While 11,000 cyclists relaxed and tinkered with their bikes the day before the Italian classic bike race the Nove Colli , about 100 runners were getting ready to run the same route as the cyclists, albeit with an 18 hour head start. While the hardened few had their sights set on the full 200km run, and were preparing to run through the night, most of us were aiming for one of the shorter finishing lines. I had set my sights on the 85km finish. This would take in the first four of the classic nine hills, and would be the farthest that I had ever run.
It hadn’t taken much convincing, but I had talked fellow London ironman and ultra runner Vicki Worster (pic left) into running too. The Italian attitude to race organisation was refreshing. Despite trying to sign up for the race from the UK several weeks earlier, we ended up signing up on the morning about an hour before we were due to start at 12noon. Having hung around Cesenatico for a few hours watching the mercury rise into the mid-30s, we were both remarkably relaxed. The first 21kms were to be run as a group due to the busy roads and towns we had to get through before the hills kicked in. This meant that the pace was leisurely and very sociable. Pre-start, at the briefing (which we diligently sat through despite understanding very little of it) about 12 people were called up for their notable achievements either at the race (previous winners and record holders), or at other races: there was a RAAM finisher, a decaman, among other ultra-junkies and individuals of phenomenal running credentials. It was good to know that so many of the field were such awesome athletes. And to get to run with these people made the start of the run all the more interesting.
We set off with a police escort, a pacing van, a guy hanging out of the back of a people carrier with a TV camera, a couple of marshals on bikes and a group of about 20 costumed men and women with little wooden wheelbarrows. What these represented completely passed us by, but they must have been getting in and out of cars for the first 15kms as they appeared in formation at several points along the first part of the course.
After a while, the police escort disappeared, as did the mysterious men with wheelbarrows, and the pack started to spread out a little. Vicky and I joked that we were ‘leading’ the run as we took a couple of cheeky turns at the front (also getting some camera time J), just ahead of a man who seemed to be pacing the first leg. I discovered this as if I ran in front of him, one of the marshals kept telling me to ‘go calmly’.
At the 21km mark, there was a massive food station. Getting there with the pacer, I figured I had a few minutes to get some food in. A bowl of pasta, some biscuits, strawberries, a small glass of red (it is Italy after all), and a chat. It all seemed far too like a garden party. We were under the impression that there would be a regroup and a second start at this point, so when Vicky pointed out people running up the road towards the first hill, we reconsidered – clearly the second start was an informal affair done Italian style.
So I set off, feeling good going uphill and running past people who were walking already. I quickly ran through the field, happily making my way up the first hill. After a time I figured I was in the lead. There was no one up ahead and the stream of people wound down the hill into the valley behind me. I pressed on, following the road signs into the first town on the Nove Colli route – Bertinoro. As a footnote here I would like to point out that usually I am good at finding my way, reading maps and generally having a clue as to where I am (even if it is only a rough idea) and how to get to where I am going. Perhaps the need for mileage on the bike in training has promoted a slight tendency to try to get lost, but this is usually on purpose! Nevertheless, for the second time in a fortnight, the realisation dawned that perhaps I had strayed off the race route somehow. I had reached the village and everything seemed familiar (we had cycled the front five hills a few days prior), except that I seemed to have come into the main street from the wrong direction. Something twigged about the run route being slightly different to the bike route over the flat section, and it seems that we had approached the first hill from another route.
Some brief consultation with a couple of bemused locals, a brief interlude of swearing and I was off again, running down the hill in the direction I had come from. About 2kms back down the hill I saw some of the field turning off a side road – clearly they knew the route better than I did (and had the benefit of people to follow!). Berating myself, I started to run through the field again. At the next aid station, I found Vicky, who was surprised to see me. One of the marshals taking note of each runners’ number saw me and made a comment in Italian about my new position. I wasn’t about to hang around and try to explain it! A brief chat with Vicky and I continued on.
The temperature had risen over 35degrees. I was travelling light – just a Nathan 10km Runners Pak to hold some essentials – a few PowerBar gels, some PowerBar Shotz, my mobile, some salt tabs and some loo paper – around my waist and a bottle of water in one hand. I had gambled again that the race would be well supported. This and the fact that we had put in bags (with more gels, bars, sports drink, red bull, fresh socks etc) for the top of each hill led me to believe that we would be well looked after. In truth, we were. Food stations were common, though the amount of dried and fresh fruit available made me worry about my stomach’s endurance. At one roadside table I took a swig of what I thought was apple juice and got beer instead! The bags didn’t materialise – certainly not at the front end of the race for the first four hills. At a couple of points I started to get really dehydrated. I hadn’t counted on only having water between stations, and despite taking on coke or juice at stations, the 500ml bottles ran out quickly in the heat. Occasionally I would spot a fountain or tap and make the most of these, but in the later stages I started to hallucinate slightly – imagining that small signs in the distance or saplings by the roadside were taps.
At about the 4 hour mark, an aid station volunteer suggested that I was in 7th place. I was a little surprised. Within the next 30 minutes I picked off the next 4 people – mostly on an 8km climb – and was ‘suddenly’ (its all relative when the race time gets a bit longer) in 3rd. I think this was where the hardest part of the run kicked in. On the downhill side of one of the hills there is a long 18% decent. Running down there I had a few serious doubts about my ability to continue. My quads were screaming at me and my state of imminent dehydration and lack of salt input was starting to tell as the odd cramp spasm kicked through. I let gravity do the work and ungracefully stomped my way down that hill at some speed, adjusting body position and foot landing to try to ease the stress on my quads. At the bottom a flat section came and my quads were very relieved!
On the next hill, Cicola, I ran past the guy in second, but then I had to hold on to get some distance between us before making use of the loo paper (that was a race first!) in a roadside copse. One more to go. The race organisers’ car pulled up next to me and asked me if I was from the UK or Australia. Apparently there had been some confusion over this, but the fact that I was from the UK was a plus as far as they were concerned. “The man ahead is French!”. I guess this was supposed to bring out the stereotyped national competitiveness. But I didn’t need any more motivation to push on. Once the leader was in sight (again, just 4 hours later), I regrouped to make sure that I wouldn’t grind to a halt when I ran up alongside him. We had a brief exchange – he told me he was having a few stomach issues – so I figured I had to go for it. The next hour or so I pushed myself to continue far past any distance I had ever run before. Pushing the last downhill I figured that I needed to make sure I had a good cushion of time between me and the guy behind so that I could make it up the final 5km climb to the finish line with time for a bit of imminent walking – I knew there was an 18% section looming, and my legs were not looking forward to it.
The last climb passed quickly, and even though I kept looking back in case somehow I had been caught, I made it to the finish in plenty of time. Piadina, red wine, pasta and fruit lay spread out. I watched the other finishers come in, and more amazingly, those runners who had challenged themselves to the 200km run, who came through what was just a checkpoint for them right up until the cut off over 4 hours later. Vicki came in just over the 10 hour mark to be the first woman through. Not bad for the first Brits to do the race!
On a day where nearly half the field pulled the pin before the 85km mark, and many pushed on as part of a 24 hour race, I had a great day, full of highs and lows. I never realised running for so long could be so rewarding.
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About the author
I am a professional long-course triathlete for Team Timex - I've a few years of hard work and fun coming up! Here's to the long-game as I work my way up the professional ranks!
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