Following the advice Marco de Gasperi gave me last week about some of the Italian favorites running tomorrow, I imagine that they will kick off at an extremely fast rate in order to get a lead on the more marathon-style runners who will make up a lot of ground on me over the second, flatter half of the course. I should keep an eye on runners like Kuprizka, Ançay, and DeMatteis on the flat. Although if they ever do take the lead, I can always overtake them on the last downhill stretch. … Route reviewed, okay.
I get into bed and switch off the light.
“Have you seen the last film with … ?” asks my roommate.
“No. I don’t think so. I read the book, but I don’t think I’ve seen the film,” I respond.
And we start two long parallel conversations: the one we can both hear, talking about books, girls, friends, anecdotes about other races, and the inner conversation with ourselves about the struggle that awaits us tomorrow, though no mention is made of gear, tactics, or rivals. This conversation addresses how we will deal with success or, above all, with failure if the race is a flop. How our egos and tempers will react and how the people around us will react.
We have spent all day imagining the feelings and emotions we will experience when we hit the tape, and that gives us the strength to want to win, and the inner conversation now focuses on the angst we will feel if we are beaten and our minds desperately look for an injury, an illness, a problem—an excuse not to experience that feeling of angst that makes us want to give up before we have even started.
The two conversations continue in parallel, come close, separate out, and try not to crack the façade that would reveal the fears that are raging in our minds.
The conversations come to an end. First the inner dialogue when it is plain there is no reason to give up before starting to fight or accept the failure we might face tomorrow, and when this conversation ends, the other fades away, of its own accord, as if it isn’t interested in creating a wall to conceal our fears. Sleep begins to take possession of my body as I try to find the most comfortable position for sleep and healthy breathing, but although my eyes are shut, my head keeps spinning until finally sleep wins out.
It’s gloomy and the sky is filled with clouds that don’t seem at all threatening. I’m running down a path that winds through slopes hidden by thickets. The ground is dry, the track is covered in sand and stones, and the dry undergrowth alongside half smothers the gentle, undulating terrain. I look around me. I can’t see a single mountain looming. The air is dry and arid, and I realize there’s no breeze. All is silence, the kind of silence that is noisy and annoying, one you would like to break, but when you do shout, only a dry, distant sound emerges, as if it were disconnected from you. Gradually, as I run downhill, my legs seem heavier and stiffen to the point that I find it hard to continue. I don’t understand—I’m going downhill; I should be able to run, should be able to accelerate. But my body doesn’t react to the orders my brain sends out. It doesn’t seem hot or cold, and an aid station appears. A girl and boy behind a table offer food and drink, but I can’t make out what. I can’t see their faces either. They stand there saying nothing as another runner runs up, fresh and smiling.
“Aleix!” I shout.
It can’t possibly be Aleix, can it? He gave up competing years ago. What’s he doing here? He doesn’t reply, grabs something to eat, and keeps running downhill. I chase after him, forgetting how heavy my legs had felt. I start walking, until the heaviness and stiffness bring me to a halt. I fall down and drag myself along the track that is a mass of sand and stones. …
I get out of bed covered in sweat. The room is in darkness, and my friend is sleeping peacefully. All is quiet. However, this silence is warm, alive, and comforting and makes me feel secure. I look at the clock. It is midnight; we have been asleep for less than two hours. I try to breathe less frantically and to think of other things as sleep takes over again and brings no dreams.
I get out of bed six hours later, this time roused by the dull soundof the alarm. Gradually, we get up and switch on the light. Sleep flees the moment our brains register that the alarm signals three hours until the start of the race. There is no time to linger between the sheets. I quickly go downstairs and eat a slice of energy cake and 10 minutes afterward stretch out in bed once again, eyes shut, breathing regularly, while my heartbeat calms down. For the hundredth time over the last two days, I review the route for the race and my opponents. Everything is now in place; nothing can stop me.
An hour before the start, I jump out of bed, dress carefully, position the race bib so that it is perfectly straight, put the gels in my pocket, and tie my laces tight around the quick-lace so that my shoes perfectly fit the line of my feet and nothing can undo them. I head outside, and the music starts inside my head. Very loud sounds. Drums, vibrant electric rhythms that rise in volume and beat with each second. As if synchronized, my heartbeats begin to speed up. My brain tells me to jump, shout, and run as fast as I can. I take a couple of deep breaths and connect my iPod. I begin to run at a gentle pace, away from the other runners, in my own world. I am staring into the distance, far in front, visualizing the tape. A couple of sprints to wake my muscles up and get rid of the tension in my head and I am ready to go. I scrutinize the faces of the runners around me. I see serious faces, laughing faces, scared faces, and blank faces. I also see legs: hairless legs, muscular legs, white legs, and brown legs. Scary legs. Which legs will I see in the race? Because, given the effort I’ll be making, I will find it hard to look up at faces, but I will see plenty of legs. I think I could recognize people by their legs rather than their faces after spending so many hours behind some runners. I am in my starting position, in the second row, not next to the fence or in the middle of the pack. The position I prefer. There is the odd laugh and comment, but you could cut the tension with a knife.
“One minute to go!” bawls the starter. Meanwhile, I start to feel the pressure from the group pushing forward, and the shoves start to come from all sides as people jostle to get in the best position possible. I don’t think it is necessary to push now to gain a few inches. It’s a long race that will put everyone in his place. Everyone is at the ready, bodies leaning forward, one leg in front, hand on watch, waiting to press the start button the moment the starting gun fires.
Time goes very slowly, almost stands still. Seconds seem like hours, and I find it harder and harder to follow the countdown because my thoughts can only focus on the actual start.
“Thirty seconds to go!”
Time doesn’t race on but seems to stand still. As far as we are concerned, the world has come to a halt. People shout from behind the barriers, but I hear nothing. The silence is absolute, absorbed as I am by the tension of waiting for the starting pistol. My pulse races faster, ever more strongly. I feel every heartbeat in every part of my body, in my head, hands, legs. A countdown starts within me: 20, 19, 18, 17. … I feel my strength going, making me shake. My legs are stiff but wobbly and seem unable to bear my weight. … 10, 9, 8, 7 … I don’t know if time has stopped altogether or if everything is speeding on uncontrollably. My legs are no longer shaking; my whole body now seems heavy and awkward. I’d find it hard to move my lips to shout. If nobody comes to support me, I will fall to the ground. … 3, 2, 1 … Suddenly, noise returns; I’m immersed in a world that is spinning fast, and I feel disoriented for a few seconds before my body responds powerfully and launches off. Now it is as light as a feather and able to move forward at great speed, nimbly avoiding the other runners in front of me until I take the lead.
The race develops as I had imagined it. At the outset, I accelerate for a couple of miles to break up the group so that no unknown competitor can set a gentle pace only to surprise me later, and also so that I can show off my own strength. I want to make it clear to the other runners that I am at my best and that today’s race will be extremely tough. The first challenge is a sudden incline in a forest between tree roots and dark earth that takes us to 5,000 feet above sea l
evel within very few miles.
A group immediately breaks away, and six of us are out in front. There is no unknown there; we are all among the favorites. I have already competed against two of these runners and hope they won’t surprise me in any way. Helmut is now heading the group, and he has us all trailing breathlessly behind him. He is a tall Tyrolean runner with a very individual style whose strengths are ascents and long distances, though he is a man who loses ground to runners with more technique, such as myself, on short downhill runs. Robert is one of the best Czech runners, well trained as an athlete, a stately, well-balanced man who likes to take huge strides. He is a very dangerous runner in short races and over the flat. In fact, when we reach a flatter area on this first incline, he takes the lead in huge, explosive strides and rekindles the group. However, he always pays the consequences in longer races. I have never competed against the other three runners who make up the front group, but thanks to descriptions given by runners who have, I would say that I know them perfectly. The American is very strong in 5K races, is almost unstoppable on the flat, and for the moment seems to climb with great facility. Bruno is a young Italian runner, two years older than myself, who comes from cross-country, but he has always been outstanding in mountain races and achieved great results in short races and on steep courses. I don’t think he will have any problems climbing, and being Italian, he will certainly run downhill like an arrow. The last runner in the group is Swiss with Portuguese roots: César has always been outstanding in races in Switzerland, and he has been in excellent form over recent months. He has recorded excellent times and won races ahead of runners as renowned as Tarcis. He is a good runner on any terrain, but prefers the flat and slopes that aren’t so steep.
I feel good. It’s a fast pace uphill, but I feel comfortable. Helmut has given way to Robert and César, who keep taking turns to fragment the small group in the lead, a tactic that soon bears fruit, as the American and Helmut start paying for the effort they have made over the first miles.
We reach the food stop at the top of the ascent, and I don’t stop even for a breath but just grab a glass that a boy is balancing on his hand. I try to drink as I run, but what with the speed, jolts, and my fast breathing, I only manage a small gulp. The rest splashes onto my face and T-shirt. When we start on the flat, the pace settles down and we are four in the lead: Robert, Bruno, César, and myself. We’ve been running for over an hour, and I take a gel to give me the energy necessary to maintain that fast pace. I feel it slip down my throat, enter my body, and start distributing its sugar. However, simultaneously, I feel a lump in my stomach and want to vomit. My strength evaporates, and I feel queasy.
I am allergic to wasp stings, as I had discovered one day when I was stung by a wasp while cycling up the Passo dello Stelvio in the Dolomites. I couldn’t remember ever being affected by a wasp sting. However, that sting had put me in the hospital within two hours. It happened a second time, just a day before this race, when I was coming back after lunch with the organizers and the rest of the runners. A wasp stung me on the thumb. If you aren’t allergic, a sting hurts, but the pain goes away after a few hours and you can forget the sting. For me, on the other hand, it brings nausea, headaches, intense pain where I’ve been bitten, and an upset stomach for a whole day. If the sting had been on any other part of my body, like on my head or near an artery, I would have had hives everywhere and my tongue would have been swollen, with inevitable respiratory problems and blurred vision. So I had been lucky. I went to my bedroom and tightly bandaged my thumb to stop the poison spreading through my body.
I decided not to tell anyone and put it out of my mind until now, so as not to get discouraged and find concentration on the race ahead difficult. I need to think of a race as an enclosed space, a bubble. In this bubble only the race, the other runners, and myself exist. Everything else must be put aside. Excuses, lack of training, work, or romantic problems must be put aside. A race is a life that is born when you get up in the morning and dies when you cross the finish line.
And, obviously, I couldn’t tell the other runners, since it would have been a weapon my opponents could have used against me right from the start, to strengthen themselves or to attack me at a moment of weakness. No, I have to show them I am perfectly in control, am not suffering, and am completely happy with the pace we have set. I have to show them that I am pleased with the way the race is going, that I am the one in charge and will be the one to decide who can take off in front or not. The one who will decide when it is time to make a sprint. I must make them believe they are fighting for second place.
Robert is putting the pressure on, and so is my stomach. I grit my teeth even harder, gulp in air, quicken my pace, and feel light. I reach his side and smile at him.
“Look at those beautiful peaks! This scenery is fantastic!” I say emphatically in one breath.
Without waiting for him to react, I pull back behind and breathe hard to take in air.
I gradually recover my strength, and with each step the need to hide my real state lessens. We have left the broad track and are now running along a gently undulating path that dodges the obstacles nature put in its way. It is a terrain that I enjoy, that allows me to run naturally and play with its whims. I haven’t fully recovered my strength but decide to put the others runners to the test and see whether I can eliminate one or two opponents before we reach the final phase. I climb onto an incline and drive myself into the lead. Gathering speed with each descent, I sidestep trees and run swiftly up inclines. I soon see that no one is following me. Bruno is a few yards behind, and César and Robert seem out of it. As I feel comfortable on this terrain, I set a good pace and renew my energies for the last stage.
After a while I see three runners coming up very fast. The first to catch me is César, who stays with me whenever I quicken my pace to make it difficult for the other two to reach me. This is the final uphill stretch. The last 6 miles are a descent that seems like flat terrain until the final 2 miles to the finish, where it will be a short, sharp descent. It’s a struggle to maintain this speed. The climb is hard, and I can feel César breathing down my neck. I decide to make one last effort to the next aid station, and from there I will decide what tactics to follow. I accelerate fast over the stones, scraping the ground with each step, but the breath of the runner behind me doesn’t fall away. I don’t want to turn around. I don’t want to turn and show him that I’m finding it hard going, that I’m worried about where he is, about whether he is fresh or struggling.
We reach the Hotel Weisshorn food point, and I walk a few steps and grab a glass of water, which I drink without splashing it all over the ground. My throat is dry, and the cool water vanishes as if my mouth were a sponge. I grab another glass and break into a run. When I look up, I see César 100 yards in front. He didn’t stop at the station, and Tarcis is coming up behind me after a spectacular run along the flat stretch. Robert is with him.
I focus on César. He is the one leading the race now, the one we have to catch, but our bodies don’t seem to want to close in on each other. Tarcis and Robert are behind me, hoping I will be the one to drive them into the lead. I gradually get back into the race. It is the moment when I must decide whether I will do what my body is asking—slow down just a little, enough to remove the taste of blood from my mouth and get rid of the feeling that I might have a heart attack at any moment. After all, fourth place seems guaranteed, and a place on the podium may even come my way. I could be proud of that after the season I have had. But my brain tells me to ignore these signs and, in fact, defy them, and forces my heart to beat even more strongly and my legs to deal with more lactic acid. A radio commentary starts in my head. The broadcaster is describing the race, not the one now but the one that will start shortly:
César is running a fantastic final stage. Those chasing him are falling away, and it looks like nothing can come between him and victory. Hey, Kilian’s fighting back! And putting so much energy into it! He’s almost caught César. He�
��s driving his body at an incredible pace. If he carries on at this rate, he will build a big lead. He has taken the lead and is maintaining an incredible pace. He’s turned the last bend to the right and is now on the final straight. He’s wonderful! He’s about to seal a fantastic victory. The spectators are cheering. You can see tears of happiness in his eyes….
And as this commentary recedes, another takes pride of place in my mind. What will I feel when I am first past the finish line? I begin to imagine the future. I can already hear the spectators shouting. I can hear my name over the loudspeakers. I am ecstatic because I have succeeded. I did it. It is total bliss, a bliss I share with those who have helped me, and a great sense of relief and joy washes over me even as my body reacts with tears.
I suddenly start to shiver. These emotions are real. I feel my eyes moisten. The sensation is so strong that I want to feel it again. I’m craving it. I must catch César. I imagine I’m lassoing him with a long rope that I grab and pull on at each step so that I can close in on him; gradually, step by step, I do just that, until my shoes are right behind him, following in his footprints.
As I run behind César, I try to be aware of the posture my body is adopting. I try to run as straight-backed as possible so that I can breathe in the maximum amount of air and take big strides that drive my body on faster. I recall the words of Jordi, my trainer. Running is an art, he said, like painting a picture or composing a piece of music. And to create a work of art, you have to be clear about four basic concepts: technique, effort, talent, and inspiration. And all this must be combined in dynamic equilibrium. You must have perfect control of technique and avoid superfluous movements that don’t help drive you forward and only waste energy. You must husband your movements, care for and protect them. Every runner has a natural way to run that he must follow and perfect. There are runners who take big strides and runners who prefer small steps. There are runners who run with their head erect and runners who stoop. There are runners who hold themselves in reserve and runners who attack from the very first. There is no way of running that can be imposed on everyone. There is no perfect way for every runner, but everybody has his perfect way of running. We discovered mine: It is running in step with nature, trying to communicate through my steps what nature is communicating to me. Not leaving a single trace on the terrain where I’m running, trying to be as silent as possible. Running as if I were floating over the path so that the earth hardly feels my feet brushing over its stones. Running and adapting to the terrain, taking small steps when running or big strides when walking up steep slopes, or trying to transform downhill stretches into a flowing dance between my body and the terrain. Never straining, but taking steps that flow naturally, as if they were an extension of that terrain.
Run or Die Page 3
