Rebe vs 100km del Passatore

It’s ten to three on a warm afternoon in May and I’m standing behind Florence cathedral leaning over my camera taking a selfie with my fellow companions, Roberto and Salvatore, on this adventure we’re about to embark on. The sky above is a perfect afternoon blue and the runners around me add to the palette with their multitude of coloured shirts. I feel my phone vibrate and it’s my friend calling to say she’s on the other side of the start pen and to go over and say hi before we set off. But I’m too tightly packed in to battle through, so instead I wander over in my mind and find myself on the other side of the pen looking in at all the runners, as I have done so many times in the past.

I wonder how they got to be standing where they are now. What brought them here? Why do they want to do this? Do they know what lies ahead of them, and how are they going to cope with it? How can there be one, let alone thousands of bodies prepared to travel 100km on foot, up hills and mountains and down the other side? A seemingly impossible feat. And not only that, but overnight. All the way to a small town on the other side where a square awaits them with an arch of glory… the finish line, a portal they would cross through from “Can I do this?” to “YES! I can!” Each year as I watched a seed of curiosity would plant within me. One after another after another, until one grew strong enough, and so it was that I found myself there standing among them, this year for the second time.

The temperature is reasonable, around 23 degrees, and somewhat overcast so the conditions are perfect. No rain is forecast, so that’s one worry off my mind. The start gun goes off and slowly the crowd moves forward. I cross the start line and my tension evaporates as we are immediately walking, caught in a series of bottle necks as we wind our way out of the city centre and towards the foothills of Fiesole. This is way more relaxing than a marathon where the goal is to get around the course as fast as possible. This time I just have to get to the end; speed is not an issue. Well, as long as it’s within the 20-hour deadline.

We walk up Fiesole. The road ahead is long and there’s no point exerting too much energy just yet. It’s nice to have the whole road to ourselves and we fill the entire thing as far as I can see. I feel carried along, part of an army of legs marching on, left, right, up and up. I spot quite a few others wearing the same shoes as me. A bright blue pair of Hoka Clifton 10s gifted to me for my birthday. They’re still fairly new and are soft underfoot, and most importantly have plenty of room at the toes which should make my nails happy. Right now only one is black.

Inspired by Salvatore whose watch goes off every 40 minutes to remind him to eat, just before we reach Fiesole I grab a juice from my rucksack and wolf it down, hoping to lighten my load just a teeny bit. It’s true that there are refreshment stations along the way, roughly every 5km, and you can leave a change of clothes at Casaglia, after the top of the mountain at 53km, so technically you don’t need to bring anything with you, but I prefer to be semi self-sufficient and have supplies and extra layers with me. I want to drink when I want to drink and snack when I want to snack. I marvel at those who carry nothing with them and my mind drifts back to a time when I climbed the Stelvio by bike. I’d set off early so I could get a head start and had left my wind breaker with someone else, certain that they would overtake me and give it to me when I got to the top. Well, that didn’t happen. I couldn’t wait at the top as there was an icy wind and the ride down the other side was perishingly grim and cold. Never again. Lesson learned. So backpack it is, but it fits snugly and I barely notice it.

The kilometers tick by and soon enough we’re out of Fiesole and on the up-and-down but mostly up road to Vetta le Croci which marks the top of the first major climb. Running mixed with a bit of walking and all is good. Still not a cloud in the sky. I can’t let myself think of the whole distance and what I’m attempting to do though, so I distract myself by looking at the wildflowers in the borders and people’s outfits. And the way they run. Everyone has their own gait and particular way of moving, and it’s fun to observe and imitate them in my mind to see if it feels easier.

Just before the top of the hill we meet Salvatore’s wife Angela who’s waiting for him. He’s slightly behind, so we wait too. When he arrives, without speaking, they perform a precision maneuver in which she grabs his arm warmers and wind jacket from his backpack and he puts them on before I’ve stopped gawping. I’m impressed. So organized. I feel like a rookie. But I also don’t feel like I need any extra layers right now, so it’s all good.

We glide down the other side and into the shadow of the hill with the warm air against our skin. The landscape has changed. We’re out of the olive groves and cypress trees and into the woods. I’ve travelled this road so often on wheels over the years it’s fun to be running down it carefree and at a slow pace. I think back to last year as we ran this part. There was a woman ahead of us with a soft toy rabbit attached to her backpack, which made me laugh. I guess we all need our mascots. Or rather, I need glasses, as it turned out to be a plastic bag with handles flapping in the wind like rabbit’s ears. And then there was the wild boar that came hurtling out of the hedge in front of us, but it was in fact a woman who’d dashed into the bushes to do her business. Incidentally, this route is not woman-friendly when it comes to doing your business. The options are the hedge, off the side of the mountain like a seagull, or, if you can wait, a bar in one of the few towns the route passes through.

As we come to the bottom of the hill, we round a corner and get our first glimpse of the mountain. There it is laid out before us, a carpet of soft green forest. A twinge of excitement and a sense of awe run through me. That’s where it’s going to go down. I feel like Frodo at the edge of Mordor. There’s no going back. The sun is lower in the sky now but it’s still warm, and as Roberto gets an energy burst and speeds ahead, I continue to plod along and check myself and my energy levels. He waits for me and we draw into Borgo San Lorenzo at roughly the same time as last year. I decide I need to walk a moment to get a honey and pink Himalayan salt gel down me. My faithful buddy, the only gel I can take without consequences, kicks in and I’m ready for the climb.

First glimpse of the mountain ahead

Last year we walked the entire mountain due to Roberto’s lack of training and the fact that I was still recovering from sudden onset anemia. This time we walk the steep initial bit but then start to run, and that feels much better. My mind and body are on board this year.

My friend Laura Gilbert, who has run this race 6 times in the past, passed on the most precious piece of wisdom: change clothes at Ronta, halfway up, and walk the rest of the mountain. We did it last year and it worked a treat as the sun was setting and the temperature dropping, and after getting out of my damp clothes and into a dry top and arm and leg warmers I felt toasty warm and immediately happy. So we do the same this time, as do many others.

As we go through Ronta we pass the house of a man watching from his window. Last year on a training run he’d been at the window with his dog, and we’d stopped to chat and take a picture of the two of them at the window. We saw him again last year during the race, at the window with his dog, and waved up at him, “Hey, remember us?” He did, and he waved. This year he’s there again but no dog, so Roberto yells up, “Hey, remember us from last year?” He does and says, “Wait!!!” He calls to his wife to grab the dog who duly comes to the window and they all wave to us. It has me chuckling all the way up the mountain and into the early hours of the morning.

Man and dog, Ronta

It's dark now and I’m ready to eat. After being disappointed with the food available at the refreshment stations last year we’ve taken the precaution of packing a picnic of mini panini filled with smoked salmon, Philadelphia, cucumber, and lemon slices. Luxury! They’re bite size and make an incredibly satisfying change from the dry biscuits and bread with Nutella available along route. I shove six down the chute and gear myself up to power walk the endless switchbacks to the top.

A long line of twinkling lights in single file leads the way. Each representing a single soul wrapped up in their own journey and thoughts. It’s magical. Once again I’m Frodo, following Gandalf and our merry band of Hobbits into the night.

The rushing sound of the mountain stream to our right creates humidity so we stick closer to the hillside on the left. Eventually the glittering lights of a small town appear through the gaps in the trees as we approach Razzuolo. So wrapped up in my imagination am I that I’m fully expecting to find an inn where we can settle for the night. But I’m jerked back to reality by bright lights and a legion of runners gathering round the refreshment station and bar, and the general bustle of this mountain stop. I fill my water bottle and add more energy powder to it, get out my high-vis gilet for a teeny bit more warmth, and we set off again. No point hanging around as it’s too easy to lose heat. Movement is the best defense against the cold.

It's about another 4 kilometers to the top and the road is getting steep. I start to get slightly anxious as I can feel the first onset of a stitch, and that’s the last thing I need or want right now. I try to breathe deep and relax, but I need something more. I call on Skye, my dog, to come and walk alongside me to calm my mind. She stays for a short while but is tiring, so suggests I call on the eagle instead. Laura’s eagle. She’d summon it during times of crisis on her Passatore, and it would carry her through and out the other side. Now I need it and it comes. It settles in beside me, thigh height, its wings beating steadily beside me and its presence reassuring me that I can do this. My stomach will relax, and I will carry on and complete my journey. Gradually I forget about my body and the eagle soars off, its job done.

“Hey look, it’s the Wax Man from last year!”, says Roberto. I look up and see Doc from Back to the Future. We put some power into our steps and draw up alongside him. Roberto settles in for a chat. Turns out he’s 83 years old and this is his third Passatore. The first one in 2012 he completed in 11 hours, followed by last year in 16 hours. And not only that, but he’s come first in his category in 26 marathons. This is a man to be reckoned with. This year he’s wearing a windproof jacket, an addition to last year’s attire of shorts and a vest which earned him the nickname Wax Man. He must’ve been so cold he’d turned a pale shade of pallid and seemed spectral. But the most striking thing about him now is the way he moves: feet very close to the ground one after the other at a rapid pace, with a slight micro-sway and his arms away from his body like a penguin intent on reaching the water. I name it “The Technique.”

Roberto catches up with me and we chitchat up the remaining slopes, passing an impromptu BBQ offered on the side of the road and being pulled along by the sounds and lights waiting for us at the top. We take the mandatory photo of the “Passo della Colla” sign, pass over the timing carpets and under the inflatable arch and pull off to the side where several runners are swarming around the refreshment station where we can get our first taste of hot broth and a bowl of pasta. I go for the broth but decide to skip the pasta until the next station 5km away. Just then Salvatore appears and his friend accompanying him on a bike fearmongers us into grabbing a bowl of pasta too, saying there won’t be any left by the time we get there. Although I don’t believe him, a quick bite now is welcome all the same.

Before we set off again, I savour this moment. Florence is far behind and seems like a distant memory. I’ve just scaled a mountain on foot, reached the top with all due celebrations, and now, as they say, it’s downhill all the way! But even the downhill presents its challenges. Not only the change in the muscles you’re using, but most pressing of all is the need to soften the pounding that reverberates through your body with each step. I have to find a way to fix this or it’s going to be a very uncomfortable ride. I slip into “Technique” mode, keeping my feet as close to the ground as possible and gliding along instead of running. My back and knees are grateful and I’m free to enjoy the sights. The sights… it’s a big claim in a forest in the pitch black, but our headlights illuminate the tree trunks and it’s so peaceful and pleasant I feel totally removed from time and regular life.

I’m brought back down to earth by Boy George. Loving would be easy if your colours were like my dream… red gold and green, red gold and gree-ee-enn he sings into the still night air. As we descend the mountain he gets louder and louder and my brain, like ET’s finger reaching out to home, connects into my 80s-music-happiness-socket and then I’m flying, in my mind and with my feet, round the curves in the road, past each tree, past fellow travellers, hurtling along to the party in the wood where there’s a table offering snacks and real Coca Cola. I grab some and the song changes to Life is Life and then I know my race is over because I just want to stay there all night letting the waves of musical bliss wash over me and drinking in the happiness. But Roberto, while sympathetic, is having none of it and reminds me we have places to get to. So I spin around, take it all in once more, inhale deeply, and “Technique” my way out of there to our next destination, Belinda Carlisle sending us on our way to the tune of Heaven is Place on Earth.

We round a few more corners and some way below us we see the warm inviting lights of the next small town, Casaglia, at 53km. This is where those brave souls who came without a backpack will find their change of clothes. I feel immensely grateful to have already changed and pass straight on to the food. There is, as I suspected, an abundance of pasta and we dive straight into it. I feel like something warm to drink too but opt for hot tea instead of broth because for some reason the smell of it is not going down well with my stomach.

The road out of the town is very steep, and as we creep down it we come into the first pocket of really chilly air. I keep moving, quietly pray to myself it’s not going to be this cold the whole way. I still have extra layers to put on but hope it won’t be necessary. As we rejoin the main road again it warms up and the gradient becomes more manageable. The next major milestone, Marradi, is 12km away, but I try not to think about that and enjoy each stretch for what it is. It’s still pitch black and there’s no moon, so I focus on what’s ahead of me and on the runners we have passed several times and who have passed us as we each adjust our speeds and walk for short sections, all moving along together but separately.

Up ahead I see the Wax Man. He must not have stopped at Casaglia and just gone straight through. I note his technique is still intact and marvel at his steely resilience. We pass him and drift off down the hillside, taking the curves like a motorcycle and occasionally a short walking break when the “downhill all the way” doesn’t quite pan out.

Before long there’s a sign for Biforco, which is joined to Marradi and means we’re approaching 65km. This feels big and is where Roberto declared last year that he was done running and wanted to walk the rest of the way. I wasn’t too bothered as I wasn’t in the best shape myself, but this year I want to run more and will be pleased to get through this town without any such declaration.

It’s around 1am and I take advantage of finding a bar open and nip in to use the facilities. There’s just one and a man kindly lets me go ahead of him. This is my first time after ten hours on the road and I’m glad I waited for some small semblance of civilization. All done and we get going again. At the refreshment station I don’t feel like eating anything, so grab a drink and borrow Roberto’s power bank to charge my watch which is rapidly running out of juice. I hold the cable pressed into my watch for the next 5 kilometers as we move along at a slow and steady pace. We’re running and I feel peaceful and content.

The road gently undulates and brings us to the refreshment station at 70km. This is where Roberto’s friend Stefano, a fellow appassionato del Passatore, unexpectedly met us last year which gave us a great boost. This time he couldn’t make it, so it’s business as usual. I grab a drink and look around for Roberto. Instead I find Salvatore and we exchange a few words before he sets off. I find Roberto around the side of the tent, sat down. He says he’s sleepy and would like to rest a while, but I’m having none of it and insist he gets up and gets moving. 

For the next ten to fifteen kilometers a sleep crisis descends up on Roberto. I feel mean but I know I have to keep him moving along. Aside from anything it gets too cold to stay still, so I encourage him to keep going and he does. For certain stretches we walk hand in hand so he can close his eyes and doesn’t wander off the road into the ditch. After a while we come to the next refreshment station set up just outside a bar. It’s inviting so we go inside for a short break. There’s a glass of red wine sitting on a table which turns my stomach and I have to move it away. I’m still feeling good, but my ability to get any food down has massively reduced and the sight of alcohol is too much. A few other fellow travellers have also taken refuge inside the bar so we exchange a few words and sympathize with the all too familiar struggles.

Eventually I decide it’s time to move on. No point getting too comfy. We set off again but my back isn’t happy when I try to run a few steps. It has turned into a wooden mast and every step feels like it’s being hammered into the ground. I know what to do: I adopt “The Technique” and am able to move off comfortably.

At the next refreshment station there’s a large piece of cardboard on the ground with a woman curled up sleeping on it. “No!” I tell him. “Don’t even think about it!” So he takes one of the chairs available instead and grabs a few minutes of microsleep while I hover about trying to keep warm. But the cold has got the edge and I have to pull my gloves and poncho out of my backpack. I give my spare poncho to Roberto and we set off like two bin bags blowing in the wind, which has really picked up. I pull up the hood and tie it in place beneath my chin. I now feel like a correspondent reporting from some windy outback in the middle of the night as every movement of my head is accompanied by a crackle. But as long as I keep moving I’m warm, and that is enough.

By this point the pitch has gone out of the black, and in some vague manner I sense the sky is beginning to lighten. “It’s the dawn effect,” claims Roberto, “I always get sleepy at dawn.” And that’s fine, but when he suggests that the roof of the shed we are passing would be a lovely place to catch a few winks I shut him down with an immediate “No!” It’s not that I’m not tired, but more like every cell in my body has switched into flashing and lights blazing “direction Faenza” mode and they won’t rest until I get there. Sleep has literally been banished to a distant memory and I struggle to even relate to the feeling.

After what feels like forever, we come upon another refreshment station where three young and surprisingly perky boys are chopping up apples and lemons for the weary. I grab a slice of apple and Roberto grabs a chair. I immortalize the moment with a photo, and all of a sudden he looks up. “Did you just take a photo?” “Yes,” I reply. And with that, like a snake shedding its skin, he emerges from his slumber, grabs something to drink from the table, and beings to run. It feels amazing. We’re in the race again.

The next beacon on the map is Brisighella. It’s at kilometer 88. We cross over the timing carpets and I veer off to the right and dive into the bar for another pit stop. This time there are two, but the ladies is broken, forcing me to sneak into the men’s where I’m met by a hole in the floor. Ohhhhh noooooooooooo! A hole the floor! I’ve just covered 88km on foot and am now expected to hover over a hole. URK! My thighs quiver with fright and refuse. I have a swift talk with them and tell them that they’re just going to have to get themselves together and do this. “Do not let me down!” I tell them, “as if you do we’re all going down into that hole and may never get out again,” swallowed up by exhaustion. The threat is enough and somehow they hold up. I get out of there and am met by a man shocked to see a woman emerge from the men’s. I exchange his glance with my “Dude, un minimo di comprensione, no?” face.

As we crest the hill and leave Brisighella a golden ball rises directly in front of us. We’ve come through the night. I get a mild out of body experience and feel like a tiny figure on a map that just kept moving in the dark as the planet spun in space. There are just 12 kilometers to go. But the excitement of the ever-shortening distance is somewhat tempered by the interminable stretches of straight road ahead with no end in sight. To get through it we play games like let’s run to that tree, let’s walk 500m and run 1km, and so on. We pass others walking and sometimes they pass us when we stop to walk. I know there’s a rose garden on the left at some point so I keep looking out for that to perk me up. While my mind wanders off a photographer suddenly appears from nowhere and snaps me in a distant trance, no posing for that one!

We come upon the last refreshment station and I grab a couple of raisons and a drink as I can’t stomach anything else. Only 5km to go now. Slowly, slowly the distance closes and I find my rose garden on the left, just before the roundabout where we turn right into the town and to the finish line.

 It’s hard to take it all in. I’m actually here on the last stretch. This road nearly broke me last year, as I had no idea how long it was and upon reaching 99km with still no end in sight I wailed to a passerby,” Signore… when does the road end? …I can’t take it anymore!!!” “Non ne posso piùùùùùùùùùùùùù!”

But this year I know. I know this road never ends. It is insanely long and made up of those invisible extra pieces of land that don’t show on any map and can’t be detected by any measuring instrument, but all the same are snuck into the asphalt to tease you and make it stretch on and on and on. Forever and beyond. Until that is, you gradually see a square shape that resembles a building. And it’s attached to another one, and another, and together they form a block, followed by another block, and then there’s one on each side and you find yourself running between them, towering above you, creating a kind of tunnel that leads you to a set of arches that you are told, but can’t believe, form the edge of the square where you will find a blue inflatable arch that you will run under and then, a short distance head, another smaller square arch with flashing red numbers on it and the word “FINISH” that marks the end of your very long journey. And as you pass under it, as you cross that very small sliver of time-space, it’s hard to contain and suppress the memories of all those hours of training, all the doubts, uncertainty, apprehension, and the hopes and dreams that one day you too would come to know that yes, I can do this.