I had to do it again.

Not because I hadn’t finished before. I’d finished twice. But both times I’d run with someone else, and there was a question nagging away at me that I couldn’t quite shake.

I knew what it was like to travel through the night with a companion. I knew what it was like to joke and laugh together, to share the aches and pains, the dark skies and the long miles. I knew what it was like to run in the glow of someone else’s headlamp, to stop and walk when they could run no more, to hold a hand and guide them through the darkness when sleep threatened to carry them away. I knew what it was like to greet the sunrise together, bargaining your way forward: let’s run to that tree, then walk; now let’s make it to the next one.

It was wonderful, and I wouldn’t change a thing. But there was still a question. What is your time? What can you do when you are left to yourself in the mountains? What are you really capable of? And those were questions I had to answer.

So it was that I found myself once again standing in Piazza Duomo in Florence on a boiling hot Saturday afternoon, waiting for the start of the 100-kilometre journey to Faenza.

The first hot day of the year had chosen race day to arrive. Most of my training had been done in the cool mornings of winter and spring, and I was not remotely prepared for the heat. Still, this wasn’t a marathon. This was an ultra. I could go slowly. It would be fine. At least that was what I told myself.

I found a few familiar faces in the starting pens and chatted while we waited for the gun. Outwardly I was calm. Inside, I wasn’t entirely convinced. But this year I had a plan.

A month earlier, at the London Marathon, I had made a complete mess of my pacing and fuelling. The consequences had arrived brutally in the final kilometres, when my legs stopped cooperating and I had to hobble my way to the finish line wondering what on earth had happened. I had no desire to repeat the experience.

So I borrowed a strategy from a friend. Every thirty minutes my phone would sound an alarm, and every thirty minutes I would eat something, whether I felt like it or not. Decision already made. No debates. No excuses.

My backpack was stuffed with gels and chews, which was admittedly a risk considering I had barely used them before. Every runner knows the golden rule: never try anything new on race day! But I wanted energy. I wanted to know what would happen if I actually fuelled properly.

The gun went off, and we shuffled forward through the usual bottlenecks and narrow streets of Florence. The enforced walking was welcome. The city was already radiating heat. Almost immediately I noticed my heart rate was higher than expected. I blamed the temperature, the excitement, the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

When we reached the climb up to Fiesole, I stuck to my plan and walked. I had run this hill countless times in training. I could have run it now if I’d wanted to. But there was a long way to go, and burning matches this early felt foolish.

As I climbed, something strange began to happen. I started to feel disconnected from myself. I kept taking deep breaths and trying to settle down, but I couldn’t quite shake the sensation. It felt almost like panic, except without the panic itself. I was moving, talking, functioning, yet somehow floating a little outside my own body. I tried focusing on my surroundings. The road. The stone walls. The trees. Landmarks I knew well. But still I felt oddly detached, as though I were riding around inside my body rather than steering it. It was unsettling.

The alarm sounded. Time to eat. I pulled out the first gel and duly swallowed it. Whatever else happened today, I told myself, I would keep eating every thirty minutes and keep moving forward.

Eventually we reached the top of the climb and moved out into the countryside beyond Fiesole. These roads felt like home. I had spent months training here, tracing the same bends and hills over and over again. Even so, I walked many of the gentler climbs to keep my heart rate under control.

The heat remained intense, but at least there was a breeze now. At the end of the section I found a friend waiting by an intersection. He took a photo, wished me luck, and sent me on my way.

Still feeling out of body but not so much I couldn’t pose!

Then, as I began the descent on the other side, something changed. Without warning, I was suddenly back. The strange floating sensation disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. It felt as though I had dropped back into my body with a thud and taken hold of the controls again. The relief was immediate.

From that point onward I settled into a steady rhythm, cruising downhill through the shade, stopping only for water and slices of apple at the aid stations. Last year I reached the foot of the mountain in around four hours twenty. This year I was slightly quicker. Not dramatically, but just enough to notice.

The route through Borgo San Lorenzo had changed and I spent several minutes convinced I had somehow missed both the aid station and the timing mat. When I finally found them at the far end of town, I was absurdly relieved. An old friend was waiting there and helped me fish the electrolytes out of my backpack and pour them into my water bottle before sending me on my way.

Ahead lay the mountain. Oddly enough, I was looking forward to it. After hours of controlled running, the long climbs offered permission to slow down and walk.

I’ll be walking through those forests and I can’t wait!

The sun was sinking lower now, though the evening still felt warm. I climbed steadily, eventually reaching Ronta, where I planned to switch into my night gear.

For the previous two years, a man and his dog had stood at a window watching the race pass by. This year they were there again. I waved. “Hey! It’s me from last year!” He pointed to the dog. We both laughed. I snapped a photo and carried on, delighted that he remembered me.

I debated whether to put on my knee warmers. The evening was far warmer than previous editions, and I felt slightly ridiculous pulling on extra layers. In the end I wore them anyway. I hate being cold and it was one less thing to worry about.

Soon I was power-walking towards Razzuolo. In previous years darkness had always fallen on this section, but this time daylight lingered. Another small sign that I was moving a little faster. At Razzuolo I stopped briefly to use the bathroom and grabbed a couple of tiny panini from my bag before continuing.

By the time darkness finally arrived, I realised I had been steadily moving through the field. I’d passed a lot of people on the climbs. Apparently uphill walking was one of my strengths. I switched on my headlamp, and kept going. Before long I reached the summit. The mountain that had felt so enormous earlier in the day was suddenly behind me.

A group of supporters were handing out freshly cooked pizza near the top, but I was surprisingly content with my gels and kept moving. At the aid station I grabbed a cup of broth and continued down the far side. My legs felt far better than they had in previous years. Not fresh exactly. But functional. Alive.

The descent wound through tall trees, their trunks flashing briefly in and out of existence in the beam of my headlamp. I love this section. Running through the darkness, lighting up the forest one piece at a time, feels almost magical. Then, somewhere ahead, I heard music. “London Calling”. I grinned and followed the sound. Soon I passed a makeshift party complete with food, drinks and people dancing beside the trail. I didn’t stop. I just carried the atmosphere with me as I ran on into the night.

Eventually the lights of Casaglia appeared below, sparkling in the darkness. Or perhaps "sparkling" is generous as without my glasses they were mostly a cheerful blur. Either way, they were beautiful. And they meant I was getting closer.

Casaglia arrived sooner than expected. I was still feeling remarkably good. The gels seemed to be doing their job, and I had no desire to raid the aid stations. When a volunteer handed me a portion of pasta, I accepted it gratefully, only to discover I could manage about half before deciding I’d had enough. The real fuel was already onboard.

From Casaglia it was twelve kilometres to Marradi, where Roberto and Skye would be waiting for me. That thought alone was enough to put a spring in my step.

I settled into a steady rhythm and simply kept moving. The tiny climbs that had annoyed me in previous years barely registered. I felt strong and relaxed, but slightly impatient. Every now and then I caught myself wanting to hurry, wanting the kilometres to disappear more quickly, but there was nothing to be gained from rushing. The only thing to do was keep going.

Eventually I reached the bridge at Biforco and crossed towards Marradi. I passed the discotheque that was still enthusiastically blasting music into the night and then, up ahead, spotted a small four-legged figure standing by the roadside with a man attached to her lead. There they were! Skye and Roberto. I was absurdly happy to see them.

We made our way together towards the timing mat and aid station while Roberto helped me sort out a practical problem. My watch was running low on battery, so he grabbed the power bank from my backpack and plugged it in as I filled up my water bottles. We agreed to meet again five kilometres further on so I could return the power bank.

As I left Marradi, I found myself laughing about a conversation we'd had the week before while driving to collect my race pack. On either side of the road had been fields full of what I confidently referred to as forasacchi. Roberto had been horrified. “They’re not forasacchi,” he informed me. “They’re wheat. There’s a very big difference.” Apparently I was exhibiting agricultural ignorance of the highest order. But to me they all looked like long grass that would eventually get stuck in my dog's fur.

The steeper mountain sections were behind me now and the road had softened into long rolling stretches. At kilometre seventy I met Skye and Roberto again. The power bank was removed, Skye licked my face, and Roberto announced that he needed to sleep. We agreed to meet again in Brisighella at kilometre eighty-eight so he could catch a few winks while I continued on foot. He drove off and I carried on.

Suddenly I was in unknown territory. The previous two years, this was the point where our adventures had become dominated by his sleep deprivation and we’d had to walk. I had no real idea of what lay ahead because so much of my attention had been focused on keeping him moving. Would I be able to stay awake myself this time? Now I was alone and I was about to find out.

I walked out of the aid station, eased myself back into a jog, and discovered everything still felt fine. So I kept going. Aid station eighty: a cup of hot tea. Aid station eighty-five: a slice of apple and more water. I kept going. There was something wonderfully uncomplicated about it all. I wasn't racing. I wasn't suffering. I wasn't chasing anyone. I was simply moving forward through the darkness at a speed my body seemed perfectly happy to maintain.

I recognised fragments of the road from previous years. A curve in a railing. A line of trees. A bend that looked vaguely familiar. But mostly there was only darkness and the narrow beam of my headlamp. Eventually a sign appeared. Brisighella. I felt a surge of excitement. I had made it this far and still felt capable of continuing. That was new.

I ran through the sleeping town and crossed the timing mat before stopping briefly at the aid station. By now I was undeniably tired. As I stood drinking, an elderly man began talking to me. He told me he had run the very first edition of the Passatore 51 years ago. Immediately I loved him. There was something wonderful about the idea that after all these years he was still here, standing beside the course in the middle of the night, encouraging complete strangers as they chased their own adventures through the mountains. He told me he knew exactly what this race meant and I believed him. It felt like a small moment of understanding between two people who had shared the same road, even if decades apart. I thanked him and moved on. My legs had no desire to linger.

Outside the village I found Roberto's car parked by the roadside. Inside, he and Skye were curled up fast asleep. I tapped on the window. Skye sprang into action immediately. Roberto jolted as though he had been struck by lightning. For several seconds he seemed entirely unsure of who he was, where he was, or why a woman with a beaming light was knocking on his window in the middle of the night. Eventually recognition returned. I explained that I was continuing towards Faenza and told him to meet me in the main square once he had recovered enough to function.

Then I left and something very strange happened: I turned into the Duracell Bunny. I could not have walked if I'd wanted to. One foot went forward. Then the other. Arm up. Arm down. Forward. Forward. Forward. There was a body marching towards Faenza and I was simply along for the ride. The rhythm was relentless. Steady. Comfortable. Completely unstoppable.

I loved that it was still dark. In daylight this section can be psychologically brutal. The road stretches ahead for what feels like forever and you can see exactly how far you still have to go. But in the darkness there was only the circle of my headlamp. Nothing else existed. Just the next few metres. March. March. March.

At some point my toes began lodging a formal complaint. They were pressing against one another in ways they clearly felt were unacceptable. I decided they would have to wait. We could discuss the matter after the finish line.

Then, finally, I saw it. A sign for Faenza. I almost didn't believe it. It was still dark. The sky ahead was beginning to take on the deep red-purple colour that appears just before dawn, but the sun itself had not yet arrived. I realised, with a growing sense of excitement, that I might make it to the finish before sunrise. That became the new mission. Not because it mattered, but because it felt fun.

I reached the final roundabout and turned onto the long straight road that leads into the city. Anyone who has run the Passatore knows this road. It goes on forever. And then a little longer. Far ahead I could see a yellow building glowing in the darkness. I fixed my eyes on it and kept moving. You'll get there when you get there, I told myself. Just keep going. The building grew closer. Then suddenly I was passing it.

The finish was near. I could hear music now. A handful of spectators lined the road, cheering runners towards the centre of town. And still my body refused to stop. One foot. Then the other. Duracell Bunny arm up. Duracell Bunny arm down. I barely felt the fatigue at this point. Only momentum and joy.

I realised, with absolute certainty, that I was being carried towards a time I had never even considered possible. A wave of excitement rose through me. Then another. A huge grin spread across my face. I felt as though I could bounce off the road and launch myself into space.

All day I had been asking the same question. What can you do when you're left to yourself in the mountains? Now I had my answer. I could do this.

London had beaten me up and spat me out a month earlier. But now I found myself turning around and saluting it like a Kung-Fu master. If it hadn't been for London, I would never have chosen a fuelling strategy. I would never have stuck to it. I would never have learned that some lessons cannot be avoided forever. You cannot simply wing it and hope for the best. You have to respect the distance. You have to follow the plan. And if you do, extraordinary things become possible.

The square opened before me in a blaze of lights. Music. Voices. Inflatable arches. And there, right in the centre, was the one that mattered.

FINISH.

I crossed underneath it wearing a gigantic smile. 13:46:06. So that was my answer.

A few seconds later I found Skye and Roberto waiting for me. There were smiles. There were licks. And suddenly, after one hundred kilometres through the night, everything felt exactly as it should.

Rebe vs 100km del Passatore 2026

Rebe vs 100km del Passatore