As I increase the pace, I realize I'm making a tremendous mistake, but the adrenaline is such that you can't help but steal a pinch of glory.
And there they are, the leg-cutting switchbacks. They smile at you and challenge you: they know, the bastards, that for 600 meters they'll make you spit fatigue and sweat. I find myself with the poles in hand and pull myself up as best I can. Where the hell is 54? I've lost him: the path is narrow and cramped, hard to pass: full of photographers, fans, and so I try not to lift my gaze to look for him. I try to take a gel. Another mistake. It seems like honey and swallowing it becomes a mini-challenge, it drips onto my shirt and smears my hands making the grip on the poles more slippery. With my gaze down, switchback after switchback, I finally reach 2850 meters of the pass. The voices are so loud that, for a moment, I no longer feel the fatigue. A glass of salts and ready for the descent that bites the quadriceps instantly.
It's the Val Lasties. It seems the weather postponed its storm by 2 hours just for us. To let us pass where four exceptional local mountain rescue boys died under an avalanche last December 26th attempting to save/find two hikers. In mid-July, now we descend through the same narrow valley: an extremely steep white slide. Some fall, some descend at a rapid and dizzying pace, some deeply curse the day they decided to sign up. I feel like water in a sink while the plug is being pulled. I wouldn't want to descend so fast. My ex-volleyball player's ankles tell me, advise me, and beg me, but I can't do anything but let go of the legs pushed by the crowd. And then comes the rock and the path. The volunteers in the most dangerous spots continuously point the way and give you that little pinch of security, in case you were to fall, acting as human guardrails spreading their arms. The mud under the shoes is partly taken away by the snow, but the rain has made the rocks slippery and then in the trail running one desperately seeks the soil to have better grip in the dangerous trace. There he is! For a moment 54 returns. He's two curves below me. When the path levels, the end of the race is now near and unexpectedly I feel my legs still going. Holding my balls metaphorically with the last effort, I increase the pace risking on a couple of roots and rocks and so I'm able to catch up. I would have more in the final stretch, but I wait for him out of deserved gratitude. It was he who brought me to the top. During the final 300 meters of flat, I could sprint between two rows of crowd held back by barriers, like it was a stage of a bike tour. Indeed, we are now in sight of the crowded square of Canazei.
The six months during which I trained at Ikea come back to mind: assembling everything by myself thanks to an instruction booklet made of advice from friends and acquaintances. The forest road I illuminated with the headlamp in winter comes back forcefully, the mountain trails I continuously covered in spring and early summer. The fear of the time I almost left an ankle on a root compromising everything. The shirts soaked in sweat, that constant salty taste. All for a goal that now, damn it, is there in sight on a red carpet with an incredible time for me.
Forget sprinting. I would have wanted to use slow motion, I would have wanted those three curves to never end. The wide strides as Matteo and I, 77 and 54, cross the finish line. The first has passed twenty minutes ago, (but we have almost 550 behind us!), and the sensation, as I see friends and family, is that of holding something in continuous expansion in my hands. You can't contain it and your palms must inevitably open and there it is, a pure moment of happiness emerges on a shout of joy and a never-ending smile. Light, relieved, and content with myself, I take the water bottle from an attendant. I savor it on a bench with friends nearby. The achievement of a long-awaited personal goal now finally reached with a bit of guts, mud, sweat, and lactic acid as a kind reminder in the days to follow.
Dedicated to the legendary no. 54, Matteo! Thank you indeed.
ilfreddo
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