I’ve never complained about how my races went - after all they are just runs, but this time I can't get over it. I had built my castle with care.

I had been training ever since I knew I had been drawn in the lottery – again, after eight years.

In January I had attempted the unsupported Fastest Known Time on the 76-kilometre Fisherman Trail on the beautiful coast of Portugal, completing the route in 8 hours and 16 minutes.

I was prepared, I’d run reasonably well at the 6 hours of Pastrengo (February), at Ultrabericus (March), at the Via Degli Dei (May) and run in the heat in the Marche in URMA (June). All routes on runnable terrain like the Western States. In the last few weeks I had tried to run a little more at altitude to get used to the elevation of the first kilometres. I had also run in the snow, in a spring which never seemed to turn into the usual scorching summer I’d hoped for.

Since January, after sacrificing a lot, I had run more than 2,000 km with 60,000 m of positive altitude gain, covering as much as 180 km and 5/6000 m D+ during some weeks, not as many as a few years ago but a decent number, considering my work and family commitments.

I had the experience of the Western States 2015 and the Spartathlon under my belt. I had learnt to fight the heat with ice and hydration. I had packed an ice bandana for my neck, I had my Endurance hat to fill with ice, light clothes (Wild Tee Road and Race Collection), two hand-held water bottles from Robinson Flat onwards. I had learned that the heat, the real heat, is in the canyons, not in the final part of the race as I thought eight years ago.

I had made so many sacrifices to train, to minimise hassle to my family, to eat well and not to drink alcohol.

I had so many friends following me - to them I wanted to give something in return for their undeserved trust.

I wanted to run alone, without pacers and without a crew so that I wouldn't be swayed and wouldn't have to worry about the people who were there for me. I wanted to start off slowly and do better than 2015 in the canyons and the last sixty kilometres.

I had several goals that I wanted to achieve.

First goal: the senior category record (50-59 years), beating 18h 14' set by Steven Moore in 2019 (not a particularly hot year). The category record is inscribed in the annals of the race and many years ago it was Davide Grazielli’s and my dream.

Second: trying to beat the second best time, 19h 17' would have been "ok".

Third: to try to beat Davide's own time: 19h 53'.

Fourth: to do better than the 20h 22' of Western States 2015 in which I had taken a wrong turn and lost about 25 minutes.

Fifth: at least finish first in my category.

I was under the illusion that I could achieve at least one of these goals and, instead, I blew them all!

I was only worried about the heat, which in the end wasn't a factor.

At the pre-race briefing an announcement was made: there would be a lot of snow in the high country, probably the first 40 kilometres would be slower than usual. Temperatures would be mild all along the route. The damage from the huge Mosquito Fire would be felt with the absence of vegetation over the middle 16 miles of the race. In short, a few inconveniences, as is normal for Ultras, but nothing dramatic.

In view of this, I knew I could attempt to achieve the first two goals.

At the start the air is brisk but what’s missing is the usual genuine old style atmosphere of the American hundred milers: sponsors are everywhere, the start has been moved away from the historic point to make room for new ski lifts, the competitors all seem super-equipped, the public more focused on making videos than enjoying the historic moment.

I enter the grid, turn around and see Dakota Jones behind me, with my head I point out to him that he should be in front. He smiles at me as if to say I am fine here, in front there is too much (media) noise.

And luckily we’re off. I love this moment when I no longer have to worry about everything race-related, because the race is finally underway.

Dakota sprints off and immediately starts chasing the leaders, you can see he is in good shape, he will fight with Tom Evans for first position until he’s forced to give in.

The climb up to Emigrant Pass (everything has an evocative name here), although on a ski slope, is always fascinating. After about 45 minutes I am at the pass. The cheers of the people, who’d come up at night just to see us go by, is always an embrace that warms the heart. I turn around and see the colours of dawn and the sun beginning to illuminate Squaw Valley. From there, there’s no turning back, we’re just heading west.

I have a lot of fun in the first few kilometres and follow, amid a group of girls, the little pink flags that seem to be placed randomly on the piles of snow covering the paths. I’d like to point out that at the start I did not even see the fastest ones, headed by Courney Dauwalter, who ran the race of the century. I observe and immediately understand who is used to the snow and who, on the other hand, continues to slip and slide. We pass Camille Herron (one who boasts no less than seven world records) who’s having a hard time. I decide to take it easy and let go of the girls, who are running faster than me. I try to keep my pace by eating and drinking by the book, and when the sun catches up with us and I feel warm, I put some snow under my hat. In short, I do everything right, trying to anticipate problems. I remembered this part of the race and it is simply marvellous. 'It's the Sierra Nevada, baby' I keep telling myself, the one which John Muir lovingly described at the beginning of the 1900s and, fortunately, left almost unchanged and intact: single tracks perfect for trail running, the soft morning light, almost boundless views of coniferous forests, patches of white snow, blocks of grey granite: trail running paradise.

I feel a little more fatigued than usual in the first few kilometres, but I blame it on the fact that we are still well above 2000 m above the sea level. 

I want to get to the forty-eighth kilometre of Robinson Flat. I have my first drop bag there, I abandon my rucksack and take my 'real' American hundred milers’ kit.

The aid stations and volunteers are the real soul of the Western States and are, without a shadow of a doubt, the best in the world. Everything is perfect. There is a volunteer on lookout who as I approach shouts my bib number to another who looks for my drop bag and hands it to me as I arrive, sits me down and asks me what I need. I open the drop bag where I kept my water bottles and hand them to him, explaining that in one I would like water and ice, and in the other Ginger Ale and ice, plus more ice in the bandana and hat. All this while I wear my prototype sleeveless jacket in our new Race fabric and put gels and bars in the pockets of my Bryce shorts. They ask me if I want sun cream, if I'm OK and if they can do anything else. As soon as I stand up, the spectators cheer, there are two volunteers who give me the bandana that I tie around my neck, the ice-filled hat and the two water bottles. It all happens within a few minutes and always with a smile on their faces. I am sorry to leave such a friendly atmosphere.

With the stop, I lost my two female friends who went on faster than I did. 

Instead, I run a part of the course that I don't remember at all and that doesn't even look like the race. I keep following the flags but I feel a bit lonely.

How is it possible that there are no other competitors? Am I going too fast or too slow?

The first doubts start creeping in. As I always say: our brain tries to stop us when our energy starts to fade. Yes, I always repeat it, but at this moment, doubts begin to worm their way into my head - they are always the ones that end up fooling you.

I admit it: I studied, something I never do, all the split times needed for an 18h, 19h and for a 20h finish time. When you run a race for the second time you feel more confident and, naively, you let hubris win you over. I look at my watch and instead of reading 5h 30' I read almost 6h. But how? I did my best and I’m already half an hour late?

My castle begins to tremble and the numbers don't add up.

I try not to lose confidence, I have run enough ultra-distance races to know that the real maths is to be done later.

I don't want to panic and I speed up, I’ll soon get to the canyons, where I collapsed from the heat in 2015. In fact, I can't wait to fight my demons from the past and I want to get there to face them.

The ice bandana works a treat, it nearly freezes my back.

I don't feel great, but I go through the first canyon and the climb up to Devils Thumb pass without any major problems. 

At the Devils Thumb aid station I refuel quickly. I don't want to stop as I’d done in 2015, with a bout of hyperthermia, when they had to put a freezing wet wool blanket on me. I don't see the elderly gentleman who had greeted me with his baseball cap that year and leave as soon as possible.

I check my watch again: 9 hours and 16 minutes have passed, 45 minutes slower than 2015 and 45 minutes over my plan. My maths still doesn’t add up. I haven't stopped, I'm going steady, I'm not overtaking anyone, yet I advance too slowly.

Every time I reach the bottom of a canyon, which in 2015 was completely dry, I see a stream to cross, sometimes the water reaches the waist. It feels like a good thing to be able to cool off. Fortunately, I can rely on Rockies Dryarn socks.

Crossing the Eldorado Canyon, I finally pass a competitor and catch a glimpse of one of my friends from earlier in the race, I try to follow her but I’m still struggling and let her go.

A thousand thoughts run through my mind, I am not focused enough and, to overcome the canyons I was so afraid of, I stop eating as regularly as before.

On the ascent to Michigan Bluff Kacy Likteig overtakes me, apologises for disrupting my pace and takes off running like a fawn up the hill. I had noticed her very cautious start and perhaps I should have guessed it was a good strategy, but it was not as hot as it was eight years ago and by my calculations we should have been faster than 2015.

The arrival at the Michigan Bluff aid station is always one of the best, everyone is dressed up to the nines and the cheering is stadium-like. The atmosphere is fantastic but I don't want to waste any time and I want to get to Forest Hill as soon as possible, as I am already late. As always, when it is available, I eat some fruit. I don’t feel that hot, and in my haste I forget to fill the water bottle with water and ice. Could it be an unconscious and delusional way to save weight and lessen the effort? 

I set off again; but as soon as I get back on the dirt road, a strong nausea makes me bend over from gagging. I know that stomach issues are my weak point and over the years I have learnt to keep going, even when they are at their worst. I seem to feel better, I start running again but, inside, I know that the next 70 kilometres are an ordeal, my castle begins to crumble and all my certainties disappear. I walk the climbs amidst the desolation of the trees burnt by the big fire of September 2022. The devastation of that beautiful landscape is second only to the devastation in my stomach. I try to move forward by slowing down, but as soon as I raise the pace, my stomach contracts inside my body.

The idea of arriving at Forest Hill and seeing my daughter makes me regain a minimum of dignity and I get there running (the road is downhill).

I leave a water bottle in the drop bag, I start off with the Ginger Ale even though it has lost the magic it had in 2015, I take some gels with me, even though I haven't been able to swallow any for a while. As I start off again, I get passed by a competitor with his pacer. I start to regret my choice not to have one.

I am reminded of the words of Andy Jones Witkins who says that from here to the river there is not a metre of ascent. I follow the two closely, but on the first climb that wasn't supposed to be there I need to walk and I lose sight of them. The climbs which were not meant to be there seem insurmountable, even walking I struggle a lot, I feel weak and it seems to be very hot, I also regret having left behind the other water bottle. At Cal-2 I sit down for a moment, they are worried and offer me an antacid and some hot broth. As I'm trying to drink it, a not-so-young-looking man arrives with his pacer, so I ask him how old he is and his pacer tells me he's turning fifty. My fifth target is also gone. I only discover at the end of the race that he was about to turn fifty but had not yet done so.

Clearly the antacid dissolved in the broth is almost instantaneously rejected, so I hide behind a tree to vomit.

I have nothing to do but keep going, slowly but forward. There is no trace left in my mind of all the motivational phrases I had memorised during training while visualising the difficulties of the race. Yet I had repeated to myself a thousand times: "you will see that with the night the temperature will drop and you will start running again", "the race will go down in altitude and everything will be easier", "once you have passed the canyons the heat is gone", "by Foresthill the major difficulties will have passed". Nothing, it's as if my memory has been erased!

I want to get to the river, but the track keeps ascending without ever deciding to descend to Rucky Chucky. I'm totally blanking and I don't remember this part at all. I finally arrive at the festively decorated river crossing: the cheering is wonderful here too, even if I can't enjoy it. I lie down for a moment and I want to warn Irene not to wait for me at the arrival and to get some sleep because I am very late. I am lying down and I see the competitors arrive at the refreshment point and set off again while I am here, helpless. I get cold, devoid of energy as I am, so I head for the dinghy - this year the water is too high to cross the river on foot. They ask me where my pacer is, so they can take him up with me, but I don't have a pacer because I wanted to do it all by myself, what an idiot! My ferryman is great and with four paddle strokes he takes me to the other side. I tell him that I'm in no hurry, not to bother, that I'm beat and I'm not going very far. I get cold, I am shivering, and with the drop bag where I have the headlamp I change my T-shirt, abandoning my sleeveless Race jersey that had worked so well until now.

All my plans are blown, the castle has definitely collapsed.

I can no longer do the maths and even the silver buckle (a finish time below 24 hours) seems further and further away. I haven't eaten anything for five hours, I try to take advantage of the cool temperatures to climb back up to Green Gate. I try everything, and sparkling water + coke in small doses seems to be the only possible solution. I must look really bad because a guy volunteers to be my pacer until I arrive. In the state I’m in, I don't want to let him experience this slow agony and I decline his kind invitation. I appreciate it very much anyway.

It is still hot in the woods and as soon as I run, I start sweating again, damn me for having abandoned my vest!

I want to shorten my ordeal and try to run at least the flat and downhill sections. I have in my head the words of AJW, who keeps repeating that this is the most runnable part of the whole race. At ALT I meet, much to my surprise, Cesare, who lives in the USA and volunteers at this aid station. I remember him and his speaking Italian back in 2015. He goes out of his way to help me, but I'm knackered and I curl up on a chair. After a while I feel a warm blanket covering my back and with that sort of warm embrace I fall asleep.  I don't know how long I stayed in that strange position, but I regain a little strength. I try to eat some fruit, but even that doesn't want to stay put in my stomach. The very fruit that had saved me in 2015 does not work this time.

I just want to get there, I have given up, when I hear a competitor behind me, I stop to let him pass, rather than trying to keep up with him. At some point, about twenty kilometres from the end, a not-so-young shirtless man overtakes me. I guess he is in my category, so I think third place in that one is gone too. 

I have always disliked category podiums; if you want to have a ranking there is only one and that is the overall one, but as I get older I’ve begun to find solace to the passing years in the former too.

I can't think, I don't remember all the difficulties I encountered and overcame in more than 100 ultratrail and ultrarunning races. I don't remember how bad I had felt at the Gran Raid de la Reunion, how I had recovered and finished sprinting and having fun after 33 hours of racing. The finish of the Spartathlon seems so far away. The difficulties of the Valmalenco with the same stomach problem did not turn into experience to be used in cases like this.

All that remains for me is the 24-hour goal.

It almost seems as if I want to suffer more, instead of limiting my suffering by trying to reach the finish line as soon as possible. I manage to overtake a competitor with his pacer, but even this does not lift my spirits as usual, spurring me on to accelerate to the now approaching finish line.

Not even having the good fortune to have Scott Jurek filling my water bottle at Quarry Road, while Hal Koerner continues to make hilarious jokes, elicits a reaction from me. Between the two of them they have 9 Cougars at home (the prize for winning the WS100) and I am in danger of not getting my second silver buckle. 

I am in a downward spiral, a loop I cannot get out of. I try to crunch numbers over and over again but they never add up; spin the number as much as you want, the result is always disappointing. I am disappointed in myself, in all the energy I have invested and which I have not managed to turn into a satisfactory result. Not even the lap at the Placer High School track has the liberating taste I had dreamed of.

I finish my second, and probably last Western States, in 22 hours 4 minutes, second in the 50-59 age group, 1 hour 42 minutes slower than my time at Western States 2015.

I think it's clear that I'm not at all happy with how it went, but that's how it is in ultras.

I still don't understand what happened in my 105th ultra.