Fifty-five kilometres into the Chianti Ultra Trail. Seven hours, 46 minutes. I’m hating everything about it. The mud, the hills, my belly screaming for food, myself. I guess I’m in my pain cave. Five more kilometres to the last aid station of today. I want to step out, but a tattoo on my arm is preventing it.
The tattoo consists of two simple words: dig deeper. The last r forms the back leg of a running stickman. Sara, my wife, drew it on my arm the day before yesterday. Especially for moments like this. I know the tattoo will make me go on, although everything in me screams to stop.
I guess that’s why I love this sport. Fighting demons. My own demons. I am not racing anybody here, but myself. My mind, my pain, my darkest thoughts. My demons. I don’t have to prove to anybody I can do this, but to myself. I know I’m my biggest critic.
I used to be a yogi. Well, I still am. Now I’m just a yogi who runs. Runs ultras. Different movement, different challenge. Yet, the game is the same: fighting my negative thoughts. And they are here. Lots of them.
It was on the cards. It was a bumpy ride to get to this race. Or maybe not. It was a smooth ride, with a bumpy end. A very bumpy end. I think that’s the best way to describe it.
All my training sessions since the Three Country Trail have been smooth. Except for a few strength sessions – due to low back problems – I did almost all sessions as planned. Three weeks ago I ran a new personal best on the thirty kilometres. The week before that I ran a new personal best in the half marathon. I felt strong. Good. Ready.
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That’s when things went wrong. Matteo, who was going to be my crew together with Sara, had to have surgery. He had been on a waiting list for three years. The week before the race, he got called up. No driver, no crew. Sara doesn’t drive.
Talking of Sara, she was supposed to run. Last night. The 10 kilometres Wine Run. The organisation didn’t approve her Dutch medical certificate. As an Italian citizen she had to have all kinds of extra medical tests. The organisation only told her this three weeks before the race. Too late to get an appointment for a full medical examination.
Yet, that’s not what makes me feel like shit at this moment. What makes me suffer, is the last problem we had; food poisoning. A week and a half before the race, we went out for lunch with Sara’s parents. They had pasta; we had pizza. They were fine; we threw up for two days and were sick for another two. Four days ago, I had my first meal. That explains why I’m hungry.
Why am I angry? I don’t know. Maybe because I’m disappointed in myself. I hoped to run this Chianti Ultra in ten hours. I’m not going to make it. I kind of knew. Twelve hours is a more realistic time for me, but if you’re good, you’re good. I was. I am not. That pisses me off.
Plus, I’m tired. I hope I’m allowed to. I’ve been running for eight hours. That’s a day’s work. And the finish is still far, far away. Unless I step out at the next aid station. No, giving up is not an option. Dig deeper.
Happy thoughts. I know they are in there somewhere. Remember, after every rough patch, the sun comes out again. Even today. This isn’t my first rough patch. I had a bad moment around kilometre 42. A few kilometres later, I was fine again. Okay, for a moment, but still…
The funny thing is, I enjoyed the first half of this race. I was chatting away. With two other Dutch runners. With some Belgium runners. With a Russian/British girl. Fun chats. Time ticked by fast. Before I knew it, I was halfway. I could count down. So where are those happy feelings?
Maybe I’m just hangry; hungry and angry at the same time. It normally doesn’t happen to me, but I know it very well from Sara. Her stomach dictates her emotions. I think mine is doing it now as well. I’ve been good. I’ve eaten a Naak gel and a waffle every hour. That’s enough carbohydrates to keep me going. Especially if you also take the sports drink into account.
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But gels don’t stop hunger. I missed lunch. Breakfast was ten hours ago, and because of the food poisoning, I don’t have many reserves either. I went pretty fast through all the aid stations. Only at the 50k aid station did I take my time to change my shoes. Yet, I didn’t pick up any solid food. Luckily, the next aid station isn’t far away.
Okay, a chair. Food. That’s all I need. Ham, broth, cake. Coca-Cola. Time to sit. Time to eat. Time to recover. Maybe it’s a good thing Matteo, Giulia, and Sara aren’t here. That would mean a car. A way out. Would I be strong enough to resist? To go on? Do I have a choice now? At the Grand Trail du Saint-Jacques, I had to step out. Torn hamstring. I had no other choice. I couldn’t straighten or bend my leg. Yet, I felt like a loser.
Fifteen kilometres. That’s all. I can do that. That’s from my house to the next village and back. That’s two hours of easy running. Three hours walking. Back home, where we don’t have hills. But still, that isn’t too far. Let’s go.
I’m running again. Not fast, not all the time, but I’m running. Or better said, jogging. Moving. I’m having fun again. I’m in no-man’s-land. Nobody in front of me, nobody behind me. That’s okay. I have a podcast. Entertainment. I tried to listen to music at kilometre 50, but I had no reception. Now I have. It’s a distraction, but it works.
My watch says 73 kilometres. Ten hours, 37 minutes. Seventy-three kilometres was the original distance of this race. Then it became seventy-five. Then 75.9. That’s the funny thing with these races; you never know how long they are until you’ve reached the finish. That finish has to be close. I’ve been circling a village for a while, but I don’t hear anything yet. I don’t see a path to the village. I’m still in vineyards.
Radda. Radda in Chianti. That’s it. I recognise it. This is the street we’ve parked our car on. The steps are ahead of me. Horrible steps. Steep steps. They hurt, but I’m flying up them. The finish is only one street away. I hear the music. The speaker. Sara will be there.
One more corner. There is the arch. There is Sara. Tears. Lots of tears. I don’t know why. They are just flowing. Tiredness? Happiness? Both. I’m here. Back in Radda. I made it. Seventy-five kilometres of mud. Three thousand metres of altitude. Of slipping and sliding. It all belongs to the past. Just like all those negative thoughts. And all those happy moments.
A little kid. My medal. My beautiful medal. A thank you. A tired smile. Oranges. Lots of oranges. I need sugar. I need to drink. I need a shower. I need food. I need … nothing. I need nothing. I’m here. I made it. I fucking made it. I conquered my demons. For now, I know. They will be back at the next race, but so will I. Stronger, better, ready.
But that’s for later. Now, now, I’m allowed to rest.
Photos: Sportograf
