Nove Colli Running… There are no cicadas in the meadows, in the silence broken only by our footsteps; there are no warm colors of the sunset from Ciola; there are no cheerful faces at the aid stations, only worried and chilled ones. There are no fireflies to soften the night; there is no moon singing over Perticara, brighter and larger than the sun; there are no nighttime cyclists climbing while singing, exchanging jokes, and lightening the mood. There are no night lights in the mild, clear air, no friends and relatives waiting outside their cars for the athletes; there are no villagers, no children like there were last year… There is only rain and water, little streams on the roads, and a thick fog up on Barbotto.

I can’t see a thing. I put on my “I’m stopped on the highway” vest—I look like the Civil Protection mascot… but there are too many cars and no lights. And I’m scared.

The atmosphere is heavy this year; the fear of the cold and bad weather is perhaps worse than the rain itself… the mood is heavy; everyone seems worried.

The night randonneurs climb with their heads bowed, their shoulders heavy, weighed down by their high-tech capes.
Their incredibly powerful lights—which had captivated me last year—are now pale, obscured by the fog and rain.

And yet these Nove Colli are the same, but everything is harder. The damp seeps into my skin; I mustn’t stop, I mustn’t sit down…
I scan the horizon for my car; seeing it through the rain lifts my spirits.
Yet I keep running, going up and down, and I don’t hit any rough patches—not even at the spots I remembered from last year as a nightmare…

Luciano’s support is perfect—hot water and my carb-protein mix in the shaker arrive just when I need them.
What a difference… you don’t have to worry about a thing, just run. And then, at every kilometer, there’s always a smile, a voice telling you, “You’re doing great!” All of this is stronger than the raging monsoon.

In a little while, Noah will call all the animals in the valley to gather, and whoever gets to the ark first gets the best spot. I think Noah will definitely pass me over. I’ll have to make my way there on foot.

I missed the colors of these gentle hills, the way they curve on the horizon.

Head down, hands tucked inside my Gore-Tex jacket…so they don’t get wet.
Hands in Vileda gloves—they may not be very fashionable, but they’re absolutely a godsend.
Hands putting on and taking off wet pants and soaked jackets.

Even under these conditions, this race is a spectacle. Pure magic, in the timeless silence of the Pugliano pine forest, the incredibly long descent to Ponte Uso 2.
And it’s already daylight; I’m doing great. And I still can’t believe I’m here, right here and now.
With wet hair and cold feet.
But I wouldn’t trade this for any warm fireplace or cozy slippers.

Right here, right now… the toughest part begins: the long trek from Ponte Uso 2 to the base of Gorolo. And the monsoon is back in full force; I can’t run along the roadside because it’s flooded, but cars are speeding by, and since I’m already struggling to put one foot in front of the other, I also have to worry about saving my own skin…
I’m losing a lot of time; it’s only 10 km, but this stretch feels endless…
And then comes the final climb—the one where you tell yourself, “It’s over now!” but then it’s not; you still have 30 km to go, which, if you think about it… is really a lot!

Gorolo, completely transformed.
I keep walking; sooner or later I’ll make it to Cesenatico.
I crest the hill… and there’s none of the blue of the sea blending with the sky like last year, which took my breath away.
Everything’s gray, and there’s a storm on the horizon.

The battle with the monsters of the mind, with the unreal, begins. I’m hot, I’m cold (within just a few meters)—sensations that arise only to unsettle me, but I can’t overcome them. I have to go along with them.
And then you head down toward Borghi, toward the sea…and you know you’ve done it once before and that, one step at a time, you’ll get there.

The crisis will pass… the crisis will pass…

Luciano makes me realize that, up until now, I’d never completely broken down—I hadn’t even had a single moment of weakness or a minor crisis. The logic of experience clashes with my feelings of impatience, but I know that’s how it is…
It’s funny to think back on it now… but in moments like these, the brain is reduced to maintaining only its most basic functions.

…and the cyclists in the 130k race whiz past me, waving, giving me a thumbs-up, a nod, a shout… it’s a party.
It’s sportsmanship… it’s heart… and then someone yells my name, several times—I only recognize Romeo… but dressed in your cycling gear, you’re unrecognizable!

The slope levels off into the final straights, and the crowd gathers along the road because the top contenders in the 200km race—the real ones—are about to arrive…the ones who, when they pass you, blow you away. Police cars, sirens, motorcycles…make way…I know that about ten minutes pass between the first sirens and the leading group…I step into the middle of the road, stealing the crowd’s applause for myself; they look at me amused, a little bewildered, but some realize we’ve been out here for 190 km—word spreads, and it turns into a roar of cheers.

It almost seems like I’m having fun!

I cling to any sensation just to keep going… It starts raining again, the wind picks up (right up until the end…) until you realize it’s finally over when you see the overpass (yes, the very ones you normally HATE during a race). The overpass that leads you to your moment of glory, of infinity, when even the police officers give you a high-five… and your pace picks up, your legs—which were previously glued to the ground—start turning, running; you’re flying.
Don’t talk to me about adrenaline: this is magic; it’s the miracle of endurance. You can be dead tired all you want, but at a certain point you can start flying again… The final straight… watch out for the bikes… stay close to the barriers… The faces, the outstretched hands, Mario Castagnoli’s embrace, the tears. It’s over.

202.4 km of life, shared for the first time with a first-rate assistant.
“Thank you” doesn’t quite capture it… maybe you just have to have been there, to have conquered these hills, to understand the boundaries of the NCR.

It’s the only race that can make time stand still… That’s no small feat.