An old Opel Corsa in the middle of the square, a door opened and a foot, shod in beach sandal that sticks out, lazily leaning against the asphalt. And 'the disturbing image that appears in the eyes of motorists, a quarter to midnight on a Wednesday in late August, watch and pass along the street in front of the hospital in Pinerolo. All that is attached to the foot is collapsed down on the driver's seat, rincitrullito for barely two hours of sleep, busy hacking away on the keys of the car. Yes: the Opel, the birthday of his duecentocinquantamillesimo km, has received a gift of no less than the car stereo install done on purpose for this very long journey.
a few minutes to midnight, in the dim and yellow light of street lamps, there is an unknown form of self-moving object, which, as it draws near, takes the form of a large travel bag. Under the bag, another shady characters, in shorts and short sleeves. After a few moments, the bag is well embedded in the trunk and the shady characters on the passenger seat. Destination in just over eight hundred kilometers: Vielle Aure, Pyrenees.
Poor Aldo. Victim, who was also, my strong sense of democracy: that's great to share the journey ... But as we start and when I want. Well, let's say I did not use these exact words, but the gist is stato questo. Il fatto è che odio perdere tempo inutilmente: se il programma della gara prevede che io ritiri il pettorale giovedì 26 agosto entro le ore 17, mi pare sufficiente calcolare qualche ora di margine per eventuali intoppi, prevedibilissimi in una trasferta così lunga, ma non di più. Così, la giornata di oggi se n'è andata con sveglia alle 5, giro in bici e sgobbata in ufficio, ancora in tempo di ferie, per sistemare un po' di lavoro arretrato; due ore di nanna e via. Le lancette dell'orologio hanno appena traslocato nel giovedì, quando il rombo della Opel, o meglio il pianto disperato per il maltrattamento di marce e frizione, squarcia la quiete notturna della Val Chisone. Sestriere, Monginevro, Briançon, Gap, Aix en Provence, Arles, Nimes, Montpellier, Narbonne, Carcassonne, Toulouse e poi direzione Tarbes ma uscita n. 16, Lannemezan. Ormai me lo sono stampato in testa, l'itinerario, ma, se non bastasse, c'è persino la carta stradale. Viaggio infinito ed un po' folle, con il tormento del sonno ed il conforto della radio e di qualche sosta in autogrill: non posso certo pretendere compagnia dal mio frastornatissimo compagno di viaggio... Ore e ore di buio delirante, fino ad una splendida alba che ci sorprende nei paraggi del Mont Ventoux; grandi pianure, vento, un po' di caos e giri a vuoto a Tolouse e finalmente le montagne: non le nostre Alpi; più basse, tonde, più verdi, ma allo stesso modo stupende. I Pirenei.
I spent a few years ago, in the area of \u200b\u200bLourdes, ten days of vacation, not for religious purposes, in spite of the place, but for cycling tourism: remember wonderful places although terribly humid. Well remembered today, in addition, it houses a remarkably warm day, a light and a violent wind that sweeps over the beautiful sky. Opel still trots on the road to the valley of Vielle Aure and will pass over a tunnel to Spain, through fairy-tale villages, a postcard of the Swiss landscape, green meadows and woods and ordered, with the houses very high roof, made of small tiles and dark, perhaps slate fences and horses everywhere, and many, many cyclists. Of resto, questo è il regno dei più bei colli del ciclismo francese, Aspin, Peyresourde, Tourmalet, su cui anch'io ho già portato i miei pedali. Poco più di dieci ore di viaggio e siamo già qui: nonostante il mal di testa feroce, nonostante il caldo e la stanchezza, butto l'occhio alle vetrine delle panetterie. Sarebbe forte, la tentazione... Ma non sia mai: prima il dovere, cioè il ritiro dei numeri di gara e la caccia allo chalet in cui ho prenotato un paio di letti in camerone, per questa notte.
Km dopo km su per questa splendida valle, Aldo ed io siamo sempre più affascinati. Non m'era mai successo, che io ricordi, di sentire così forte ed improvvisa la voglia di trasferirmi a vivere in un luogo other than that where I live, yet it is this strong feeling that I feel at this time. Shame to have to keep an eye on road signs and directions. A Vielle Aure, both sported a grin of joy, from ear to ear. One would expect a large pit to collect race of a race from one thousand five hundred members instead, Opel sits comfortably on the lawn, in front of the tent where a group of very polite and smiling volunteers to check bags and race numbers with the delivery both chips, or "Mapuche", as they call it here. And even here, millemila km from the native soil, luck has it that it comes across a group of fellow-well-known, two more than the legendary Bologna Liguria adoption, Mark.
Here we are again at the top, looking at the Chalet Lou Rider: St Lary Soulan, "suivre St Lary 1900 - Espiaube," reads the website. We climb along a beautiful rose just above Vielle Aure, a huge highway, with slopes from biking, we pass the village of Soulan and finally reach the chalet, the last bastion at the foot of the ski slopes, bathed in the sun, with breathtaking views over 'valley. We are lucky as a first-mover in the garret we have free choice on the six available beds. So I can earn the most secretly pinched between the wall and the slope of the roof. I gotta be in some sort of animal instinct I do prefer, for sleeping, the seats closest to the corners and walls ... Time for a quick lunch in the sun raging on the wooden terrace of the chalet: then, at the dawn of two in the afternoon, unconscious on the bed comfortable. I
coma much later, in time to back down in Vielle Aure to hand over two bags to be supplied to two of the checkpoints and rest, respectively Villelongue, km 73, and Luz Saint Sauveur, Km 119 . It took me two complete changes, mesh tank top pants and socks, plus a few bar and some dried fruit as a spare bag. Caliamo downstream for the pasta party: quick dinner of pasta, cheese, bread, potato salad and un'ottima fetta di torta alle mele. E qui, l'unica rimostranza che potrei muovere agli organizzatori del trail: santo cielo, la pasta... Un ammasso informe, colloso e senza sale! Va bé che, con la fame che ho, potrei mangiare anche i sassi... Ma l'anno prossimo mi porto dall'Italia un vagone di pasta come si deve ed un esercito di cuochi!
Alla luce calda di uno splendido tramonto, che qui arriva un po' più tardi rispetto a casa, Aldo ed io torniamo su allo chalet. Penso e ripenso al profilo del percorso: ebbene sì, questa volta ci sono caduta anch'io; per la prima volta nella mia carriera podistica, ho stampato e persino accuratamente studiato e pasticciato l'itinerario di gara, con l'indicazione dei punti di passaggio, of refreshment, the kilometers progressive altimetry. The fact is that the race of 160 km and 9,400 m in altitude are scared too. Distance and difference that I've never dealt with all at once: I tried last year, the Ultra Trail of Mont Blanc, but everything went to hell ... Maximum hours later and gates are my nightmare. Five long climbs, well over a thousand meters of altitude difference to be precise, 1400, 1700, 1600, 1000 and 1800, plus some short ascents, three, four hundred meters, at least one night to spend in travel, if not two. One positive note: the weather seems favorable, warm and no rain. In any case, the agitation does not prevent me from collapsing, barely touched the mattress, tra le braccia di Morfeo; non prima, però, di raccogliermi qualche istante in contemplazione estatica dell'ultimo arrivato nel camerone, un gran bel fanciullo francese dal fisico asciutto e muscoloso, gli occhi chiari ed i capelli castani lunghi. Pensieri inconfessabili, soprattutto alla vigilia di un ultra trail, che affondano tristemente nel sonno più profondo.
Sveglia dopo poco più di sei ore di sonno: rispetto alle due della notte precedente, è già un lusso; aggiunte alle tre o quattro del pomeriggio di ieri, poi, ce c'è da vendere e da appendere. La notte è stata breve, ma ristoratrice; in questo splendido posto, poi, non si sente nemmeno il minimo rumore. Non che ci sia molto da fare: vestirsi, take advantage of breakfast, tasty and plentiful, prepared by the gentle owner of the premises already at three, and away you go, destination Vielle Aure, under a starry sky that more can not be with the comfort of a very welcome warmth. Together with me and Aldo in the car, a French rider who takes advantage of the passage not to force the wife and baby too early rising. Who would have thought that even here, at least five hundred feet above the village high street, we met many of my colleagues?
With my proverbial mountain flying skills, I create a long queue behind the Opel: if nothing else, give it to those who follow me the opportunity to admire the lights of the quiet valley. Down in the country, there are no parking problems: a few moments later, we're away, ready and trampling. The latest recommendations of the organization, screaming into the microphone: it seems that we can find strong winds to the Pic du Midi. Then, the sound of a lively and rhythmic music, including greetings and exhortations of the spectators, at five o'clock, we go.
The climb begins, sweet dessert, immediately. A little over a mile of paved road and we are in the home of Vignec, where he began a stretch of dirt road in the thick of the forest. One hundred and sixty km in front of me, yet they are already tense and agitated. Quiet, Gian ... The road, in view of the front, it becomes sometimes winding path that cuts through the plant. Often encountered a barbed wire fence, passed over by a disturbing wooden ladder: Every time you form a little 'tail, but here no paws, we talk and they are left waiting patiently. With slopes so far nothing prohibitive, then we cross a stream and you come out on the asphalt road, just that yesterday, the Opel has climbed to reach the chalet. In fact, just in front of the house, the race you enter and leave the asphalt road on the slopes. Here, yes, you climb in earnest, folded in two on the poles, or with hands on knees, to whom - whitefly - has decided to do without telescopic aid. Attack, just before the rears off, my food supplies today to say the least exaggerated: out the first banana. The terrible past nine days of leave without interruption or cycling on the pedals, I was left with a few pounds less and atavistic hunger: well, to avoid suffering, I take precautions, too.
The slope of the track is merciless: a cold wind blows and violent, the more violent the more it goes up. If there s'inciampasse here, there would be no problem, no it would fall face down. Ensure the gusts, straight face, to keep us up. The first goal, the Col des Portets comes after about twelve miles and one thousand four hundred meters in altitude that, on balance, I can not say that I have suffered, the sky is wonderfully clear. Restaurant on the square of Merlans, in the middle of the tracks, the first point of comfort, wind-swept. What they see my gloomy eyes: dozens, but I say, hundreds of bottles of Coca Cola! I full of Coke and chocolate, a few moments to make sure it not to freeze, then away again, to pound on the sticks. Still runs, for a short slope, just over a hundred meters to the "Haute Teleski" From there, a hint of descent and then a slope, sweet, in a wonderful panorama of greenery and lakes shaken by the wind. The cameras here are put to the test of strength, not counting the runners who, alone or in small groups, beyond the trail to photograph and be photographed. I think with a little 'to my regret coffee, stayed home: it is the second in a short time, which makes the spirit ... I'm tired of buying items that do not last a pipe!
Flowers, grass and rocks round stained green, the atmosphere is quiet, almost as far from any idea of \u200b\u200bcompetitive spirit. To 2,500-odd meters of the Col de Bastanet, with a view hardly surprising figure on the Pic du Midi and the long white tower that stands at the top, followed by a long and difficult descent, largely on Pietroni this is where I begin to realize that, for me, this course will be very slow. Where most of my colleagues jumping from rock to rock, with great nonchalance, I take forever to focus support Next, point the fingers move with caution and one foot after another. Matthew says that the jump is the intermediate state between a state of equilibrium and the other: indeed, without doubt, the problem is that, sometimes, between the two equilibrium states, there is also a thud ... I can rarely raising his eyes and look around, to enjoy the profusion of flowers and small pools of water springing up in every clearing. I get off and stumble all the time, to the largest of the lakes, beautiful and deep, around which the race is a great ride, one of the first pine trees that can share their lives. The trail runs a few yards further up the water surface, agitated by the wind a bit 'less angry, up to a hut and dam: a show of a beauty almost touching. Lac de Gréziolles: a follow long descent to the ground as soon as practicable, in the woods, to a beautiful grand waterfall. The path then joins a dirt road that slips into a group of houses: huge cheering tourists and families following the race, and point of comfort, housed in an enclosed space, with plenty of Coca Cola and various edible kinds. I'd say we're in a hurry, the first bowl of hot soup with noodles. Gulp everything in seconds, not to waste time, go, go, it's time to climb the Pic du Midi.
Although I try to bite the brake, I have the temptation to go for the legs, as can run my corpaccione uphill. A ramp leads me in the meadow high above the houses of Artigues, on a dirt road in the middle of the pastures. At the bottom of the valley, which first narrows and then open up a huge green pasture, there it is, the Pic, wonderful, impressive, a shovel of rock structures with white on top of the Observatory. Looking at it from down here, one wonders how you can climb up there by step, without ropes and harnesses, a little 'patience and I'll find out. Overtaking a bit 'of colleagues who proceed with more caution, until the bridge over the stream. The merciless sun beats down, it's hot, what's better than a refreshing face sticky with sweat? Said, done: go down next to the bridge, I bend and hey presto, the road book slips from the pocket of the backpack and ends in the bathroom. It must be his fate, that the schedule of races and I did not get along. Fortunately, providential intervention, across the bridge, the tip of the stick of a French colleague. Incredible: my papyrus, well-sealed in a plastic bag, he has not even damp. The recovery, thank you, I resume the long march, now on a long path up the valley on the left side. Few trees, green pastures only available to well-fed cows from the uniform coat, clear. In the distance, the fog seems to want to jump the ropes and roll along the slopes: in fact, il tratto di sentiero più ripido, a tornantini rocciosi e coperti di sfasciumi, è immerso in una nuvola umida e bianca, che sembra messa lì apposta per la coreografia. Infatti, quando già ho perso le speranze di veder qualcosa, ecco che la nebbia si dirada e lascia intravedere, definita a poco a poco, a picco sopra la mia testa, la mole rocciosa del Pic, e la cabina della funivia con i fili che sembrano dissolversi nel nulla. Il bianco dell'osservatorio che spicca netto nell'azzurro limpidissimo del cielo; una luce violenta e calda che esalta i colori, quelli naturali dell'erba e della roccia e quelli ben più accesi delle divise dei corridori. Uno spettacolo che mi lascia senza fiato ben più delle rampe della salita e mi mette una gran voglia di spronare i garretti... Ma direi che, per il momento, non è il caso; conviene piuttosto fare una breve pausa al Col de Sencours, località ahimé, a quanto pare, raggiungibile in auto, a giudicare dalla quantità di merenderos assiepati quassù. Tracanno un numero imprecisato di bicchieri di Coca: un gran bel volontario mi spiega, in ottimo inglese, che qualche metro più in là c'è anche un tavolo con qualcosa di solido da mettere sotto i denti. Più tardi: prima, la salita al Pic. L'itinerario prevede il passaggio in cima ed il ritorno al colle: infatti, qui ci si immette sulla strada sterrata, bianca di sabbia e sole, che va su a tornanti; l'affronto in salita mentre, in senso contrario, scendono in a gallop, the fastest runners. Greetings and mutual encouragement abound. From time to time, get up your nose: it seems impossible that, from the hill to the summit, there are still five hundred feet of elevation gain and yet, I must admit, curve after curve, the tower of the Observatory is always there, stubbornly at the same distance from me. I scan the outlines of who runs toward me, looking for a familiar face: the individual, in fact, back in the gray shirt and cap worn backwards. E 'Aldo, far faster than me, which has already passed the transition to the summit. C'incrociamo and we salute you, no longer see him until after the finish line.
The dirt road eventually turns into a path traced su pietraia e frequentatissimo, non solo dai corridori, ma anche da una gran quantità di turisti di ogni foggia, equipaggiamento, età. Qui, sorpassi ed incroci sono un po' più traumatici, ma in fondo non c'è fretta. O forse sì... Passaggio velocissimo in vetta, per il controllo elettronico, e poi giù, via veloce, verso il mare di nuvole che nasconde la pianura e consente il passaggio solo alle vette più alte. Uno spettacolo che meriterebbe di essere ammirato con calma, seduti su una roccia... Ma non c'è tempo. Picchiata, si fa per dire, verso il Col de Sencours, ma senza correre, mai, nemmeno sulla strada sterrata. Un messaggio a Matteo, oggi impegnato nella trasferta verso Chamonix per la partenza dell'Ultra Trail of the White: "I have about three hours ahead of time on the gate, but now, down, do I calm down." So true that, for the urge to go, the Hill still take advantage of the generous profusion of Coca Cola, but disdain the eating place and sketch away. Dirt road, trail, still some way; how to bite also plenty of miles with the wheels of mountain bike you get, if you wish, almost on top of the Pic, pedal!
chewing mouthfuls of cheese, I follow the downhill through meadows and ponds. Countless lakes. Now that the wind, already threatened on the Pic, has at last ceased, the placid lakes reflecting the tops of clouds and a mustache, climbing along the higher slopes. According i miei calcoli, è il momento delle quattro brevi salite in successione. La prima, quasi impercettibile, mi porta a scollinare i 2.300 m del Col de La Bonida. La seconda, già più impegnativa, è una ripida rampa che schizza su contro il cielo; benché io senta già le gambe un po' indurite, non riesco ad essere razionale: alle spalle ho un gruppo di inseguitori e non posso proprio ammettere che mi sorpassino in salita... Al Col d'Aoube, km 48, arrivo con il fiatone ed un certo mal di testa. Quasi tutti i miei colleghi, in vetta alle salite, si fermano, si riposano, brandiscono le macchine fotografiche; io non alzo, a momenti, nemmeno lo sguardo... Poi, in discesa, gli inseguitori mi fanno mangiar la polvere, ma a quel punto it no longer has any importance. Lakes, meadows, rocks, nothing else around, seems really to be lost in an enchanted world, with the afternoon light ever longer and warmer, enveloping. Another hill, Col de Bareilles, altitude 2200: an anxious glance at the road book ... But what is missing in Villelongue? The legs are more tired, cool off the enthusiasm of the climb to the Pic du Midi, the long march without a real goal is more suggestive stressful to the muscles and heart. The start is still too close and the goal is terribly far away ... The goal. We must think, Gian. For now, your ride ends at Villelongue. There, you stop, you change, you rest a moment, Please do not make nonsense of the restart with the rush. Luckily, by regulation, you are still forced to withdraw the bag that you deposited. So at least you do not jumping in head strange ideas. But that pain in the legs, feet, tiredness ... that Come on, that the ankle, wrapped in elastic anklet for now seems to hold. You have a pebble in your shoe ... Not'll never make it. No, no, it's useless, you have no hope, and then you have exaggerated in the first few miles, you gave too much ...
"never run, but you have a good rhythm," says a French rider behind me. Now, with the French, I can almost get away with saying, at least for calls to sports-themed, after all, today there is almost no other way to do Talk: English is a rare commodity ... It 's true, never run: by choice but by necessity. My forces are certainly not such as to allow me to exploit speed, more challenging and the longest course I've ever ventured into: if I want to cultivate a faint hope of getting to the end, I sip energy. And then, my legs are just not to love the change of pace. If I try to walk a few steps on the run, I feel as stiff as a cod, I have no joints, I have pieces of wood. "Yes - I confirm - I do not run, but usually I can maintain a pace more or less constant from beginning to end." Such a statement is a gamble: they are not at all some of what I said about this race ... I say to convince myself. The likeable Frenchman told me to be waiting for a friend, an excellent runner with time around 2h 30 'about 42 km: the wretch, however, has the sin of presumption, arguing a position such as "can not be that difficult march 4 km / h for a long time. " Thus, the poor marathon was writing authority, despite himself, at the first trail of his life, and that trail. Needless to say, at this moment, is the spitting blood and cursing, a few hundred yards farther back, while my companion shall call him hilarious and makes a loud voice: "Hey Jack, come on ... Songs in multiple languages, the worst of the worst! I'll put myself: "Come on, I takes it all in quest'andatura, if you're with me, come to the end." More and more daring, too, in my hopes. But the marathon runner, who has since struggled for short distance, he says, in a tone that does not allow replies: "No no, this is hell, I stop to Villelongue.
Extension near the Lac d'Ourrec, disturbing the grazing of a group of beautiful horses from the mantle and light brown almost blonde mane and tail, are enormous and Paciosi moving toward the water. Behold, these four words have been enough to give me back some laughter and good humor, even at the expense of a fellow victim of his own adventure excessive confidence. Moreover, the poor if the marathon is really looking for! I imagine the satisfaction of his friend sly ... Start here last, gentle slope before the great refreshment of Villelongue, a path that takes off in the grass with a few turns. The affront to a great career, picking up a bit 'of fugitives: look down from above, the lake, and I recognize there the nice French red jacket. Top of the hill in the fog, which came up here, with almost one thousand nine hundred meters from the name of a hill complicated, Horquette of Ouscuoau. The first part of the descent is almost blind, fortunately, the trail is well marked and fluorescent balises are almost superfluous. It's cold, because now it is evening. I close the zip vest, pulled up his sleeves. Umidissima two hundred yards walk down here is the ski resort of Hautacam, a reproach, but warm and cozy. Get there in a good mood: Coca Cola at will, even here, and chocolate. The tummy is a bit 'in turmoil, I do not know whether to physiological needs or because their food is not Orthodox, but there is no time now, the rest will be Villelongue, period. I catapult out of the building: cross for the third time that day, good Mark, as always, proceeds with a smile. Short slope on the ski slopes: to follow, eleven hundred meters from yarn to leave behind, or rather above his head, Villelongue destination. Just over ten miles, part on the path, part dirt road in the middle of a dense beech forest, which barely leaves filter the slanting rays of evening sun. I'm tired, I feel like a break, but I can not help but appreciate and feel happy to be here. Water, cut and stacked logs, the scent of wood and further down, the first houses, neat, tidy: it seems that everything has been freshly refurbished, before the passage of the race ... The lights always seem up area at the same distance, and the growing fatigue, exacerbated by the desire to get there. The dirt road, slightly downhill, the race would be very favorable, but there's no way, I try, I move a few steps, but the legs are too hard. Moreover, those few colleagues who occasionally feel not get behind a pace much more lively than mine.
Cut the last dive down winding road to gut the dark in the middle of the vegetation of the rest, so they want the balises. And the lights They're coming up area not ever, ever. We cross a township, there are people sitting around the table to listen to music and eat we go down again, and again. Almost can not believe it when, finally, I can see the roofs of houses from below. I throw the eye by chance in a lighted window, a woman dries the dishes with a cloth. It 's almost dark, could be nine or so. Our thoughts turn to Matthew, who started a couple of hours or so to run the Ultra Trail of Mont Blanc: who knows at what point is ... I do not envy the fate of those who began to run with one hundred and sixty kilometers in front of the toes, like me, but at six-thirty in the afternoon ee. To embark already tired and immediately find yourself in the sight of the night ...
not miss cheering at the restaurant, but I'm so tired I can barely say thank you. A voluntary detect my passage with the usual electronic gadget. Ok, Gian: Now, calm and cool. First, I get my bag, then I detected a corner, out of the room, where crowds, noise and scorching heat in the head would give me a few moments. I sit out on a chair a bit 'precarious utopia, I can remember what you put in this bag ... Ah, yes. A complete change from shorts to pants. And a bit 'of bars, a bit' of dried fruit. Force me to change the calm, give me a solid wash, albeit "in pieces", taking advantage of the bathroom, and then get dressed. It 's wonderful climate of this evening: the vest is the ideal clothing to enjoy the warmth. But even wearing the shirt with long sleeves, albeit slight, for the night. Renewal of the dose of pasta Fissan feet, changing socks, of course. Then comes the turn of pappatoria two pasta dishes, much more appetizing than last night - will be the hungry? - Cheese, chocolate, coffee, nuts, spread in strict order. The night will be long and painful. There is a big mess around me, but I hear distant voices, as if they came from the screen of a TV at low volume. I awakened only when my eyes meet by chance, while sipping a coffee disgusting, the large face of Mark smiling. "I'm starting to take drugs" ... For the night, implied
It 's time to leave, a little' less defeat than I was half an hour ago. Head Light on the skull and well-trodden Voltadvance first pill to quell protests in the bud of the poor ankle. I am leaving behind the confused voices and the lights of the restaurant and I get back, alone, running between parked cars between the houses and along a short stretch of paved road. To avoid the car, the route deviates almost immediately on a steep path. must be the famous "Haute Conduite" mentioned in the road book, in fact, go up next to a zig zag penstock. "It 's just to avoid the stretch of asphalt," explains the French rider who comes behind me, "It' s almost finished already," he adds, while surpassing limps and puff for the unexpected stab in the legs. We come out on the asphalt, higher up, overlooking the lights of the small town, in the beautiful homes just over the top, all with the same design, solid stone walls, long sloping roof and black tiles, we tell each other 's each other, in a curious mixture French, English and Italian, after running and more. A fan at night watching us from the balcony of the house and shows us, providential, the right way, go down the main street of the village, only to abandon it permanently onto a dirt road in the woods. My colleague tells me the tragicomic adventures of the first edition of this race, which was two years ago: it seems that, in Villelongue then, is rumored to inscrutable questions of local political rivalries, the balises are removed for miles and miles, just before the passage of competitors. So, looking up from Villelongue, you could see dozens of little lights wander aimlessly scattered throughout the mountain so that it can also making people smile, but I imagine the bewilderment of the riders, the sorrow and the risk of liability for runners, especially the criminal idiocy of those who had the nice thought. And who knows how fared the unfortunate athlete, it seems, always at the time, has run across one of the few brown bears that inhabit the Pyrenees!
It rises again, falls silent. The lights of the valley, more and more distant, they filter from time to time by the forest, the cone of light illuminates the front of the figures almost monstrous tentacles of trees and leaves. Short stretches of dirt road to the alternate path until the forest disappears and gives way to meadows, until the road in dying skeleton of a summer ski resort. The air is crisp; numerous noises coming from the darkness: whistles that seem to complain, deaf and long lines that put the shivers at the thought of bears. A good group of people walking in my neighborhood, but no blast, if any of them as well share it my fear, not to see. A shot of stick after the other, one foot after another, I proceed now no longer have any sense of time and space, won by quell'intontimento that always comes over me when darkness descends, forcing my view all'angusto space of the circle of light from the front stack. I feel the muscles in the climb, I see pairs of yellow dots around which, as you approach, outlining the corpaccione of a cow, and the lazy chimes is the soundtrack of my journey into nothingness, in the cold. A large bonfire
rips up the monotony of the dark: location de Turon Well, there's a tent in which we welcome very kind of refreshment volunteers. Hot drinks at will, soup and the ubiquitous Coca Cola, and I admit, even here, a short break and some good comfort. Chocolate, especially. Just unusual, the vagaries of the body. Sleepy allotment, up a ramp of earth excavated by the passage of water streams and dotted with puddles and mud, trampled by cattle, a beautiful moon, although no longer full of blue light floods the entire valley. The road bends, suddenly, on the left point in trying to understand where is our next destination, the hill. Sleep is terrible now. I close my eyes for a few moments, walking, I try to think of something real, working, at this or that practice is still pending, the next race, but there's no way. I look around the frantic search for a place to lean a few minutes to sleep, but there is none. The road becomes a path, halfway up, up very slightly, they are so dazed that I can hardly think about the need to put one foot before the other. Shot on a little ', uncertain, and then, I give up and shot me down on the grass, almost sitting against the slope. I close my eyes and open them again because of the chills are sweaty, little dressed and the next two thousand meters of altitude. Hibernation is the least I can accadermi.Mi upward, under the gaze of those who worried about me overtaking grind a little more 'street, but sleep was once again the better, another dip on the wet grass, more minutes of sleep, Another rude awakening. Then, when the road back to earn a slope a bit 'more serious, at last I recover a bit'. But the Col de Contente, altitude 2,100, 90 km mark, I see only the effect of leg muscles, which extend and howl the first signs of descent.
Courage, Gian. Twelve hundred feet down, and never will be. Luckily the moon: even with the new light the front of my ultimate drug dealer Genoa rischierei di dar di matto, a fissare sempre e solo il mio cerchiolino di luce. E meno male che il tracciato, una volta tanto, non sembra terribile. Un semplice sentiero, nemmeno troppo sassoso, a tornantini, che taglia il pendio erboso e scende giù, deciso. A questo punto, ciò che conta è andar giù in fretta, raggiungere il prossimo punto di ristoro, a Cauterets. Ci sono pur sempre otto km da macinare, ma lì saranno quasi cento già messi alle spalle. Non sarà finita, questo no, ma sarà già un buon traguardo intermedio.
Scambio qualche parola con altri insonnoliti concorrenti; tutto, pur di pungolare un po' il neurone. Le gambe sono ancora una volta dure e, come se non bastasse, la pancia s'è rimessa to make the tantrums. That anger ... For some reason, the posters that advertise the big bear trail on time photos of athletes from impeccable physical, they run head-long stride and pristine lands in the sun. Never replicating the wretched, the poor wretch, or in this case, you drag folded in two, one and the dark, and weakened by the superhuman effort of squeezing buttocks. If this continues, an accumulation of lactic acid in the buttocks I do not handle any ... The trouble is that it is cold, the idea scares me to stop it, a beast, in some hidden corner, under cover of darkness. They could see me. I could stumble. Or, more simply, are too dazed to transform the idea of \u200b\u200bstaging a reality. I crawl like an automaton, again and again down the path when it slips into the woods and emerge from the bottom of the black lights that seem urban. Not worth even more worthwhile to deceive ourselves: time, from when you spot you get there, spend entire geological eras. I am confident in the presence of the bath and I'll leave the hocks Cauterets what they want, rather, what they can, the mind is lost in the muffled sounds of the forest, the rustle of leaves stirred by a light wind, and who knows what thoughts. The goal, the final one, is not among them. Rejecting the idea with all my strength, I must not afford, even for a moment, even in a dream, to let me deceive. Sooner or later, incapperò in the mesh size of some gate time and voila, the end of the dream Pyrenees.
almost without my realizing it, his legs now maybe anesthetized to the pain, I find myself to distinguish the shapes of roofs and chimneys among the trees, and soon after, a fund to tread more uniform and consistent than the path . I look up, confused in this country, or at least along its main street, there are only old buildings and magnificent, excellently preserved, massive stone walls, wrought, and wooden doors. All is silent in the dim lamplight, only the central square is alive with great fervor. A staircase gives access to local restaurants. The date back, fortunately, without difficulty, unlike some fellow travel, and I find myself in front of a scene from Dante's inferno: dozens of runners slumped on chairs or on the floor, some lying in his bed half-buried and covered by green military-style, looks dull, staring, reverse heads against the wall, poles and backpacks abandoned the floor. I remain puzzled: Well, basically, your death, life, mea, an apocalyptic scene of this kind is a balm for my morale: after all, I'm not that bad ... Fill the belly, like it or not, and the bottle; usual ritual, hot soup, Coke, chocolate. Sightseeing and go to the toilet, running, in the silence of the main building. Balises guide me through a park and then on to a long, monotonous and bland climb sterrata. E rieccolo, puntuale come un orologio svizzero, il sonno. No, per favore, ce la faccio ancora, non tmi devo addormentare, non devo... Posso sedermi un attimo lì? No lì è troppo umido, lì ci sono le pietre, no, non mi devo fermare, ce la faccio, avanti ancora... La panca che si materializza sul curvone della strada bianca è il definitivo colpo d'ariete che spiana la mia debole resistenza. Andare avanti così non ha alcun senso. Mi siedo, indosso la giacca impermeabile, mi sdraio un po', con lo zaino sotto la testa.
Non ho idea di quanto tempo sia trascorso, quando sento, confusi, passi in avvicinamento, voci sommesse. Non riesco ad aprire gli occhi. Le voci scorrono e si allontanano. Ancora, altri passi, altre voci; attraverso una fessura tra le palpebre, scorgo alcune luci. Dai Gian, fai come Lazzaro. Alzati e cammina. Ma non ce la faccio, non riesco ancora a muovermi, intontita ed infreddolita come sono. Occorre uno sforzo sovrumano di volontà e follia. Alla fine mi siedo, mi levo la giacca, meccanicamente, riprendo la marcia. Testa bassa e camminare. Strada sterrata, qualche scorciatoia su sentiero, ancora strada sterrata. I primissimi cenni dell'alba mi sorprendono ancora lungo la salita: pura poesia... Ma la volgare prosa non tarda a reclamare attenzione, sotto forma di ennesima recrudescenza del mal di pancia. Ormai sono rassegnata: benché alle mie spalle si sia formata la solita fila di colleghi che si lasciano guidare dal mio passo regular, I decide to detour a Brisca, until what remains of darkness gives me a little 'confidentiality. This is the positive side of the dark. The negative, inevitable, is that at night all cats are gray, and ditto all the leaves, so it happens that the careless and sleepy traveler to the mountains does not distinguish a harmless bush of rhododendron from a dangerous bunch of nettles, and we sink the best part of himself with all the enthusiasm of a sense of liberation. Stoicamnte choke a scream that could wake the bear to think of the Pyrenees: Okay, if nothing else, the pain, I will run stronger ...
regain my position, I note with disappointment that, in addition to portacoda sforacchiato, mi ritrovo alle prese con una giornata bigia e nuvolosa. Anzi, peggio, con le nuvole basse che, man mano che salgo, mi avvolgono e mi nascondono il panorama ed il sentiero. Non vorrei ammetterlo, ed infatti non lo ammetto: almeno, finché non raggiungo il cartello che indica il Col de Riou. Lo individuo solo perché, per puro caso, arrivo quasi a sbatterci il naso contro. A questo punto, con la maglietta umida appiccicata alla pelle ed i brividi di freddo, mi arrendo all'evidenza: piove. Sarà forse il vento che sbatte le gocce di nebbia addosso, sarà quel che si vuole, ma l'effetto è il medesimo; piove. Di bene in meglio. Calma, devo stare calma. Adesso mi attende la lunga discesa su Luz Saint Sauveur. Attacco la discesa, on a ski slope with a slight slope, between the metal frames of the lifts with the fog and stuck close to the lenses of his glasses, and beside me, a French competitor who complains of not being able to run: go to step down, just like me. Console yourself, I do not even try. Yet there is someone who can do, do not say a large strides, but at least at a trot ... Soon, under us materialize a square: some patch of color, which, as we get closer, we discover to be cars and campers. Here, too, does not lack the support of family and friends in the wake of many athletes. Brrr, the horror ... The mere thought of having someone waiting for me, which makes the framework for following a manhole, expect and support me, makes me shudder. It would give me great discomfort. For charity could, a thousand times better to make do, always.
The large building, ugly as all ski resorts, which stands in the square there to swallow one of the many steps to the electronic control. Refreshments: the usual script, a few moments for a few sips of Coca Cola, a little 'chocolate, dried fruit, to a full water bottle. Via, I throw them back out, before the warmth of the large room will become too tempting. Outside in the fog, cold. Balises guide me down in the middle of a grassy slope, steep, and then, beyond all logic, invented out of thin air along a path, which cuts a slope even più ripido ed a tratti impressionante. Le scarpe fanno poca presa sull'erba unica; sotto le suole, diverse decine di metri di scivolata, se solo le mie La Sportiva decidessero di giocarmi qualche scherzo da prete. Non sono l'unica, a quanto pare, a camminare sulle uova; c'è chi è addirittura più in difficoltà di me. Guardo la strada asfaltata a tornanti che, finalmente, la nebbia ormai diradata mi permette di individuare: ecco, per evitare uno o due km di asfalto, guarda che razza di giro ci fanno fare. E giù epiteti poco edificanti, all'indirizzo di quell'entità genericamente definita come "loro", gli organizzatori, insomma i responsabili di quest'agonia. Cerco sostegno un po' nei bastoncini, un po' aggrappandomi shrubs; I seem to do the shrimp, a step forward and two steps back. E 'maddening ... But why, why this obsession to avoid the roads at all costs! I understand the love for nature, but the track is not hot, not quicksand, it will not bite ... Increasingly angry, stumble constantly in pursuit of a balise after another. Few here, throw in overtaking.
A dirt road makes me hope for a moment: do you want to see that the ordeal has run ended? Not at all ... The illusion lasts the space of a hairpin. Then we have to another dose of lawn: you run up tufts of long grass, slippery, which hides bumps and irregularities in the soft ground. We even slips between the tops of trees so low that a crawl: again, again and again, without them even see the end, even if you can look over the long slope in front of us. More and more m'inciampo my anger rises, a mixture of fatigue and exasperation, I will not make anything, you can not, damn, when will this nightmare, when did we reach the valley floor ... In this race, the slopes seem to be made on purpose to put a strain on the nerves of the runner, even before his legs. Not so much for the difference, but for the endless alternation of alienating sections of the hillside and fell into a beaten worthy of abseiling, it looks like there will never, ever ... La stanchezza, lì in agguato da tempo, mi rovina addosso a tradimento, e con essa lo sconforto. In un tratto che sembra appena più tollerabile, nelle vicinanze di un gruppo di abitazioni di pastori, impugno il telefono e chiamo Matteo. Ho saputo, nella notte, che l'UTMB è stato annullato, a meno di trenta km dal via, per maltempo, pioggia, neve in cima ai colli e frane; però, non tutto è perduto, per i coraggiosi che in queste ore affollano la Vallée: il mio compagno di sofferenze a distanza mi racconta che è stata organizzata, in fretta e furia, una sorta di gara unica, più breve, con partenza tra una mezz'ora. Un percorso quasi "breve": novanta km... Beh, breve sul serio, per chi s'era predisposto neurons to travel almost twice as much. I feel happy, Matthew, but I can not pretend the same. I'm really sad, worried, I feel your breath on the neck of the gate time, although I do not know what time it is, what is closing time in Luz, and I do not see the road book that I have in my pocket. Do not I'll never ...
The descent over the houses, goes on the trail and dirt road, but even the affectionate cuddle of a group of young Border Collie longer able to pull myself up. I have a headache and feel the strength I leave slowly, inexorably, as if I were a bucket of water with a hole on the bottom. Headache, chills, legs and arms soft. By Gian, is not the time to sell now. Il sole ha riconquistato prepotente il proprio spazio e picchia, imperioso, sulla mia testa. Fa caldo. Cammino, mi sforzo di tenere un buon passo, di non accorgermi che sto per cascare a terra. Inspiro, ma l'aria nei polmoni non entra, non abbastanza; il petto fa male, brucia, il cuore batte all'impazzata. Chilometri, ancora chilometri; le case di Luz sono troppo piccole e lontane. Stai sveglia, Gian, devi stare sveglia. Non devi fermarti, altrimenti è finita sul serio. Ma Luz non arriva più, non arriva più, non arriva più... Precipito in un baratro di sconforto, come un aereo che s'avvita e punta a terra in picchiata. Vorrei piangere, ma non ci riesco, non escono lacrime. Fatico a respirare; ogni passo mi costa uno sforzo immane. The asphalt, the valley floor, my head is spinning. Tall buildings, narrow, constructed between the road and the river, and spas. High, narrow windows, elegant dormers, walking, walking again, there is no sign of relief. The voices echo far away, deafening, and the people of the country welcomes, encourages, applauds, but the volume of voices and noises in the ears is a slap, a blow to bat on that giant drum sore that has become my head. One road, another fork, and another, marching under the scorching sun, my feet hurt, never ends, never ends ...
Salgo with unexpected ease the short flight of steps leading to the point of comfort. A building with large rooms, perhaps a convention center. I look around: there is no great rush. Perhaps because they are all gone already, maybe because it's too late now ... By Gian, so you're here and you can not change things. Retrieving the second bag left at the start, even this time, taking advantage of the toilets, I can give me some semblance of wash, change and mesh tank top, short, to refresh and get back a bit 'honor of the world, including soap, towels and wipes . Ignore the neuron that begs to let it go, ignoring the heart continues to beat wildly and shortness of breath, and I took off her shoes, walk on renewing the layer of paste Fissan. The rider sat next to me asks me to slather on the cream, something similar to mine, on the back. A moment of embarrassment, but I also translated right? No problem to satisfy the request, even if the person in question is more like a bureau of the eighteenth century that George Clooney, however, I would never have misunderstood and go for a maniac in action ... I do my best, with your eyes closed, dreaming of being on foreplay with an exciting performance as co-star Rocco Siffredi, there's no way, the tactile response is more or less the same that is obtained by cleaning the carpet, but so 'is. Besides, I certainly do not look like Sabrina Ferilli, let alone at this time.
A plate of pasta, an incalculable number of glasses of Coca Cola. Then must one do: I take it rucksack, sticks, string, shoelaces. Starting over. But first ... I do or not do? But yes, I do, come on, face reality. I look at my watch, it is late morning. Raids with the look of lines breathless road book: the gate closes at four-thirty in the afternoon ... A grin, unfortunately no longer in thirty-two teeth for a long time, widens from ear to ear and makes even the ride on the back of the ringleaders. But then I'm not going so badly ... But then ... Allocation
ooze joy from every pore, under the hot sun and now friend. But I must not be overwhelmed by the enthusiasm: I still feel the burn chest, the heart beat too fast. Gian calm, do not mess around here. One thing I never happened. Is to me ever again, after a good time to rest, dragging behind these symptoms. Eye. I have before me the longest climb of the day, eighteen hundred feet in altitude yarn, and head in the heat of the sun and furious. Legs and arms are a bit 'shaky: it is like walking on the edge of my energy, a minimum error, a minimum excess, and I'm screwed. I can not afford to make mistakes.
Through the village of Luz, crowded with tourists and holidaymakers at the tables of the bar and a walk before the windows. The route then continues in the midst of a broad meadow, crossed by many streams and a veritable torrent: take the opportunity to immerse arms, and bandana in freezing water, cool slightly 'the neuron. The figure was ahead of me, until recently, in the distance, it is increasingly defined. Shadows court, still air. From the lawn there ripping a dirt road salt, stone steps and pebbles, between the last houses. A powerful jet from the fountain is a great way to cool the entire skull, I get up dripping and smiling, under the eye of the bewildered runners in the meantime I have achieved. The slope here is minimal: I would like to hasten the pace, but the strange sensation of nausea almost suggests to me that it is better to proceed to trial, at least for a while '.
walk parallel to the asphalt road, just across the valley from the river rises to the Col du Tourmalet. How can we forget that road? A few years ago, lagging up those ramps, a few hundred meters from where I am right now. Who would have thought?
fugitive picked up another extension and the separation from my pursuers along the steepest uphill stretch just going to spring up between the houses of the town of Viey. In reality, nor do I pledge myself to let them back, nor do they have the slightest intention to run after me. Now, after more than 120 km of travel, there are no more and no opponents, if it ever existed, and it is not my case, or fellow travelers, each is locked in his own bubble of fatigue, anxiety, sleep, worry.
The road, still dirt, is now continuing with long, mild ups and downs, sometimes enclosed in thick vegetation, sometimes in open slopes and beautiful views of isolated homes. Some rare visitors to walk, some small family engaged in endless picnic, everyone, applause, encouragement. Someone has even lurking just waiting for the runners!
seem to walk forever. Hasten a bit 'up: wind and not too little heart agree, but I'm sick of this interminable agony. Suddenly, the balises indicate crossing the bridge: it goes in the center of the town of Bareges, driving along a stretch of asphalt. Just "quell'asfalto" my heart leaps of cyclist the sight of the sign for "Col du Tourmalet, and some cyclists who are struggling to get up there ... But it falls to me, besides the houses back on the road. I know that there will soon be a point of comfort, now I think I can see the road book without anxiety. I do not know if I can trust myself to the end: there are still about 30 km from here, I would say eighteen hundred feet in altitude. Coca Cola is my desire more intense, even if I drank the last glass is not too long ago. Walking for so long without putting significant drop in his pocket, it makes me anxious. The bright sun beats down on the skull: WATCH, no longer too far away, a group of houses. More than one country, it seems rooms for tourists: in fact, step in front of a bar and a large parking lot. Ski resort, for a change. My numbness is upset by the vehemence of typhus: the occasional tourists and families waiting for the runners, everyone is mitered and hand stripping. But all I want, right now, is the dining gazebo: the individual, at last, and how heavy the last hundred meters. Monitoring and Point Blank: gulp a lot more of the indispensable elixir shameful black frothy, I gorge on chocolate. I should be disgusted at this point, but no, I want to, I would say spasmodic desire, sweet stuff. Mignon also confiscated two tubes of gel sugar: who knows that can not be used later.
exiting the tent, my eye falls on a tender scene, a Border Collie who goes mad with joy the arrival of his human friend. Who knows my love hairy ... It will be at home, sleeping in the shade now. I place myself on the march along the path. I will arrive at the end before darkness falls? Well, I do not know what time it is now. It is not yet time to think at the end. Ma .. Where do all these crazed in panty and chest, which far surpass my career? What the heck is going on? All resurrected? How on earth can this be? There was nobody behind me, until just before the rest ... So my crisis is really that black? Rush into turmoil. I do not care a fig for the ranking, but it scares me to think that the rest of the world is still so perky when I'm sipping forces. Progress has also two women, hailed me, make me the compliment: I still do not understand ... The path joins a dirt road. Nose, I try to assess the direction I just know that we will have to climb a lot, but I can not find the goal. The road then becomes the path, which turns out to be difficult now: all stones, therefore, uncertain steps, uneven steps, a torment for tired legs. By Gian, is the last or nearly so. From time to time, I reach for the air racer with some zombie like me: Yet, I still do not understand ... Salgo, patient, measure the distance and fatigue. When the path hangs seriously, who knows why, I seem to feel better, maybe the idea of \u200b\u200bputting meters in altitude in the soles of my faithful La Sportiva. I reached a spur beat a group of runners, the first than me, looks at his watch, exclaimed in French: "Ten hours into the race." These words lash the neuron, which gradually makes the effort to get back on the move: Ten hours? Ten hours ... The "short" race, the 80-km, would have to leave at five in the morning on Saturday. So ... This explains the mystery! Hope you again and I shall, for a moment, the miracle of the ability to speak correctly in French: "Excuse me ... But you are those of the 80 km race from?". Yes, I own them! Here's why ... Shooting a sigh of relief that moved the masses of the ocean and cloud forcing meteorologists from across Europe to change the forecast for the next fifteen days, it is not a phenomenon of collective resurrection of the competitors of the Ultra is the name of the race by 160 km, no no, those who have surpassed me and I still surpass the participants are so strongly to the so-called "Grand Trail"! They, in the legs, of miles they have "only" sixty and above all do not have a sleepless night in the back. Reinvigorated by good news, after another quick stop to satisfy the whims of a stomach ache that now accompanies me on the shoulder as a corvaccio, increasing the pace, also in view of the beautiful steep ramp that appears before me. A long trail of ants colored slope to the most direct route. Just before the ramp, a mini refreshment water: Fill the bottle, the volunteer says "Oh, the eighth woman." "Yes, Assoreti ... We do a laugh and I go: Ramp to me! It will be the swan song? Dunno, I do not know; tachycardia or not, I'm up here as I like. Skip ahead, especially to competitors of the short race is huge satisfaction, even though I know that I will be overwhelmed in the first few hundred meters of the descent. Beyond the first ramp there is another, and yet another: the hills are never at the point at which they seem ... It does not matter, I'll skip the all, there were a thousand, with ramps. Under the sun a bit 'less angry, cool the 2,400 m Col de Bareges exceeds the fence installed by shepherds with a rush of joy. I have only one desire, at this point: leave behind the last little rise, the last four hundred meters in altitude. And then it's done.
Euphoria, unfortunately, is never a good traveling companion. I make the mistake of deluding myself that the descent is short. I know that you should reach a lake at an altitude of about 1,800 m and from there continue to rise for the last time. So when, after a long stretch of tormenting discesa sugli immancabili pietroni, vedo sotto di me un piccolo specchio d'acqua, ed il sentiero che vi gira attorno, "Ok, ci siamo", sentenzio. Invece no, niente affatto. La discesa continua lungo un tracciato nervoso, tutto sassi, radici, che massacra le gambe e mi costringe a procedere al rallentatore. Ogni passo è una goccia in più nello stillicidio della mia ansia: preoccupazione, sconforto, rabbia, ed i sintomi della stanchezza che, solo sopiti, trovano la strada ideale per travolgermi dinuovo. Un altro lago, ma si continua ad andar giù; intorno a me non c'è più nessuno, forse il grosso dei concorrenti della gara breve è già passato. Solo pini e sassi, sassi e pini, e bosco che non lascia intravedere tracce to walk. It is not possible, it is not possible right now I have to give up ... Do not take it anymore, please, climb ... There is not even a glimmer of rationality in my thoughts tragic, only fear and despair. Who does not know and do not practice the sport of long-term struggle to understand why we can cry for a race: "What an exaggeration, it's just a race ...". But at this moment, the race is all over the world, all life, is the only thing that matters. The arrival at the finish, which for some time dreaming with hardly admit even to myself, is an image that crumbles, is lost in the tears dripping down out of control, while the head is there and there to break your legs, even without more energy, move frantic. Each curve is a hope for what we find later, and each curve is a disappointment because it continues to fall and the sun lower and lower, gently warm the air less. Do not I'll never ...
When the hocks are progressing smoothly now that the neuron will have more control, it happens that I did not expect more: a fork, a group of competing firm. Take the path left and, finally, it begins to rise. Severe pain in the chest, wooden legs, lungs that do not make it any more: the first steps towards the top are an ordeal. Then, slowly, goes a bit 'better, just a little', but it is enough so I can stay on the heels of the French group of racers, who joins a supporter of the family of one of them. I wonder if I should go forward: from riches to rags, a tired answer "No, I just need to follow someone who tells me the rhythm." Filed an initial ramp severe, mild in the path climbs through the woods. We lash a colder wind: my fellow travelers stop to cover, I feel cold, wet shirt clinging to the skin, but I can not stop, no more, I just want to finish. As we marched from the crossroads? A mile, two? Head down, I realize the fog that covers me only when I feel the moist embrace. The visual field has run low drasticamente, ma, per ora, riesco a vedere le balise. Mi annunciano il punto di ristoro vicinissimo: beh, allora provvederò lì a vestirmi. Risaliamo l'ennesima pista da sci, in direzione di un'enorme ombra scura che, qualche passo dopo, prende i contorni di un edificio. Forse di qui siamo già passati, ieri, al primo ristoro: forse, ma non ne sono sicura. Con le forze al lumicino, decido per un'ultima pausa, anche se mancano dodici km alla fine. Una ciotola di brodo caldo, un'ennesima sosta in bagno, poi, come un'automa, riprendo zaino e bastoncini e riparto, ben coperta dalla giacca eppure in preda ai brividi. Risalgo la pista da sci, seguendo più le ombre dei miei colleghi che le balise: non vedo più nulla... Mi attacking the panic of losing my way, not take it anymore, but I groped all out and keep up with someone else with a keener eyesight than mine. Otherwise, they are breaded. Birth of a spontaneous group of three riders, one more disoriented the other: together, arrange a hunting trip to the balise, although the contribution that I can give is more symbolic than anything else. I walk with eyes glued to the shoes of those before me: walk, walk, walk, more or less the same level, always in the middle of pastures and the manure of cattle and horses, for a time that seems endless to me, always stuck providential to my two companions, who understand my difficulty. Exasperation is the only word that comes to mind. There is a nearby dirt road, I saw ... Why 'sti not cursed us go from there? Better than the fog, cold, grazing, manure, rather than the shame of a few kilometers of road, right? I am furious, but I have no time to give vent to anger, I follow the two companions, like a shadow. It does not mention the fog to clear. The two French runners, hitherto locked in an icy silence, they begin to show signs of impatience, this stretch of interminable descent down that would have sapped the strength of the most stoic of competitors. Fog, cold feet, fog, cold feet. I'm exhausted ... By Gian, will end sooner or later. Hardly believe it when I see the thin gray blanket and decided to take the path down. The sun is going down. We run for a few tens of meters along a barbed wire fence: at some point, it almost bend over and crawl cross it. Mud on his hands and knees, but it does not matter, beaten down along a path that almost could be replaced, with little difference, with a pole style fire station. I turn now and then, to check the position of the two gentlemen that I have saved from the fog a bit troubled 'over me, but they are around. Sorry to take advantage of the downhill run away, leaving behind it would be ungrateful and mean. The trouble is that the desire di arrivare travolge tutto: alla vista delle prime luci di Vielle Aure in fondo alla valle, mi sembra d'impazzire... Telefono a mammà ed avviso Matteo mentre rotolo in discesa verso l'abitato di Soulan; nonostante tutto, non riesco a correre. Se prima non lo volevo, adesso non lo posso proprio più fare. Supero le belle case di Soulan, raccolgo ancora qualche applauso; poi giù, a passo veloce e corsetta strascicata, per un breve tratto di asfalto. L'ultima discesa, strada sterrata e sentiero a tratti alterni, è infinita. Mi sforzo di correre, ma non c'è verso; al diavolo, il tempo non mi manca; sforerò un po' le 40 ore, ma il regolamento ne mette a disposizione 50... Parecchi corridori, più volenterosi di me, mi outperform fast, but it does not matter. My pride does not react to injuries in downhill ... No longer responds to anything now. He returns to step on the road already traveled soon after the start I hoped to be able to avoid, but in the end I have to put into action the battery front. The lights of Vielle Aure approach, but too much too slowly ... Way, again and again, only moved more by the desire of the goal, and I can hardly believe it. On asphalt, the final two kilometers, I impose the duty to: take. Piano, pianissimo, with that spark of energy that is the subject of the reserve. It 's dark when we cross the center of a township: more applause, and then the round, finally the last long stretch of road quasi rettilinea. Il volume del tifo sale man mano che ci si avvicina all'arco: i battiti del cuore sono al di fuori di ogni controllo; mi sembra di avere un macigno legato alle spalle; più che correre, mi trascino...
E' un attimo: qualche curva in paese, qualche finestra illuminata, il passaggio tra la folla. L'arco, il mio nome scandito al microfono. E' finita, è davvero finita. 40h 17', settima donna sulle ventiquattro che saranno in tutto classificate. Il tizio del punto acqua non aveva tutti i torti...
Riapro gli occhi, mezza congelata e sepolta nel sacco a pelo e sotto una spessa coperta. Ho dormito con il telefono in mano, dopo la chiamata di Matteo di questa notte. Era preoccupato perché non l'ho avvisato the conclusion of the race: he, his, he finished really well, in 95 th place on over a thousand runners. Aldo still snoring on the cot next to mine. Fully recover consciousness only around eight o'clock, the time for a cup of hot chocolate and just watching, to my dismay, the latest competitors race to 160 km. I can hardly believe it: I've been sleeping all night ... In their way, these athletes are the real heroes! Then, via, car, destination home. The respective mattresses, more than fourteen hours later, with the decision already final, and the desire to return next year to race in the Pyrenees.
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