Forse è proprio vero che è “outside of our comfort zone is where the magic happens”.

Perhaps it is true that 'outside our comfort zone is where the magic happens'.

Every time I get close to the start of something I see as bigger than myself, I feel pleasantly at peace. I live a hurried life, in which optimising time is crucial to getting everything done. If I have a problem, I must solve it as quickly as I can. I cannot waste a single second. This is reflected in almost every race I take part in.

And every time, I ask myself if I can still make it; when I think about it rationally, it always seems impossible.

In the PTL, everything is so over the top that it is absolutely impossible to try and predict what you’re facing up against. I know that the path will guide me and that it is best to leave all worries at a lower altitude.

This is the spirit of this race, which has taken place for fourteen years, albeit in the shadow of the much more popular Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc.

The PTL is a trail running race, to be run in teams comprising 2 or 3 people, with no trail markings or signposting along the route. The teams must follow a trail, or rather “The Track” par excellence, with no exceptions, even when it leads off the beaten track. We will be travelling (for this is in fact a journey) for more than 300 km and 24,000 m of elevation gain in a state of self-sufficiency, carrying all the equipment we need to cope with the difficulties of the route. We will be able to rely on refuges on the route and there will be two life bases where we will find our bag.

This is a crucial aspect with respect to traditional races: we need to be self-sufficient! This means that we are free from the shackles of passing time. The rucksack is heavy, but this frees us from the stress of having to calculate times and kilometres between aid stations.

As always, the first day is the hardest. The teams are excited and tension in the air is palpable. The three of us, that is Roberto, Davide and I, are strangely calm and we let the other teams go. The weather is bad, it’s raining and it’s windy. To avoid getting wet, we immediately play the poncho card: this is a garment that is crucial for this type of adventure, which allows you to remain cool underneath, so as not to sweat during the first ascent. We see several participants, mainly from Asia, wearing odd combinations of jackets and plastic bags, making us wonder about their chances of surviving the first day. At 2,000 metres above sea level, the rain quickly turns to snow and panic sets in as soon as the track deviates from the beaten path and takes us up a snow-covered scree slope. I can see doubt and worry creep up on the faces of the competitors.

Some stop, unsure of what to do, others look for alternative routes, knowing that there is no alternative but to follow the track. At the first traverse, a long queue immediately forms, moving hesitantly; several competitors slide down the slope in their synthetic clothing, stopping only a few hundred metres further down. The situation reminds me of photos of climbers waiting to advance on the most difficult passages of Himalayan climbs. It is frustrating to see someone in trouble and not be able to do anything to help them. The air is freezing and my hands, wet from the rain despite my waterproof gloves, are beginning to freeze.

The wait is nerve-wracking; I tell my teammates behind me that I'm trying to move forward, and over a ridge I overtake a bunch of slow runners and catch up with a group that is moving a little more steadily. Being able to move again allows me to keep a reasonable body temperature. As soon as the storm calms down, I stop to wait for my teammates, I was worried about them. Fortunately, after what seemed like a very long wait, I see them arrive. We take stock of the situation: all is well, we eat something and set off again. Eating often is essential.

Having overcome this difficult stretch, we look around us and, as is always the case, we understand why they wanted us to go this way. The mountains are beautiful even in the clouds, we are at the same height as one of the Mont Blanc glaciers and we can admire it from a special angle.

After more than eight hours, we are still in the Chamonix area. In this kind of race, the concept of 'time' must be rid of, everything becomes relative, there’s no need to think about how long you've been out and about and where you are: the important thing is to go forward, to follow the track with dedication and faith.

I often think that these situations, even from our privileged standpoint, bring us closer to pilgrims, travellers of the past or refugees fleeing a country in which it is no longer possible to live. I happened to be on the paths in Bosnia, those that Syrian refugees walk to reach a country in the European Community that will take them in, and I saw the small camps of crumpled tents and sleeping bags where they spend the night, sheltered by the woods, waiting to continue their journey, hoping not to be caught by the police. We, too, are homeless, following their path.

Although Roberto and I think that Davide is fine, he alternates periods of running as if in a frenzy with moments when he slows down and almost struggles to walk. He is no longer convinced of what he is doing. Again, we can only hope that it will pass. So as not to put too much pressure on him, we decide to take turns at his side, one of us walking slightly ahead and the other staying with him. We are all strangely silent, probably each of us dealing with our own demons.

There is an unwritten rule that you never sleep the first night.

The weather gives us no respite and as soon as climb over 2,000 metres, the icy snow begins to pummel us in the face. We cannot stay too long in these conditions and must try to reach the first refuge on the route, located at the sixty-sixth kilometre mark. The excitement of the start having faded away, we move on, surrounded by low clouds, along with the other teams, jointly looking for the best way to follow the track in this awful visibility. When we reach the refuge, I start to feel cold; we pass a team of our friends, I know I was behind them and on the descent I stretch to warm up. After a while, in easy terrain, I turn around to look, but Roberto and Davide are nowhere to be seen. I ask the others if they’ve seen them. I know that Davide has the GPS for navigation, although one can just follow the mass of other competitors, like I’m doing. I try to call them, but there’s no signal. I wait for a few minutes and try to identify them among the other runners, but I can’t find them. I start feeling cold again. I know it shouldn’t be done, but at least they are with each other and I’m feeling alone at the moment, so I decide to walk slowly towards the refuge, where I can’t find them either, of course. After a while, our friends arrive, the ones we passed together before our convoy was broken. And still no sign of Roberto and Davide. I keep looking out the door, waiting to see their faces. The hut looks like a Red Cross camp, with hundreds of shoes and walking sticks scattered in the snow outside. Finally, with devastation on their faces, they arrive. Roby's first words to me were: “Davide’s dropping out”. I feel even more guilty for having left them alone. The time barrier is less than two hours away, and we need to decide quickly what to do. We try to convince Davide, who seems very determined and almost relieved by the decision he's just made.

We eat what will be our menu for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next five days: soup, pasta with meat sauce (or, as the French say, boloGnese) and a small dessert.

As happened during the euphoria in Andorra, after being outdoors for almost 24 hours, being indoors is almost unbearable, with so many people around us. We say goodbye to Davide and set off again. By now we need air and open spaces. Our minds are being reprogrammed to always be on the move.

It's a situation I know well, having been on so many adventures with Roby: he’s at the front, setting the pace, while I follow, guiding him along the route. We keep moving forward regardless of the terrain, the slope or the weather conditions, without a thought, as if pushed by an external force. We move swiftly but quietly through the mud and snow that never stops falling.

We know that we must keep going for two and a half days; the bad weather might be over by Wednesday afternoon.

We’re normally used to cracking jokes, especially in the most extreme and grotesque situations, but this time Roberto is extremely quiet. I try to understand what’s wrong with him. He, the rock upon whom I have always relied in difficult moments, tells me that he is struggling, that his foot hurts and that the cold has affected his legs and lungs. Dropping from 40°C on Friday in Milan to -11°C on the Col du Presset did not leave us unscathed. In fact, we’re still running in Bryce shorts when we could have been wearing Badlands tights.

The weather conditions aren’t suitable for a stop, we have to get to the Hospice du Petit Saint Bernard at kilometre 133, which is just around the corner.

So far, the navigation has been quite easy and we haven't had any problems. I'm very happy with how I've improved in this respect. But as it is the case with PTL, there is no resting on laurels. Roby starts to hallucinate, he sees little black critters moving along the side of the road, a classic in these situations. I try to get him to talk, but he’s impassive in his bubble. On the second sleepless night, after the difficult ascent to the Col de l'Oullion (2650m), we find ourselves in a fog so thick that we can hardly make each other out, the snow falling with a cavalier disregard for our difficulties and quickly covering the footprints of those who have passed before us. We’re alone in an unknown land and, for the first time since we left, we’ve literally lost our bearing. We are convinced that we should continue in what seems to be the most sensible direction, but every time we head in that direction, my GPS starts beeping, indicating that we are off course. Fatigued as we are, our judgement impaired, we cannot fathom how this is possible. The GPS track seems impassable in the foggy night, as if the terrain ended in a cliff. In a panic, we walk in circles and Roby loses one of his gloves and is unable to find it. We keep seeing our footprints in the snow, making it impossible to tell which alternatives we have already explored. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the glares of the other teams’ headlamps appear from behind the hill. We share our failed attempts with them. It all seems strange to them too and we try all possible alternatives. We’re all in the same boat and that reassures me; in a moment of clarity I manage to solve the puzzle, concluding that what seemed impassable is the only way out. I put my crampons back on and climb down the ladder, luckily not long after I see the tracks left by someone slipping in the snow, someone must have gone this way before us. I'm on the track! I call out to Roby and the others follow. The slope is not as steep as it looked from above. This always happens when our minds are convinced of something: the alternative always seems insurmountable, when in fact it is much easier than we think. This happened to us several times during the PTL 2018.

We have lost more than two hours. I just want to get out of this hellhole as quickly as possible, so I run downhill at full speed, keeping an eye on Roby, who doesn't seem to be very coherent, and we keep going without leaving the trail, even when it keeps crossing a frozen stream.

We arrive at the bottom of the valley where, due to bad weather, we are forced to take the emergency track to avoid some impassable sections. This sounds like good news, except that the climb to the Col de la Forclaz off-trail is not exactly trivial. We see the headlamps of a team far up the mountain, but we’re struggling to get to where they are. Once over the pass, all I can think of is the Hospice life base and the chance of finally being able to take off the soaking wet shoes I’ve been wearing for over 48 hours. Convinced that the Hospice is down below, I follow the trail signs and in no time we are off the track, with the other competitors’ lights a few hundred metres above us. It is always disheartening to see everyone else going in one direction and you in another. I apologise to Roby, who shakes his head. We have no choice but to go straight up to the trail where everyone else is, even though we can now see them disappearing in the mist. The path we must follow doesn't seem logical, but we agreed to follow it and do so. The path is a muddy ravine, we struggle to stand even using our poles, but finally, at 7 a.m. on the second morning, we reach the life base. Davide, who certainly hasn't slept either, is there to greet us. As always, I recharge my watch, mobile phone, GPS and power bank; this is a very important operation and always requires a clear mind. We take off our shoes and are surprised to see that our feet are not in such a critical state; they’re just soaking wet, but with a change of socks and insoles they should be fine. We eat the usual menu, in its poor man’s version. In the meantime, we have realised that the supplies are managed by the organisation and not by the refuge managers, whereas in 2018 it was also possible to order from the hikers’ menu. But as always, since we can't do anything about it, we adapt; after all, we didn't come all this way to eat. We decide to sleep for an hour and a half. Obviously, I'm not tired enough, and between the snoring and the coughing of the fellow competitors, I can't fall asleep. Sleep has always been my biggest problem since childhood, but this time I am very calm and not worried about it. I feel really good and I’ll have time to worry later.

Before I leave, I see a woman tending to the battered feet of the competitors, so I decide to ask her for advice on the state of mine. She tells me that they are "nickel", which in French means "all right". She rubs some alcohol on the foot sole to help it dry and notices a small blister between the two smallest toes that I hadn't noticed and asks me if I want her to treat it. While we're at it, it seems like a good opportunity. She draws a sample with the syringe, re-injects the serum with disinfectant and tapes my toe.

I pick up the charger, only to find that the power supply is disconnected and there is no sign of our second charger. We have another one, but if we didn't have it, our race would be over soon. Props to the thief.

I put my shoes back on and we set off. The morning is cool, the sky is opening up and it has stopped raining. We’re in a good mood again, chatting away and enjoying a route that we can finally admire. It was almost as if we’ve just left the chaos of Chamonix, as if we’ve been suspended in a white limbo for the first two days, and only now do we realise where we are: in the middle of beautiful mountains.

The spirit of the race takes hold of us and we can no longer stop. It’s taken two days for our brains, used to a sedentary urban lifestyle, to reprogramme; we are now in trail running mode. All that matters is to keep going, to immerse ourselves in nature. Soon we reach the magnificent Rifugio del Ruitor and its gorgeous valley. Finally, we eat properly. The race well underway, there are only four teams at the refuge; we crack a few jokes with the volunteers (thank you for being there!) and the atmosphere is the same as in 2018. As always, we promise ourselves that one day we'll come back here at a leisurely pace and stand there like two old men in a bar telling tales about our adventures, but we know full well that we'll never do that, at least not while we're still capable of racing. We make a detour to the memorial where Jean-Claude Marmier, the creator of the first PTL in 2008, died prematurely. Undoubtedly a beautiful place to die.

The scenery is magnificent; as soon as we leave the valley floor, which was worth the effort to get there, we are alone, surrounded by mountains. It is the hour that "softens the heart of sailors" (Dante’s Purgatory); just before sunset we descend the Col du Tachuy and the view of the lakes is breath-taking, we count six or seven of them, each more beautiful than the other.

Faced with the splendour of nature, our fatigue, our tiredness, our aches and pains disappear, and we feel right at home in the world. I keep taking pictures because I want to remember this moment - this is what we are here for.

We descend and then ascend again, towards the Deffeyes Refuge, which is only a few hundred metres away and clearly indicated by a sign, but our trail leads in the opposite direction towards a waterfall that we must climb. We daren’t imagine how many teams have taken the easier route.

Without quoting Walt Whitman, we head for the harder path. Before we start the climb, we sit down on the ground and pull out the delicatessen from our provisions. We swallow a tin of canned meat, a chocolate bar and some dried fruit; we head off again towards the waterfall. From a distance it is not clear how we can pass it, but by getting closer and climbing a few steps we manage to find our way up. The roar of the waterfall is deafening and we are unable to communicate verbally, not that we need to, as in these situations we only need a nod to understand each other. Darkness greets us as we take our first step onto the flat surface of the lake that feeds the waterfall. It is the beginning of the third night, we are halfway through the race (158 km).

Our goal is to reach the Morgex life base; in the hut we quickly eat the same things as everywhere else: by now, even the act of eating has lost its appeal and is only something we need to do to be able to carry on. The path, the relentless forward progress, the progressing has taken over all other activities such as eating and sleeping. Without realising it, we are walking into the night towards Passo Alto (2860 m).

At last we can see the moon and it is less dark. The descent to Morgex is endless, full of little detours in search of the trail and tests our patience.

We are in the Italian section of the course and they serve lasagne at the aid station! We chat with the volunteers, have a nice shower and decide to sleep for two hours on some wonderful mats laid down in the gym. I usually have a hard time convincing Roberto to sleep more, but this time I'm feeling really well and don't feel the need to. My foot is only a little sore and I put off analysing the problem until it is no longer an issue. On the other hand, I know that Roby is in a lot of pain, so I can't really have a problem as well. He has tried all kinds of lacing to avoid the inflammation on his instep and now his foot is badly blistered. At dawn on the fourth day we set off again, it looks like it’s going to be a hot day and we start to make sure our water supplies are plentiful.

We are still climbing at a good pace, in fact we are climbing better than we are descending. In the woods above Morgex we get lost, all three of my GPSs give conflicting information, and after more than half an hour on a very steep slope amid fallen trees and brambles we decide to give up the trail and follow the sun and the mountains. After a while we cross a path that seems to be abandoned and we follow it. The bearing seems to be correct and we get closer to the track, until it takes us off the beaten path again.

After a terrible bushwhacking, steep section, we reach the Tête des Fra at 2830 m. While we eat something, we look down on the valleys before us; apart from one alpine hut, we see no human settlements, a pleasure for my eyes.

It soon becomes clear that the only way forward is to follow the ridge, in the hope that sooner or later there will be a way to descend to St Rhemy en Bosses.

Just before the via ferrata, we come across a man, camped on a small ledge, who greets us with a smile and offers us some herbal liquor. I swear it wasn’t a dream: a random fellow decided to come all the way up there just to offer us hopeless wanderers a drop of his favourite liquor before we tackle an artificially protected aerial section. If you say 'keep trail running weird', this is where it’s at. We hug our newfound hero like old friends and carry on. On an empty stomach, the green concoction does the trick, and even Roby smiles for a while. The passage is not particularly difficult, we’re expecting something more challenging after what we faced in the 2018 PTL, considering that we are wearing a helmet and via ferrata set.

The descent to St Rhemy is very steep and we start feeling the heat, and my foot keeps bothering me. In the village, the aid station is in the same marquee to be used for the Tor des Géants competitors in a few days' time. I am no longer sure what time it is; day and night are now a blur in my head, but I am convinced that this is not the time to stop for too long. I want to check my foot and get moving again. I take off my shoe and sock -  I freeze for a moment as I see my small toe, purple and as swollen as my big toe. It looks like it’s been crushed by the tape put on my blister. I tear off the tape and all the swelling bursts in my hands. The relief is immediate, I try to clean and disinfect the toe as best as I can and am ready to get going. Roberto is at the refreshment table and has never moved, I hope he’s eaten something because I noticed that he tends to eat little, nor does he dare to check his feet. Strangely enough, my stomach, which is always a source of trouble, is fine. I am hungry and at the pace we’re keeping I manage to eat enough without ever bonking. When I call Roby, he gets up like an automaton and starts walking again.

During the ascent, we assess the situation and find that, apart from one foot each, we’re in good shape. Shortly afterwards we meet up with Emanuele and Marco's team, with whom we will share the path until the end, and as if we were lifelong friends, which we’ll become after having covered so many kilometres on the same trail; we begin to chat animatedly about universal issues and the evolution of trail running in recent years. Their energy is contagious and even Roby breaks out of his silence and starts to tell us about all his adventures in the mountains.

After a stretch off the beaten trail, we find ourselves in a beautiful valley that we would never have seen if trail running hadn’t led us there.

Four dogs guarding the herds force us to take a slight detour and we get to the Great St Bernard Pass in the dark, as it starts raining again. By now we don't even need to think about what to do, as we automatically wear layers according to the temperature (spoiler: the Lava jacket is the one we used the most). We are now perfectly programmed to adapt to the weather, but it is at the start of the fourth night that our extended team gets to its lowest point. We are 'naked' in the face of our difficulties.

After the pass, we must follow a semi-collapsed path that, in our minds, should have led us down to the Plan du Jeu shelter.

Often, when you are tired, your instinct makes you think that the route is all downhill, and when it turns out to be the opposite, things take a turn for the worse. I’m probably feeling better than the others, so I persuade them to go slowly, while I stop to check the roadbook and assess the situation with the GPS. In fact, we must climb up to the Pas du Cheveaux. The road is now slippery from the rain and unstable due to the many landslides in the last few days. I catch up with the others who have stopped. Roby is bent out of shape, the pain in his foot must be killing him, but it seems to me that he is struggling much more than he’s used to.

I decide to go all-in and offer him a piece of my dried meat, telling him it works wonders. He seems to trust me, which means he really was running on fumes.

I lie through my teeth and tell him that we only have a bit left to climb, and then it's all downhill to the refuge. Marco and Emanuele also seem to be in trouble. After a break, we set off again, slowly making our way towards the pass. Encouraged by the prospect of a hot meal, we try to descend as quickly as possible. We see lights from above and, once again, I bold-facedly lie and tell him that this must be the hut. Sometimes a goal in sight helps to overcome the momentary difficulty. As expected, when everyone realises that the lights are just the entrance to the Grand St Bernard tunnel, I get my fair share of insults. What's more, the tunnel lights go out when there are no cars passing and only come on when a car approaches. It’s like trying to reach a mirage that keeps appearing and disappearing: a nightmare for the fourth night. Strangely, we must climb over the tunnel entrance and head towards some abandoned buildings, but the refuge is nowhere to be seen. As close as it must be, not being able to see it is frustrating and the team's mood is at its lowest. We climb up a seemingly endless singletrack when we finally smell burnt wood and then the refuge appears. Once again, we expected to arrive at midnight, but it was two in the morning. We eat the usual menu, which this time includes the usual (cold) soup and stew with some French pasta as a side dish. At least the apple pie is good. We prepare our rucksacks for later and treat ourselves to three hours of sleep: we are quite tired and it is better to rest. The wake-up call at 5:30 is a bitter pill to swallow. We ask for breakfast, but we’re told that it is not on the menu and that they have nothing. We make up for it with the usual ‘gourmet’ menu and order three plates of stew with cold pasta. We try to convince our bodies that this is breakfast by sprinkling a little sugar on it and set off again. This time it’s really hard to get going and we try to soften the blow by talking about trail running.

Someone points out to me that I am leaning forward quite a bit on the uphill sections; in fact, I am struggling. My lower back feels sore, and I realise that the poles I’m using are 115 cm long, rather than the 120 cm of my own poles. There must have been a mix-up at one of the huts.

We must now be careful, because due to a landslide caused by a storm earlier in the race, we’re asked (with a message translated from French with Google Translate) to walk backwards to reach the Cabane du Velan. Instead of seven kilometres, we now must walk nineteen. Accustomed to blindly following GPS directions, we’re not sharp enough for this odd detour and, like four inexperienced hikers, we miss the deviation and walk a few extra kilometres, lost in our banter. It’s a beautiful day, but we’ve decided to spend the night in Orsière instead of heading straight to Chamonix, and the kilometres planned for today are not many, a good opportunity to cover a few more tomorrow. We realise our mistake and try to cut through the forest to avoid going back to the junction we missed earlier.

To get to the hut, we must climb a section equipped with ladders and a via ferrata, which we are looking forward to. The technical sections break the monotony of the hike and liven up the route. We leave the via ferrata with a spectacular view of the valley and its melting glacier.

At the Cabane, which is more like a large hut covered in aluminium scales in the shape of an elliptical cylinder, we eat an excellent polenta instead of pasta as a variation on the standard menu. We enjoy a few minutes’ rest, with hikers entering the hut for the night, and then set off again. The day is beautiful, we are feeling well and we quietly soak up the landscape. Before the descent to Orsière, we stop to enjoy the setting sun. We are now living in symbiosis with nature. The destination is getting closer and closer and it seems that none of us want to end this journey.

Maybe it's because I’m relaxing, but my toe is starting to hurt quite a bit now, my sock is soaked in blood and I daren’t look at it. Pain management is always strange. The sharpest pain makes all the others more bearable and becomes dominant, but I hardly notice it, as long as I am concentrated and focused on the goal. Since I started thinking about it, my toe hurts a lot, I feel like the skin has completely come off and the exposed flesh stings at every step.

The descent to the village is an ordeal for all of us, as we try our best not to lean on the sore side. At least this time we arrive at a normal hour, eat and go straight to bed for our three hours of sleep.

I have always found it difficult to doze off, to shut out all the thoughts roaming about in my head. With immense joy, on the fifth night with 6/7 hours of accumulated sleep, I nod off as soon as I lie down. It’s here I wanted to get to, so I have a deep, restful sleep.

We still have two days to complete the route, but we agree to try and finish on Saturday, to enjoy a lazy Sunday before returning to work on Monday.

By 2:30 we are awake and ready to go. It is our last sunrise and we want to enjoy it from the top of a mountain. After all, we are here to fill our eyes with the spectacle of nature.

We climb in the dark with our headlamps, repeatedly turning our heads towards east, so we could stop at the best moment to catch the sunrise.

The climb is really challenging, but we make good progress. When the sun comes out from behind the mountains, we’re sitting and watching it rise.

The ascent to the Fenêtre d'Arpette, though challenging, offers us some spectacular scenery; we’re tired, but at the same time excited for having completed the last hard climb of the race.

This year's route is certainly less technical due to the difficult weather conditions of the first few days, but it gives us a closer look at all the glaciers of Mont Blanc. What impressed us the most was the size of the waterfalls coming out of the ice. It was as if all the glaciers were crying tears from their wounds.

The hike to Col de Balme, although seemingly never-ending, is a mere formality before the last refuge.

We take the time to enjoy this last meal and joke about the (huge) rucksacks carried by the hikers taking the chairlift up. With the contents of their rucksacks, we could probably stay away for a few months and make it all the way to Slovenia along the Alpine arc.

We can see the whole of the Chamonix valley from above, the race is almost over, this adventure is coming to an end. The four of us are trying to process what we have experienced over the last six days.

I don't know if it is because we're tired or because we don't want to finish the race, but we're making very slow progress.

I would like to run to quickly put an end to the pain in my foot; I even realise that I actually can, but then I stop to chat to a nice Swiss gentleman who seems very interested in what we are doing and asks me for all the route data. Unlike in Italy, where trail runners are considered weirdos and usually need to go round hikers occupying the entire path, in other countries everyone moves aside, cheering for us on and asking questions about the route. 

Paved roads, cars, buildings and people are slowly bringing us back to everyday life. We arrive in Chamonix among UTMB finishers. People in the crowd seems puzzled at first, but when they see us and realise from the state we’re in that we’re PTL competitors, a roar accompanies our passage. This is the sixth time I walk the streets leading to the Place Triangle de l'Amitié. I try to hide my tears with a smile, but nope, I can’t hide them this time either, when a group of friends who’ve been waiting meet us at the finish line. 

normalcy after a week in the wilderness is always traumatic.

For those who love figures:

We covered 353,63 Km and climbed 22.799 metres. https://www.strava.com/activities/9770685101

I nearly forgot… rankings are deleted one day after the race, all is now left is a finisher’s prize (a sheep bell) and unforgettable memories. DUV Statistik, no offence meant.

I used two pairs of shoes, Hoka Mafate Speed 4 and Hoka Evo 2 Mafate, two pairs of shorts Wild Tee Bryce 2.0, three Wild Tee T-shirt , two color block LS t-shirts, one  Lava windproof hooded jacket (worn day and night), one Goretex Arc’teryx Norvan jacket, one Compressport light baselayer shirt, one poncho from Decathlon, one pair of waterproof Salomon trousers, one pair of windproof Camp trousers, one pair of Kenai jogger trousers, oneAppalachian jacket, two Wild Tee endurance hats, one reversibile Wild Tee beanie, four pairs of Wild Tee Rockies socks , one Petzl IKO Core headlamp, 1 pair of Nortec Nordic crampons (spikes must be at least 1 cm long), one Petzl Sirocco climbing helmet, one Camp Alp Racing harness and one via ferrata set.

I tested two rucksacks: an Ultimate Direction Fastpack 30 L and a Black Diamond Distance 22 L – neither was up to the task. I slept in a light and small, silk sleeping bag liner, a Cocoon Mummy Liner.

I ate 12 meals from the “gourmet” race menu, of which I paid five, two extra (paid) slices of cake, four (paid) cups of coffee, 100g of cured bresaola, five sticks of Grana cheese, six dried meat sticks, four sticks of smoked salmon, three cans of canned meat, six or seven dried fruit bars, one gel, 200g of dried fruit, one bag of Coke-flavoured gummy sweets.

I slept approximately nine hours: one hour on the third day, two on the third night, three on the fourth night and finally three on the fifth night.

For navigation I used a Coros Apex 2 Pro watch, an app (Terra Map) on my iPhone, a Garmin 66i GPS (hat tip to the Turra family for the loan). The Coros watch was truly indispensable and convenient for reassurance during navigation, the app proved itself extremely useful for route overview using contour lines on the maps, the Garmin GPS was useful when we were unsure of the path to follow.

I started with a pair of 120cm-long carbon Black Diamond Ultra Distance, but now I have a 115cm-long pair.

For the race, Roby wore his usual lucky bull's skull Wild Tee t-shirt, which he has worn for more than six years.

We didn’t use the first-aid kit, except for a few plasters and bandages, nor did we need to use the emergency tent (with thanks to Luca Guerini for lending it to us) and the via ferrata set.