My day was long and intense: woke up at four and a half bike ride in the Roero hunting paths, walk with mum again bike, then a quick shower, and a botched baggage away, depart by car, Courchevel destination, all that ended up in my tummy, over breakfast, it was a bit 'of yogurt smoothie, peaches and honey. I think it's understandable then my dismay, when the chambermaid, a nice girl who chews a bit 'of Italian because, he confides, is engaged in Genoa, there under the nose bowl two dishes each containing two lettuce leaves. Unseasoned. He takes immediate, very high, the howl of protest from my stomach empty, I look in the eyes of George and my own concerns: what does this mean?
By nature a bit 'shy and unwilling to discussions, agree, not to mention that it is appropriate to eat and be quiet, determined that the expected oil and vinegar in vain, not anything will come of all this: just a little bit 'of bread, as required. The hearty appetizer is followed by an equally gargantuan first: a portion of mashed potatoes, not really tasty, accompanied by a piece of cod, for George, and a handful of boiled green beans and tomato half for me, which I declined and meat fish. Swallowed that, too, increasingly appalled: trouble, you never know, to protest, we Levin even the little we have in the pot ... Finally, a small bowl with a whole fish, and just soaked by a sweet syrup. And that's all ... I regret, yet once to myself, my old habit of traveling with camper as Opel and dinner remedied at the supermarket, bread and soft cheese and pork food at will; for awe, is a solution to my travel companion Today I dare not even suggest, knowing a bit now '. But is not this, my true nature: hotels and restaurants, I bring him a sense of uneasiness that I can not overcome. Today, then, we just happened to be in the middle of the representation of some of the absurd comedy!
fights with a knife and fork, damages for fishing without trying to cut the project it right on the shirt of poor George, then I give up, in spite of the bon ton, and I grab the damn finger. You can see a mile away, that my neighbor across the person is quite different ancestry and habits, in a few precise movements, confronted and defeated the enemy, leaving the core peeled and cleaned. Or will it be because it is the veterinary practice of surgery then? While traffic and smadonno silently throwing sidelong glances around the room. The next two tables are occupied by two of a tonnage madame, dare I say, a super-ship of Costa Cruises, two huge masses of fat that surround and almost engulf the chairs. I fear and tremble for the scope of those poor wooden weaving ... Later, another panel of heavyweights, four this time. Yet, I do not understand.
Prima di nanna, ci concediamo una passeggiata digestiva, ammesso e non concesso che ci sia qualcosa, nei nostri stomaci, da digerire, lungo il parco di Brides Les Bains e verso la via principale del paesello. Passiamo di fronte allo stabilimento termale: c'è viavai e, anche qui, una sorprendente concentrazione di uomini e donne a dire poco deformi, quintali ambulanti: per carità, io ho poco da dire, non sono certo un'acciuga, ma qui in mezzo mi sento anoressica all'ultimo stadio, per non parlare del buon Giorgio, con i suoi cinquantasette chili di pelle ed ossa, distribuiti sulla mia stessa altezza, ed i buchi che di continuo aggiunge alla cintura. Ma dove diavolo siamo finiti?
Continuo a non capire. Una vetrina di abiti da donna: è il mio compare a farmi notare le dimensioni degli abiti, e pure quelle della commessa. Dalla misura extra-large in su. E, impresso sul vetro, uno slogan: "Brides Les Bains: le pais pour maigrir!". Un lampo colpisce ed incenerisce il neurone: finalmente... Adesso, e solo adesso, capisco! La cena, il tonnellaggio medio dei presenti, le terme, ora sì che tutto si spiega! Siamo capitati in un paese a tema, interamente dedicato alla dieta. E noi che domani dobbiamo correre la bellezza di 53 km ed oltre 4000 m di dislivello in salita! Scoppiamo a ridere per non piangere, e per non sentire i lamenti strazianti delle pance vuote... Giorgio non osa insistere sull'argomento, lui che è paladino del mangiare sempre e comunque il meno possible, but I'm sure, at this moment, a nice sandwich with gorgonzola scofanerebbe if he too.
I am stunned at the thought of all these people here that focuses on the whole of France to buy, who knows at what price, the illusion of being able to lose weight: one, two, three weeks to stick, then return home with a hunger atavistic and strafogarsi of everything that is, edible or not, within a radius of one kilometer. It recover lost kilos, and add others, probably. My companion in adventure is very hard on this, but I can not but admit that he is right: you do not need baths, travel, massage and external constraints, the only ingredient needed to lose weight is the force of will. It seems easy for him to have self-discipline has to sell, but I know that it is not easy at all: I myself would not be able to maintain a minimum level of decency, balance, if not commanding hours of sport and effort, as indeed I do. If I ever stop moving, the way I eat, rise like a sponge ... And, by the way, stay on the edge of the sixty pounds is titanic undertaking.
The alarm sounds, merciless, at ten to three. Before you even realize where, how and why, I cast with the ardor of a piranha on the bag lunch, even on bags: one, the one who left us last night the waitress, the other, that we caused, in extremis, picked up immediately after the race numbers in Courchevel and just before closing time at the supermarket. The first contains a few slices of bread, jam impulse without sugar, honey-dose, two slices of cheese, a bit 'of fruit and two bottles of water and the other, a box of soft Camembert grassissimo, a large portion of soft cake dusting of icing sugar and a brick of sweet bread, "While Beurre", the name is just a program. If nothing else, I can say I corrected the famine of last night. George points out in disgust: I do not think I've ever seen anyone get out in a single meal in a few seconds, three-quarters of a pack of three ounces Camembert ... And the last quarter I have not eaten because, in my great generosity, I gave him! What Goduria ...
The day looks promising. Fresh air and a wonderful, perfect star. We leave the hotel surrounded by the silence: a few miles and we are in Courchevel 1300. At three and a half of the night, darkness hides in the Hills ski jumping, which yesterday gave me deep impression, though I think I'm afraid to lean from the balcony on the second floor ... The idea to throw down a track that you do not even see the top, and fly on skis, with no defense that the suit and your skin, it seems to me the worst follies of suicide. But who knows, perhaps such treatment would make me go the fear of emptiness!
First point for the organization of this race: the parking lot. Large and opposite to the starting point. And the reception with hot tea and coffee in French, but still coffee. I never imagined there were so many Italians, too familiar faces: reach this place is anything but simple, the journey is long and excruciating, at this time of year when just about everyone they travel. It is rumored that the trail will soon: after all, just look at the numbers, a good dose of altitude in just over fifty miles, do not need a PhD at the Scuola Normale di Pisa to see that the climb will be challenging and, alas, going down well .
note George of sideways, it is aimed, as always. It is certainly not the fault of the race, is his natural condition. To me, now, the start of a race is no longer any effect, at least until I know that, unless unforeseen events, the company is pretty much within my reach. Fifty km: I can do it. My only doubt is the gate to the third time dining, seven hours to just over thirty miles in which, however, has focused much of the difference. According to Matthew, my oracle consulted in recent days, is a pretty tight bond, which, translated from its language always face the encouragement, it means absolutely impossible. George, however, knows nothing, and I am careful dal renderlo edotto. Già così, so che quest'uomo mi darà il tormento per correre, correre, correre; figuriamoci se poi andassi a dirgli che c'è un limite orario oltre il quale si finisce fuori gara...
La partenza è semplice, senza tanti fronzoli: tutti riuniti nel prato, davanti all'arco gonfiabile. Il pendio davanti a noi non si vede, ma è ben evidenziato da una fila di torce parallele: è lì che ci buttiamo al segnale del via. Una rampa micidiale in mezzo all'erba, tanto per gradire, lungo la linea di salita più ripida possibile. Il mio compare, pur con le sue primavere in più, trotta che è una meraviglia; io invece, come sempre, annaspo in piena carenza di ossigeno. Le partenze are always a critical time, so, then, are a stab in the middle of the shoulder blades! George runs forward, turns, wait, talk very lightly and I wish to respond in kind, but all that comes out of my throat is choked a gasp. Fortunately, I understand that the rest of the world, around here, there is much more perky than me. From
track in the meadow, there is common, with a slope a bit 'more human, on a path. Suddenly, the group should proceed runs into a real river of lights that go up towards us: a moment of loss ... What's happening? Where do these? It 's true, there is the short route of 30 km, but they start at eight ... I guess so that happened here is a mess and someone in the wrong way, I wonder if us or them. To me it seemed obvious to take the marked up by the torches; more evident than that ... The fact is that, now, we trooped to the bottom of an endless column of riders and, of course, on a path that makes it almost impossible to overtake. What nerve ... From the valley floor, still rings the rhythmic music that accompanied our departure, and the voice into the microphone to comment on the early stages of the race. Calm and cool: there will be plenty of time to run after. For now, best to take advantage of the slowdown forced and save energy.
the light of the headlamp, I sense a few meters of the trail, a few strokes time, the darkness will take us at least an hour to climb, maybe more. Hairpin bends up through the plant: the first ascent is long, about four thousand feet at once, unless unforeseen ups and downs, and promises to be challenging. Not bad. I seem to have taken a good step. The trail is dry, rocky, you only hear the thud of feet, rhythmic breathing. Behind us, the broom close to the line. We are already past: not bad! It does not matter: I am ready to bet that before the summit, we have already put salt on his tail more than one opponent.
A faint streak of blue light announces the arrival of more days, finally, and melts the thin tension that always accompanies me in the dark. Who knows how he spends the night on a path with any person having in good working order. For me, it's a great effort, a DC voltage which is transmitted to the legs, each step to be measured carefully, without ever being able to focus on the obstacle. The first light of dawn reveals a breathtaking view over the entire crown of peaks, sharp edges in their dark, the lights slowly fade down into the valley, along with the echo of music that still resonates.
reaches the first opponents in the stretch of woods, steep, just before coming out in the middle of blueberry bushes and rhododendrons. If nothing else, the torment of her discharge broom at his heels. I climb of good lena su per i tornantini; non devo esagerare, ma mi sembra di star bene. Vuoi vedere che questa è finalmente una giornata sì? Sarebbe drammatico scoprire che è merito della cena di ieri sera... Le poche volte che riesco ad alzare lo sguardo, il paesaggio che ammiro è meraviglioso. Cime a perdita d'occhio, in un cielo azzurro che più non si può. Anche se, per i miei gusti, c'è qualche baffo di nuvola di troppo: quelle nuvole alte, sottili e frastagliate che mi fanno temere il peggio.
Infatti, le nubi si estendono con velocità impressionante; sono già un lenzuolo grigio, compatto, che si avvicina a noi, ancor prima che si arrivi nei paraggi del primo ristoro. Siamo ormai oltre quota duemila metri e there is no trace of trees around us, we are exposed to a gust of wind still light, but cold. Arrive, one after another, some opponents a little 'less from the ascent, the trail wanders while a first hint of the top, passes next to a table indicating the cardinal points. Around us, the structures of the ski lift, in front of a hut-looking ultra-modern, not even bad, in the opinion of George ... Simply awful, in my opinion.
we run into the first table in the restaurant: Surprisingly, there is also a nice big dog that already yesterday we met in Courchevel and then magnificence the front door of the supermarket. A dog of unknown breed to me, the appearance of the bulldog, but less massive, and the indifferent nature: it seems a bit 'fed up with being here. And how he's wrong? I bet they would prefer a bed and hot strip the flesh off a bone in the valley ...
Coca Cola at will, even if it is cold, and then pieces of cheese, dried fruit, and sugar cubes. Again almost immediately, the wet shirt stuck to the skin from freezing. Hanging over our heads a rocky peak, with a cross on top, judging by the swarm of human figures up there, I just know that we have to climb. Cross the saddle with the jaws in motion, accompanied by an ascetic George who never eats, and I am still climbing: a narrow path, very steep, at times a bit ' esposto, di quelli da cui è meglio che io non guardi giù. Anche perché il ristoro è già un puntino minuscolo... La pendenza è tale che i piedi, di quando in quando, scivolano indietro. Ma vedere gente che si sposta dal sentiero per lasciarmi passare è cosa che mi galvanizza: la salita è l'unico terreno in cui posso dare un po' di sfogo al mio spirito agonistico. Il compare, dietro, mi tallona da vicino. Il passaggio in cima, Rocher de la Loze, è un attimo, poi giù, lungo un sentiero che sembra da subito troppo bello per essere vero. Stetto, ma dal fondo morbido, terra, senza asperità, pietre aguzze, fango né tratti scoscesi. L'ideale per i miei garretti che oggi, spero di non dirlo troppo presto, I feel fresh and light, willing to travel. In fact, we run: now down quickly, bend after bend. If I remember correctly, we should not get that much: four hundred yards, maybe five hundred, then return with the nose, to more than 2,600 share.
legs feel fresh and loose like never before. Mine is still the same race a bit 'awkward and uncertain, but it is something better than just walking downhill. Even George is surprised: "Did you see rarely run downhill." Yes, true, but today goes well! The trail continues soft and comfortable, with hairpins in the middle of the grassy slope until you reach a dirt road that just touches: a few meters in floor and back a salire, verso destra, su per un sentiero sassoso ed appena accennato, lungo un corso d'acqua. Il cielo è ormai quasi coperto. Una ciucciata alla borraccetta del miele, per non farmi tradire dalla salita. Riprendo con cautela: si annuncia un'altra bella rampa, prima su sentiero abbastanza impervio, pietroni, e poi su una vera e propria comodissima strada sterrata. Un po' di debolezza bussa alla mia porta, ma basta rallentare appena e poi guardare avanti: qualche gruppetto, qualche corridore solitario, arrancano piano. E' una strada, vero, ma bella ripida. Li riprendo, quei signori, oh se li riprendo! E pazienza se poi mi mangeranno in insalata in discesa. L'entusiasmo fa presto a tornare alle stelle. "Ed ora, in modalità locomotiva", esclamo, con una buona dose di megalomania per la verità. "Ed io, in modalità vagone attaccato alla locomotiva", sospira il buon Giorgio, che qui, per qualche attimo, sembra tribolare più del solito. Resta qualche metro indietro e, cosa inaudita e preoccupante, tace. La strada ha una superficie sassosa, poco confortevole, più simile qua e là ad una pietraia, ed una pendenza che non concede requie. Tallono le mie lepri, sempre più vicine, ma con un occhio ogni tanto rivolto indietro, a vedere che il mio compare sia ancora lì. Preoccupazione inutile, non cederebbe nemmeno se una valanga lo travolgesse in questo istante e, in ogni caso, non si lamenterebbe. Più testardo di un mulo: e se lo dico io, che di cocciutaggine I mean ... But I complain to me constantly, but only when I stop nagging, I'm really hurt.
cross a ski slope, bare and desolate land this season, much higher, you see the silhouette of a refuge. An excavator parked in the curve destroy the last pieces of poetry of the mountain that mess up here ... A few more curves, some ramp, George says the share of suffering, but in the meantime squirts forward with feline leap, perhaps because he feels air dining. "We did 110 m of altitude in 10 minutes" ... And we believe, with slopes of this kind, the difference in the grind quickly! Here he is there, the rest of the bench. Heroic, these volunteers are on the hill, exposed to cold wind, wrapped up like Michelin men in thick jackets. Stand still or nearly so, up here for hours, it must be terrible. 2659 m, Sommet de la Vizelle, but not yet the Cima Coppi. The menu for me is always the same: rivers of Coke, nuts, dried fruit, cheese, sugar.
Wonderful landscapes from up here, just do not see nothing but mountains around. A place to dream, and then today, more unique than rare, I'm fine, what more could I ask of life? We set off again down slightly, chewing, but soon returns to reverse the slope. Steep ramp to another hill, Col du Fruit, just lower than the previous year. We are just beyond the fifteenth km and a long walk, now: you can not really say that we beat the weak, but proceed slowly, inevitably. The difference is remarkable. We walk between towering rock formations, to the arrow signpost, and then another descent, this seemingly friendly: it seems too good to be true! Gian eye, sooner or later comes the catch ... Meanwhile, corricchio at a good pace, and my left ankle, torn by an incalculable amount of wrong in every now trail, for now does not complain, gives no sign of life. Do not sing victory too soon, however.
The descent ends at 20 km, approximately, on a nice wooden bridge over the stream. There it is now a long stretch flat, or nearly along the river and the sun is shining more and more covetous of its rays. We talk and walk, to save and regain your strength, it is still long, though, in theory at least, two thousand meters in altitude are now behind us. In our neighborhood, two French runners with the red shirt, one of them is visibly tired running, is beyond us, then sits exhausted, the other waits. Giorgio them justice: "To do so, they will not go away." A herd of cows lazy, lying in almost every field, we observed ruminating. The first plateau is interrupted by a short but challenging climb, one step of a hundred meters of altitude on another bowl of that stretch up towards the Refuge du Sault. "At noon, a half at most, could be the next restaurant," George delights. But yes, at this point I can tell him: "Yeah, too bad that the gate time is eleven thirty ...". Falls from the clouds, the poor, but the screen shot. "I do not care - I conclude - do what they want, I'm not going to pull the neck." And with this conviction, attack the climb, the real one. Narrow path and steep, as always in little steps to be taken quickly and with the full force of the poles. Giorgio silent. Of course I was really cruel ... I might be silent at all! But I confess that this gives me a subtle malice malicious pleasure ... I have no idea what is missing, as distanza e dislivello, da qui al ristoro; il mio compare ha con sé l'altimetria, ma non è che sia illuminante. E poi, comunque, più di quel che sto facendo non potrei fare, inutile che mi preoccupi.
L'ascesa è impegnativa, ma nulla di tecnicamente preoccupante, almeno fino al primo colle, il Col de Chanrouge. Idem la discesa, molto breve per la verità. Ma poi... Lo sapevo, lo sapevo io che non avrei dovuto farmi illusioni. Si torna quasi subito a salire, ma solo per breve tempo su sentiero. Alzo il naso e subito una solenne bastonata s'abbatte sulla mia baldanza: il colle è almeno duecento metri più in su... E ci si arriva solo per una pietraia ripida, di pietroni grossi, per giunta con un buon condimento Snow ... By Gian, so must one do, throw ... But it is not easy. I struggle to follow the trail, which also does not even exist, I move on all fours, even when not under ass, rub, scratch me, I crash into the rocks, I step forward and three back. In a word, I surpass all ... Seem to dance where I advance as a clumsy caterpillar, and every time I pull up my eyes, the hill is always there, at the same distance. On nevaietti, then, the joy is supreme. Farewell ankle one, two, three strains, burns already crying. My ordeal seems to have no end: the good George has run almost immediately tired of waiting, it disappeared on the horizon, will already at the top. I see him soon, and emerges from the nightmare, disappear over the hill, while I subisco now, on a walking path under the brow, the queue of those who went before me.
Unfortunately, on the other hand, the matter is no less dramatic at all. A few steep and slippery hairpins I rushed straight to the attack of a long and steep snowfield. The others deal with using the backside as a kind of luge: to think of it, is the best solution, because the slope will eventually weaken, but to me the idea of \u200b\u200bslipping even for fifty yards out of control makes the chills. Look at the edge of the snowfield desperate: either snow or steep scree ... Tantovale try. With infinite caution, barely suppressing a wave of terror, I try not to look down the steps and measures by planting his foot to cut the sticks as a hook, one step and then another step, ready to feel the grip that gives and tumbling all the way down. It does not release, but is the runner who follows me, perhaps the last after me, to lose his grip. The stop pointing the foot so that its going to brake shoe against my ankle, the healthy: good team work!
A couple of geological ages later, are in the bottom of the snowfield, but again on stony ground. So, here I go to crawl, to swear in Ostrogothic for crooked ankle, chewing nervous the day veered in a direction very, very darker. Competitors around me, apart from my pursuer, no one, on the other hand, I find a lonely picket the organization, he explains, fluentissimo in English, which, in the section I follow the good track regardless of path, because the cut slope might seem the best idea, but for some reason, in reality it is not at all. Broadly speaking, I get the idea, although I would have grabbed more than happy to tell my partner. Great looking man, physically robust, light brown flowing hair, blue eyes, almost almost could fake a sudden illness, right here ...
Instead, the unshakable sense of duty runner pushes me to continue, before long a track just mentioned, which cuts the steep slope in a zig zag, then along a track that no longer exists: you want to look for the dots of paint ... I need a pair of binoculars. Stove, point directly to the edge of the pond, where in fact find the real path. Walk without enthusiasm, scorn and regret because now the barrier slot will be closed permanently. Who knows George, what happened. The few rays of sunlight filter through the clouds are shining the rippling water. Find backpack and bit into the tart, but yes, console ourselves with food ... Immediately check another character to watch the race: "The rest - I felt in French - is just ahead." Damn, but had a few 'a pan of cabbage your ... Can I be hungry now, yes or no?
muttering to myself, I hasten along the trail, finally viable, a long stretch of the hillside and, finally, a little further down, the rest of the gazebo Petite Val. There arrival and resigned in pain, with the ankle in flames. I find waiting for George and a lot of bib numbers scattered on the floor of runners who retire. In fact, the inn is in the process of demobilization, but none of the volunteers of the organization seems to know anything of the gate time. Our transition is still observed. We do not know, in other words, if we consider the race or not. Meanwhile, I refreshed her going. My travel companion does not arise the doubt, continue, period. I follow him, obviously, but hesitant, a bit 'cause my cosmic pessimism leads me to think that you are now out of time, even if nobody wants to say, and a bit' because I fear that the reporting of the trail are removed before we passed. True, there are the marks of paint, but ...
rising again in the company of my bad mood. Dirt road, with a slope not too demanding. We look around to see where you are going to pass: the graph altimetry, now should not expect more long climbs or binding. I see a hill on my right, silhouettes of people moving in cresta; sarà forse lì? A quanto pare, no; passiamo in mezzo ad un alpeggio, poi lungo un sentierino in mezzo all'erba che taglia il tornante, infine pieghiamo decisi verso sinistra, ancora sulla strada. C'è una piccola truppa con noi, almeno una decina di persone. La strada fa una sella, Col des Salauces, e riprende a scendere. Di umore sempre più cupo, continuo a brontolare, stizzita, mi lagno del male alla caviglia, provocando le ire di Giorgio, a stento represse. Poi mi scatta la molla: e va bene, vuoi che corriamo? Allora corriamo, e mò son cavoli tuoi. Sento le gambe ancora inspiegabilmente sciolte e me ne stupisco moltissimo io stessa; mi lancio in una bella galoppata, appena frenata da un minimo di attenzione for holes, rocks and irregularities of the road, so I almost think I groped for the passing of the big group. But it is better to go downhill, I avoid the bullies. In fact, the road goes to converge on a path, nothing terrible, but that makes me lose a bit 'of soil over the fugitives. Narrow path, halfway up, up and down among the rhododendrons. I see on the right side of a hill, high above us: there are people up there ... Want to see who is there, our destination? George argues that it is not possible, which is too high. Um, we'll see. For now, it seems that he is right, we're going down a lot and in the opposite direction. With much weeping and gnashing of teeth, another heap of stones: short, thankfully, but enough to put me in excitement and make me lose more land. In addition to not understand how I can stand, I can not even see the direction ... Reminds me of the cry of George, the trail turns hard right and starts uphill. And that climb. The attack with the fury of my bad mood. I reach in a walking group that goes slow, too slow: rest a bit 'behind, frying, then I throw, I try, I cut a hairpin bend and fail the entire column. Forza Italy, "says someone ... From then on, I put the soul at risk of a cuddly, with the heart that hits you in the head and lungs that do not have more room to let in air. "Heck if you go," George snorts ... As if he had threw gasoline on the fire. Over the pass in a moment, and thank goodness. Col de la Pierre large, the altimeter altitude 2,400 seconds of my pops. From here on, a long ride under a sun that seems to restore its domination, and in an environment that looks more like that of the Riviera: missing only the scent of the sea. White stone, limestone, crumbly and dug everywhere, the path runs in the middle of pinnacles and deep holes, cracks, splits, with some passing and some delicate glance a bit 'too exposed for my taste, the valley . George is excited, he runs and jumps like a grasshopper, it disappears behind the rocks, then I wait and run in again. Yes, it is true, it's beautiful here ... But, chissà quale assurdo meccanismo del mio neurone ormai in tilt, non l'ammetto, apposta per non dar ragione a quello che, in questo momento, è il capro espiatorio delle mie paturnie. Certo che quella pietraia mi ha proprio guastato la giornata... Molto suggestivo, panoramico, questo tratto, però sale, scende, sale, scende... Basta, per pietà, che qui si prenda una decisione! O su, o giù, ma facciamo una scelta...
Giù, per fortuna, dopo un tempo ed una distanza interminabili. Di corsa, su un tratto di sentiero più riparato, fino al bivio tra i percorsi lungo, il nostro, e breve, quello da 30 km. "Dobbiamo salire ancora a 2.300 m", annuncia il mio tormento: "Corri, che i Francesi sono already behind "... I'd like to pull his stick between his legs, nothing but run. I'm weak and no longer wanted: one of those depths of sadness when I fall from time to time, when things differently than I dare to go I would like. But who cares if the French take over there! The temptation is to do a whim, planted here and not move more ...
Fortunately, he soon reached the final climb. With a capital S, a steep ramp from up using tree roots as steps. Tifo a huge group of hikers belly. More or less back is like a perch: a few, frantic dinuovo meters and we go out into the open, out of the woods, with views over the valley on one side and on the other. George is there, a little before, is left to achieve. Sharp hairpins, ANTICIMA, but it is not over yet. I run into one of the famous faces Italian, sitting on a rock: strange, he is one that spins ... If you are here means that is not well. Confirms it for me, in fact. It will be the fault of the sun, all of a sudden trial was put over our heads to beat bad. I can not help but leave the gel in my pocket, maybe a good dose of sugar to remedy ailments. I, too, attack, once again, to Borraccetti honey. Of the French behind, no trace: I know that these companies put up a safe distance between us and them, although they are almost certain riacchiapperanno us down.
Dent du Villard, elevation 2,200, last summit. Hence, an infinite descent, all to run: first on the trail, narrow and wide, then on a dirt road. Running, running, running, chasing the last refreshment. The trail crosses the slope with long stretches in a zig zag, diving into the woods, always offering an area of \u200b\u200bsoft ground and without stones, roots or other obstacles do not seem real ... Down, down, down in the valley, a precipice, there is the lake of La Rosiere, a beautiful patch of emerald green. That 's where we get: an abyss ... George runs non-stop, I follow him with his legs in good condition but will now run out. There should never be convincere di essere quasi alla fine, perché gli ultimi km hanno sempre il brutto vizio di dilatarsi a dismisura. Dall'altro versante della valle, vediamo già le prime propaggini di Courchevel 1850; la nostra meta, però, sta a quota 1300...
Ad un tornante, una tizia in tenuta da corsa sta strappando e raccogliendo le fettucce bianche e rosse. Al nostro passaggio, quasi ci aggredisce; ci ripete più volte, in francese, urlando: "Siete fuori gara! Fuori gara!". Comincio a pensare che un minimo di coordinazione in più, tra gli addetti all'assistenza, non guasterebbe... In ogni caso, ormai siamo quasi alla fine; in gara o fuori gara, si continua, se possibile con rinnovata foga. Giorgio non risparmia epiteti unflattering at the gentle lady, I'd rather give it the benefit of the doubt, maybe she was passed that information and most do not know.
From the path to the road, picked up again a fugitive, tired-looking lot. Then, finally, we reach the coveted shore of the lake and the even more coveted resting spot. Even here, our passage is regularly found, indeed, the volunteers also encourage us: "It was only 5 km, all downhill." But a bit 'of Coke and a few bites we are the same. The news of those who send upside down my bad mood now, yes that is done ... George is electric as if he had just stuck two fingers in the socket. "Five miles, three quarters of an hour and there we are," gloats. Quiet, finch ... I learned on my skin when I hear "all downhill," first port, metaphorically of course, the hands of the family jewels, and then I should refuse to believe even for a moment. Indeed. The road continues along the river and passes under a climbing wall system, we can walk in a slalom between famigiole, older children and dogs away from my path, because I swear that overwhelms everyone! But the free ride does not last, although the last three kilometers are ups and downs: the commitment required, if you will, is ridiculous, but now the only desire is to arrive, and that damn bow moves away more ... Corricchiando and walking, we reach the homes of Courchevel 1300. Last rampetta, almost insignificant, in the meadow: escapes me right in the heart, an unkind epithet address of the person who created the path ... But this time it's really over, We come out on the edge of the pond in the country. "I swim, just to shorten the distance, look, disconsolately. Still half ride on the lake, then the playing field: we have, finally, a few seconds after the hour of eleven and a half hours and a lot of time, but much better than any expectations. The time to drink and nibble something, in a tent too hot, noisy and crowded it is in the process of awarding the winner, Dawa Sherpa, a random ... Then off to the car and shower. Happy now. But now, I have to face a trial worse the long muzzle of my traveling companion. I should remember that not everyone is as good Matthew, who knows me, I stand and has learned to curb my tantrums, or perhaps simply not caring. Does anyone remember, and if you offend the league on his finger ... And sooner or later I will retaliate!
