Oro Bianco: from Milan to Cortina, 570 km on my own two legs

Postaed on February 5th, 2026

Words: Filippo Canetta

Photos: Giorgia Archetti

We first started thinking about this project nearly two years ago now: an athletic project meant to honor the sport itself, connecting the two main host cities of the 2026 Winter Olympics. But we had no idea what we were getting into.

I liked the idea of connecting the two locations purely through running, powered by nothing but my own legs. Not a race, not even a record attempt, since the two cities aren't actually linked by any official route, but simply a journey on foot across northern Italy.

I started researching how the venues were spread out, and realized the areas hosting the Winter Olympics stretch across an enormous territory, spanning three regions, six provinces, and eight sites: Milan, Livigno, Bormio, Tesero, Predazzo, Anterselva, Cortina and Verona.

Connecting all these points by car takes 1,086 km and 18 hours, obviously making the trip by public transport isn't possible.

Here on the Blog, I want to share my direct experience with you, in a more personal way, of what I actually lived through.

This is the biggest, most complex project Wild Tee has ever taken on, and right from the start I wanted to bring in Giorgia Archetti (Photographer), Giulia Bertolazzi (Videomaker), and Sofia Farina (Journalist), with Claudio Canetta, who's been with Wild Tee for a year and a half now, coordinating the whole project. We asked them to tell this journey through their own impressions, from their own perspective, while I was busy running.

Along the way, we interviewed 16 people who live in, or are connected to, the areas we passed through. Scheduling all the appointments across the different locations wasn't easy, and I only had one week, from September 22 to 28, to complete the entire route.

As often happens when everything's perfectly synchronized, the weather decided not to cooperate.

September 22, 2025, MILAN-LIVIGNO
211.49 km, 2,936 m D+, in 9h 4' (Bike)

At 7 am, under pouring rain, in front of Milan's Olympic Village, Luca Vignali shows up, he'd messaged me the night before, offering to accompany me for part of the trip. I don't know how to thank him enough, because the situation is dire, there's a general strike in Milan, plus a weather alert for possible flooding. Amid the city's hysterical traffic, we're the only two on bikes, and not a single driver seems to consider that there might actually be people out there on thin 28 mm wheels, trying to weave past the line of stopped cars.

After a few skids and near-crash braking moments, we manage to reach Monza, while the Seveso River overflows shortly after we pass through. Luca's a great cyclist, handling the bike well even on Brianza's slick roads. We move cautiously, trying to stay upright through every roundabout, taking turns at the front, though with the spray kicked up by whoever's leading, drafting is basically impossible. We reach Lecco, crossing floods deep enough to reach halfway up the wheels, soaked to the bone, stopping only for bathroom breaks and to eat a bar.

Then comes the moment we'd been dreading: the 4 km stretch on the Lecco-Colico expressway. It seems absurd having to leave the lakeside road behind, with the only option being the SS36 all the way to Abbadia Lariana. It's a stretch that scares me even in sunny weather, where cars race along the two lanes at over 100 km/h, apparently oblivious to the fact that cyclists aren't riding there because they've taken a wrong turn, they're riding there because it's literally the only road available!

I feel responsible for Luca, I yell for him to stay behind me, and take the lead, pushing the fastest pace I can manage to close the speed gap with the cars honking as they overtake us. It's Monday, so besides the cars there are trucks too, and when they pass, on top of the turbulence, they literally drench us with a wave of freezing water. I don't even want to imagine what could've happened if one of us had gone down in that situation. Hearts in our throats, we take shelter in the Abbadia tunnel, then get back on the lakeside road, which carries us safely all the way to Colico.

Throughout the whole ride, I kept asking Luca if he was regretting coming along, and, laughing, he always told me he was having the time of his life. In Colico, the air turns colder, and we decide it's time for him to head back by train. I hand him a thermal top and a Mulino Bianco milk cookie, and say goodbye to him and to the Crew Car, which had been shadowing us closely through the most dangerous stretch.

After Morbegno, I stop with the crew to eat a warm AKTA pouch. I hadn't had one since the Marathon des Sables, and it feels like being reborn. I set off again on the bike path running through most of Valtellina, but soon I'm forced back onto the provincial road, since the path's covered in slick leaves and littered with fallen branches from the storm. I reach Tirano after more than 160 km, and finally the rain grants a short truce, I'm exhausted but relieved to have made it here safely. From there, it's all uphill, 2,000 m of elevation gain over 34 km to Passo di Forcola, heading into Livigno, and, going uphill at least, I worry less about falling.

This stretch is brutal, nearly punishing, and my lack of bike-specific training makes itself painfully clear. I'm forced to stop several times, barely able to keep going. Every time I stop, soaked as I am, I chill fast in the freezing mountain air. I'm pedaling almost entirely in first gear, and the climb seems endless. Sure enough, past Lago di Poschiavo, there isn't a single flat meter left. It's started raining again too, and a thick fog creeps in between the trees. When roadworks force alternating one-way traffic and I have to put a foot down, restarting, I struggle to clip my shoe back into the pedal. On the muddy sections caused by construction, the rear wheel slips through the mud, and I struggle to make any forward progress.

Past the Swiss border checkpoint, like a mirage, I see Claudio in our car, coming to meet me after dropping the girls off in Livigno to do the interviews. I'd already gotten my hopes up earlier, mistaking a similar car for ours, but this time I'm sure, since ours is wrapped in the Wild Tee logo, alongside Mount to Coast's, our project partner for this. Claudio does a U-turn and stops a bit further ahead, I catch up and dive straight into the trunk, hunting for a dry shirt, a jacket and heavier gloves, since at 2,000 m I'm freezing. I set off again, knowing Forcola isn't far now, Claudio drives ahead of me for the customary photo, and from there begins the only descent of the entire day.

Luckily, the descent isn't wet, and the rain's stopped, in fact, it looks like Livigno's actually got sun. Buried in the fog, it had felt like evening already, nearly dark, when it's actually only 5 pm as I reach the I'm Sport shop in Livigno, which kindly agrees to store my filthy bike until I can come back to collect it (in the meantime, they'll clean it up and hand it back to me looking brand new, thank you, thank you Filippo and Emma!).

And so ends the first leg of my journey. I chose to cover this stretch by bike since, roadworks aside, there's nothing directly tied to the Olympic Games' athletic events along it, tomorrow, I switch back to running, on trails and ski slopes.

September 23, 2025, LIVIGNO-PONTE DI LEGNO
67.39 km, 2,851 m D+, in 10h 4' (Run)

The morning's cool, but at least it's not raining, the team's already out on location for the first interview as I set off from Livigno, right in front of the construction site on the Mottolino slope. I'm curious to see how my legs will respond after yesterday's nine hours in the saddle. Today's leg is probably the toughest, and I've got no time to waste, I climb the mountain alongside the construction work on the slope, where earthmoving machines are busy preparing the "Snow Park." The trail I'm supposed to follow has been swallowed up by the construction site, and I'm forced to pick my way along the fencing, by sight, to avoid adding extra distance to my journey. The construction zone is massive, so huge that from above, the bulldozers look like toy models scaled down to nothing.

When I crest the ridge toward Trepalle, a ray of sunlight catches me, could be a nice moment, there are even some horses approaching, but I don't feel immersed in nature at all. Behind the horses, a bulldozer's at work, and an endless line of trucks crosses the road, heading toward the artificial reservoir under construction at 2,600 m above sea level, up on Monte Sponda. I wonder how, and from where, they'll actually source the water to fill it. I try not to dwell on it, focusing instead on pushing forward as fast as I can. The descent toward the valley floor offers a beautiful view of the mountains on the other side, still untouched by infrastructure.

My legs seem to be holding up, and on the climb toward Passo di Foscagno I'm running pretty well. After yesterday's bike slog with barely any specific training, running feels more natural, an athletic motion I know far better. It starts drizzling, and I want to avoid getting caught in the full downpour at the top of the pass. I dive into the descent, following what's marked on every map as a trail, but which has been widened to let trucks pass through. Over three kilometers, I encounter at least five of them, crawling up the slope with engines maxed out, unable to stop, or they might never get going again, so it's me who has to press myself against the uphill side to let them pass. From what I catch as I pass, they're laying massive pipelines.

The descent flows quickly, and I reach Bormio right on schedule for my meeting with the team. We'd agreed to meet in front of the Stelvio Olympic Ski Center, below the downhill slope of the same name. The town's deserted this time of year, the bars and shops all closed, and there's no sign of our car anywhere. The rain picks up, and I hope they'll catch up with me quickly, so I can keep moving without getting too cold. They're running late, the interviews with the athletes competing in the Olympics, and with the CEO of the company managing the construction, ran long. I take shelter in the only bakery open, and eat a slice of cake.

Standing still, I get cold, and I need a heavier jacket, since the weather promises nothing good for the hours ahead. The moment they arrive, I dig through our car's trunk and head off again, sadly no time left to go check out the construction of the new water reservoir for artificial snowmaking, I've got a meeting with Moreno, Wild Tee's Sales Agent for Italian Retailers and a great friend, who's come to run part of the route with me. I reach the agreed meeting point, but there's no sign of either Moreno or the car. Poor guy's climbing back up on foot with his duffel bag from the valley floor, where the bus had dropped him off, having missed the car that was supposed to give him a lift and take his bag.

Luckily, the rain's stopped, I sit on a rock and eat through all my food supplies. I start getting impatient, since there are still plenty of kilometers left, and the phone calls aren't exactly reassuring. I'm tempted to push on, but that would mean Moreno had come all this way for nothing, so all I can do is wait. When both finally arrive, almost at the same time, I grab some food from the trunk and set off with Moreno. The climb up to Passo del Gavia, at 2,600 m, is very long, but wonderfully wild, exactly how I like it, finally, I'm immersed in a landscape with nothing man-made in sight, the road sits across the valley, barely even visible. On the climb I push hard, and nearly lose sight of Moreno, but I want to reach Lago Bianco to personally thank Matteo Lanciani, who'd come to be interviewed, and who, alongside the "Save Lago Bianco" committee, managed to halt construction that had already started, aimed at exploiting this natural gem for artificial snowmaking.

When we reach the lake, the orange light of sunset lights it up in all its beauty. As I run, a deep sadness rises in me, thinking that anyone could have even considered destroying something this perfect. My eyes well up, and I'm worn from the climb when I hug Matteo, unable to find the words to thank him for what they'd managed to achieve. The excavations have been restored, and there's barely a trace left of that senseless attempt.

I'm running nearly two hours behind schedule, and in our rush to set off again, we forget to grab our headlamps. I quickly calculate the remaining distance and figure I can reach Ponte di Legno before it gets too dark, it's only 15 kilometers of descent. I don't want to trash my quads on the very first day, but darkness starts to fall while we're still working our way down the rugged trail that drops from the Gavia into the Ponte di Legno valley. I've skipped lunch too, thanks to the interview delays, and I'm out of supplies, I start thinking about all the kilometers still ahead over the coming days, and it puts me on edge, since we couldn't even manage to coordinate properly on day one. Moreno's struggling a bit, after all, he'd made an incredible effort just to run thirty-five kilometers with me. I call Claudio to come pick him up as soon as possible, reluctantly leave him behind, and throw myself into the descent toward the hotel. I run hard, using my phone's light, wanting nothing more than to arrive, eat, and rest.

We all gather together at the table, and I'm told that, for legal reasons, we likely won't be able to use the interviews with the athletes and officials filmed in Livigno. This is where the real difficulty of our project surfaces: it's not just about cycling and running 600 kilometers, it's also about gathering images, video and interviews along the way, to paint as broad and accurate a picture of the situation as possible. Getting every perspective and opinion to coexist under one roof turns out to be a nearly impossible mission. As I prepare my gear and set my breakfast out in the bathroom, so as not to wake the others the next morning, a wave of discouragement washes over me.

September 24, 2025, PONTE DI LEGNO-MASI DI VIGO
74.84 km, 1,648 m D+, in 8h 50' (Run)

In mapping out the route through all the Olympic Games' host locations, I tried to find the best balance between distance covered and elevation gained, always keeping the equivalent kilometers under a hundred, and gradually scaling them down as the days went on and exhaustion built up.

Today's leg covers the most kilometers, but with the least elevation gain, with plenty of stretches on paved road. Luckily, today's purely a transfer leg, no interviews, no Olympic-specific construction sites. I'm feeling pretty good, finding my rhythm. Usually, in stage races like Marathon des Sables, day three tends to be a bit of a critical point, you're still not past the halfway mark of the total effort, still need to pace yourself for the stages ahead, but fatigue is starting to build.

I can't complain, really, all I have to do each day is get up, eat something, and set off along the trails. I know full well this isn't a race, but I still care (as always) about giving it my absolute best. I also know that, in a project like this, nobody will actually care how long it takes me, but I've set myself goals, and I'm doing this only to see whether I'm able to reach them.

The morning's cool, and the mountains carry a light fresh dusting of snow on their peaks.

I climb at a good pace toward Passo del Tonale, today I don't want to waste any time, and I really want to reach the end of the leg before dark. There's no one on the trails, the season's over, and the forecast again promises nothing good for anyone traveling on foot. It'd been years since I'd passed through Tonale, my trail runs right beneath the ski lifts, I count four of them, one after another, within about 200 meters. Without snow, the landscape looks incredibly bleak. I send the car my position and wait at the meeting point, luckily thick fog cuts visibility down to just a few meters, sparing me the sight of the mountainside disfigured. I'm getting cold, we quickly film my passage, and I set off again, heading toward the valley floor. The descent is pleasant, and I run at a good clip, crossing into Trentino, where signs warning of bear presence start appearing. I've never had a problem with wildlife, once, years ago, I ran into a bear on the trail, we looked at each other, then went our separate ways, thankfully. Maybe it's the autumn weather, or the many hours alone in the woods, but this time I'm on high alert, ears tuned to every faint noise, and I'm relieved to reach the first villages down in the valley.

After a quick stop for something warm to eat in Vermiglio, I push on fast, wanting to take advantage of the good weather window, since the afternoon forecast looks terrible. It's really striking how differently you perceive things on foot versus in a car. Moving quickly along roads, you never quite grasp the true scale of distances, how the landscape shifts, or how much it's been altered by human hands, but honestly, that was part of the point of this journey too, to see it all with my own eyes.

I've been running for several kilometers now through apple orchards so dense I can't see the end of them. About twenty kilometers still remain when the rain picks up. I always carry a Garmin inReach Mini (kindly lent to me by Michele Sarzana), so everyone can track my position, and so anyone can verify I'm genuinely running from Milan to Cortina, I'm not a fan, honestly, of expeditions where nobody can confirm athletes are actually doing what they claim to be doing. The device has a slight delay, but it's worked flawlessly so far. For some reason, though, around Cles I lose satellite reception, and the car struggles to reach me, purely by chance we cross paths, and I grab a quick last resupply, after which they head straight to the B&B where we'll sleep for the night.

The rain starts back up, I made the mistake of not bringing a jacket, and I'm stuck in just a t-shirt and shorts. To avoid getting cold, I'm forced to hold a solid pace, but the orchards seem to go on forever, and it feels like I've been stuck in the same spot for hours. A few farmworkers, bundled up in ponchos and jackets, are starting the harvest, after a tractor's scattered enormous crates at the start of each row.

I'm soaked to the bone when I spot someone running toward me, waving, dressed in a rain jacket and waterproof pants. It's Luca Chilovi, who's been looking for me for hours to run a few kilometers alongside me. I'd told him to rest up, since he'd just finished TOR des Géants a couple of weeks earlier, and I'd honestly forgotten about him, but stubbornly, he kept his promise to escort me through the final kilometers toward Masi di Vigo, the village where he lives. I'm so soaked and chilled I don't even have the energy to talk to him as he walks me all the way to the B&B gate, but I really appreciated the gesture, and I'm sorry Giulia wasn't there to film this shared moment.

I dive straight into a hot shower, then throw on every piece of clothing I have to shake off the cold.

My second pair of Mount to Coast (H1) shoes is soaked too, I'll spend the evening drying them out with a hair dryer, hoping tomorrow brings a bit less rain.

September 25, 2025, MASI DI VIGO-PREDAZZO
64.24 km, 2,348 m D+, in 8h 11' (Run)

My shoes have dried out, and the day's shaping up to be an interesting one, while the crew has breakfast, I set off at first light. I want them to rest and take their time, since today we're back at Olympic venues, with several interviews planned. We've agreed to meet at Lago Santo, about twenty kilometers ahead. I'm curious to see how my route will get me across the Adige, and especially how I'll cross the A22 Brenner highway. From apple orchards, I move into vineyards, in fact, every square meter of land seems dedicated to wine production. Vines are everywhere, but luckily, sustainable mobility infrastructure is well established in Trentino, and I find myself running along a dense network of bike paths that weaves right through the vineyards, carrying me safely under the highway and across a bridge over the Adige. Everything's simpler than expected, then a tough climb begins on the other side of the river, first still surrounded by vineyards, then through a beautiful beech forest, thick with porcini mushrooms, all the way to the lake.

By now, on day four, we're perfectly coordinated. I'm honestly amazed I haven't run into a single physical issue so far, still moving well both uphill and downhill, my relative pace's stayed consistent, and I'm able to give the team fairly accurate arrival times at meeting points, based on distance and elevation gain. Sure enough, we arrive at the lake at the same moment, just as a ray of sunlight breaks through the dense forest, giving us a genuinely lovely moment. With the weather finally cooperating, a certain lightheartedness spreads through the group, though, by now, it's clear two distinct teams have formed: Team Crew Car (four young people in the car) and Team Solo (one old guy running). While I spend my hours alone on the trails, they tease me with memes they've invented while overtaking me by car, and I threaten them, telling them next time we're doing this relay-style!

I'm feeling so good I head straight back out without wasting time. A brief stop to eat an AKTA pouch in Grumes, then the entire Val di Fiemme awaits. After four days, my metabolism, helped along by a relatively slow pace, has adapted to the sustained effort and shifted toward burning more fat. Increasing my body fat burn lets me cut down on calorie intake. I feel much less need for fast carbs, gels, bars, than I did on the first two days, and I appreciate real food much more. An AKTA pouch, with its 500 kcal, fills my stomach and holds me for at least two hours of effort. By the end of the trip, as usual, I'll bring home the gels and bars, but I'll have run through all my freeze-dried meal pouches, Parmesan, bresaola, meat, and dried fruit.

In my mind, being a lowland dweller from the Po Valley, I'd had a pretty idyllic picture of Val di Fiemme. I imagined it filled with meadows and mountain alpine huts, but instead, running along the valley's trails and bike paths, I find a heavily developed area, buildings and industrial sheds running unbroken from one village to the next. The "Crew Car" team's gone ahead to interview Luigi Casanova in Tesero, president of Mountain Wilderness Italia and author of "Ombre sulla neve" and "Oro colato." Luigi's one of the first people to seriously study the impact of the Olympic Games in Italy, and his books offer a fairly complete picture of every aspect involved.

The kilometers along the valley seem to drag on forever, I keep checking my pace on the GPS, it's steady, but I feel like I'm never actually getting anywhere. The long straight stretches along the slightly uphill bike path start wearing me down, and I can't wait to reach Tesero for a break. When I get there, the scene is fairly surreal. In front of the cross-country ski stadium under construction, surrounded by a thousand cranes and excavators inside an electrified fence, I spot Giulia and Sofia interviewing Luigi, right in the middle of a herd of cows, who've curiously surrounded them completely. I greet and thank Luigi, but can't stop for long, since Giorgia and Giulia want to film me running along the cross-country track, which, freshly cut through the fields, is basically a mud slide right now. I'm in a t-shirt and shorts, and it hits me that we're only at 880 meters of altitude. It's hard for me to imagine how anyone could still plan to ski at this elevation.

These final kilometers, along with that thought, really wear me down, and all I want is to reach Predazzo for a shower. I can feel I'm not landing quite right, and the lower part of my left shin has gone really stiff.

September 26, 2025, PREDAZZO-SAN MARTINO IN BADIA
66.09 km, 2,087 m D+, in 9h 30' (Run)

By day five, my routine's fully settled in, a quick breakfast in the bathroom, so as not to wake the others, setting off at first light, running at a solid pace until the first meeting point with the car along the paved road, roughly twenty kilometers in. A hot lunch after another 15 km, one last aid stop about fifteen kilometers from the day's finish, shower, dinner-table chat with everyone together, gear prep for the next day, a check on the physical damage, a few hours' sleep, then off again.

This tight schedule doesn't weigh on me at all, if anything, as the days go by, exactly as this kind of lifestyle is designed to work, I handle everything with more calm, less anxiety. On a long journey, it's important to stay focused on the final goal, reaching Cortina by Sunday the 28th. Yesterday's leg really tested my knees, I try not to dwell on it and keep moving forward as planned, but something's starting to creak.

I pass by the ski jumps in Predazzo and start the long climb that'll carry me, over 35 kilometers, up to Passo Sella.

On the climb, I'm still pushing well, better than I'd expected, though by now I've learned that in long races like Petite Trotte à Léon (PTL 2018 and PTL 2023) or Eiger Ultra Trail, it's always the climb's exhaustion that scares you, but it's the descent that causes the real trouble.

On a particularly steep stretch of road, I come across a woman struggling enormously, pushing a walker, stopping every two steps to lock the handbrakes fitted to her walker's wheels, to avoid the risk of sliding backward, down the hill. She rests a moment, then pushes forward another two steps. I'm behind her and, at first, I don't quite understand. Her legs seem to move independently of the rest of her body. It seems incredible to me that she's putting herself through such a superhuman effort on a climb this brutal. I pass beside her, not sure what to do, ask if she'd like a hand, if there's any way I can help, and she answers with a warm smile, distorted by the effort though it is, "No thanks, I just have to hold on." At those words, I'm speechless, close to tears, and the only thing I manage to do is flash her a "keep going" gesture, flexing my bicep. I move on quickly, so she won't see how shaken I am, thinking about how lucky I am to actually be able to run this climb.

A little further on, a sign marks my entry into the Fanes-Sennes-Braies Nature Park, and shortly after, I run into a man carrying a hefty rifle. As often happens on this journey, my feelings quickly swing back toward disillusionment with humanity.

During the climb up to Sella, it starts raining, and near the pass, the rain turns into snow, made sharp by wind blowing straight against me. As things get more complicated, I'm forced to focus intensely on getting myself out of trouble quickly, and luckily I have neither the time nor the energy left to think about my knees. The descent's fairly technical, and I've still got another pass ahead, Passo Gardena.

The mountains around me are already dusted with snow, stunning, I'd never been through this area before. Unfortunately, it's not enough to distract me from the pain, which is starting to cloud my thinking. Over 1,500 m of descent still await me, and with every step a sharp jolt runs from my knees straight to my brain, planting serious doubts about my ability to run another 120 kilometers. I push on, that woman from this afternoon still fresh in my mind, and I redirect all my thoughts toward her pain, far worse than mine, instead of my own.

I switch off every alarm signal in my brain, and, almost in a trance, tackle the long descent.

Before Badia, I find Claudio, who tells me they're taking a break at Giorgia's father's house. I'd completely forgotten about this little stop. Giorgia's family welcomes us warmly, stuffing us with every good thing imaginable. Unfortunately, I'm exhausted, worried, and struggle to be particularly sociable. Getting going again proves tough, my knees have cooled off from stopping, and getting them moving again isn't easy. Meanwhile, I've crossed into South Tyrol, and I hold on until San Martino, where a beautiful mountain hut set among the meadows awaits us.

This turns out to be the leg with the lowest pace, relative to distance and elevation gain. So far, I've covered over 272 km and nearly 9,000 m of elevation gain, the pain I'm feeling has climbed to an 8 out of 10, and I've still got two legs left, luckily, the shortest of the whole trip.

September 27, 2025, SAN MARTINO IN BADIA-ANTERSELVA
41.74 km, 2,530 m D+, in 7h 6' (Run)

During the night, I decide to make a change to the plan, I re-study today's leg, mapping out a route with more elevation gain that spends more time up in the mountains, cutting down the flat valley stretches. If I have to suffer, I want to at least do it somewhere beautiful.

I reschedule all the meeting points with the Car Team, send them to the group over WhatsApp, and set off.

The choice turns out spot-on, the scenery's far more interesting, and the first kilometers flow well. Being slower on the descents, I focus on running as much as I can uphill, which I handle far better than expected.

Ski lifts are present in this area too, but less intrusive, and the impression I get is that skiing isn't the only resource here, pastures are still active, in fact, it feels like time's frozen at an era where the relationship between people and nature is far more balanced than in other areas I've crossed.

On the long descent down to the Rienza River, my pain climbs to a 9 out of 10. I'm nearly at my limit, in situations like this it's as if I switch off my brain and flip into autopilot, toward the finish, pushing forward no matter what happens.

Luckily, the whole Anterselva valley climbs uphill, and I'm able to start running again. Finally the weather turns pleasant, and I can run light, catching a few rays of sun. The crew's already at the biathlon stadium, interviewing Beatrice Citterio, whose doctoral research investigates the impact of the Olympic Games, she'll be joining us all the way to Cortina. Her paper "Giochi Preziosi" was the spark that revealed this whole project to us, and I'd urge you to check it out.

With perfect timing, though fairly worn out, I reach the restaurant across from the stadium, where the crew's having a snack break. I muscle my way into the order with a Kaiserschmarrn, a strudel with custard, and a tea. As usual, I get left out (absolutely not true, editor's note) of the group's conversation, which, nearing the end of the project, is now cheerfully going off the rails.

The food's a lifesaver, but when it's time to get moving again, to go see the construction on yet another artificial reservoir, my legs push back from the cooldown, stiff, like the day after a hard-fought race, and I struggle to even walk.

We don't know exactly where the excavation site is, so we decide to fly the drone to locate it. Giulia's an experienced pilot (certified), and I've already watched her fly one off a mountaintop in forty-knot winds like it was nothing. Within seconds, she spots the reservoir, gets a shot, but the moment she tries to bring the drone back to its launch point, it gets "magnetized" and she loses control. It's a bizarre situation, just a few meters from us, the drone vanishes from sight and takes off sideways, as if steered by someone else, veering off the path Giulia had been flying it along. We can hear it, but we can't see it anymore. In a brief window where she regains partial control, watching what the drone sees through the control monitor, over a patch of forest, Giulia decides to force it down, to avoid it slamming into someone or something. She and I run to search for it in the woods, and, luckily, find it intact, the forest moss cushioned the fall, and it didn't even collide with any of the dense fir trees.

Panic subsiding, we set off from Anterselva's stunning alpine lake, following a trail into the dense forest, and suddenly, a massive chasm opens up in front of us, the trees are gone, and about ten bulldozers and earthmovers are parked around the crater. The fact that nobody's working on a Saturday makes the sight even more devastating. Silence falls over the group, none of us manages to say a word. Almost like a funeral procession, we follow the fencing up to the highest point. From there, we can see the natural lake and the artificial one, nearly identical in shape, just meters apart. One blends perfectly into its natural surroundings, the other hits like a punch to the gut. You don't need to be an extreme environmentalist to see that something's deeply wrong here. We reluctantly take a few shots and photos, then decide to walk away from that place, the way you would from something truly heartbreaking. As we descend, we notice a car climbing up, worried it might be security coming to check what we're doing. Instead, it's a woman who slowly gets out of the car, paying us no mind, and, facing the construction, breaks down in despair. It would have made a perfect scene for the documentary, but none of us can bring ourselves to film it.

September 28, 2025, ANTERSELVA-CORTINA
42.80 km, 1,660 m D+, in 6h 44' (Run)

In planning out the route, I'd kept the final leg light, so I could reach Cortina after lunch, do the last interviews, and head straight back to Milan without having to stop overnight, given the resort town's notoriously steep accommodation prices.

I approach the last day with mixed feelings.

I'm happy I made it, not something I'd taken for granted, but at the same time, I'm sad to have to stop, running, after all, is what I love doing most.

Descending from the Anterselva valley, still above 1,100 m in altitude, I notice they're planting a new vineyard. I'd read that, with climate change, vineyards are steadily moving higher, and it strikes me as a good sign, a way to keep mountain communities alive and push back against the depopulation of the highlands.

I cross the Rienza River again, following the valley floor for a few kilometers. It's interesting to see how, in South Tyrol, sport and outdoor activities are always factored into local planning. In Monguelfo, I photograph a sign highlighting the town's amenities based on proximity to sports facilities, playground 150 m, swimming pool 500 m, e-bike charging station 200 m, train station 400 m.

Despite that focus, there's no dedicated footpath along the main road, but I don't feel alone, plenty of people before me have walked this same stretch on foot, their passage tracing out a perfect trail through the grass along the roadside.

Along the way, my progress keeps getting interrupted by repair work, especially around the increasingly frequent landslides now sliding down from the Dolomites.

At this point, my pace is dictated purely by trying to minimize the knee pain that's been building day after day, step after step, now nearly reaching the "limit" of 10 out of 10. I try to keep in mind that, honestly, I don't actually know where my true pain limit even lies. During PTL 2023, in fact, I ended up tolerating pain in one toe that I'd thought was completely unbearable, so, at least mentally, I mark the level back down to 9 out of 10, it's not over yet. Because of this, I'm forced to run slower than I'm capable of on flat stretches, almost walking on the descents, and yet, I'm amazed at how well I'm still climbing.

Finally, the Val di Braies begins, opening with a nice climb I can actually run, one that'll carry me up to 2,000 m, onto the magnificent Prato Piazza plateau. Caught up in the relief of the pain easing, I forget and blow right past the spot where we'd agreed to meet for the first resupply, the day's cool and I don't need anything, so I let the crew know to enjoy some free time, and that we'd meet up directly for lunch at Cimabanche.

The day isn't the clearest, but whenever the clouds thin out, the view of the Dolomites is spectacular, there's no denying it, these are genuinely among the most beautiful mountains in the world. The scenery's stunning, but I never quite get the sense of being somewhere truly wild, there's always a paved road nearby, sparing tourists the effort of actually reaching these places on their own. People waiting for the bus stare at me like I'm some kind of alien as I hop the barrier blocking their cars from passing through. If only they knew how beautiful, and how good for them, the forest trail running alongside the road would be. I grab some water from a stream, and it takes me back to the very first Lavaredo Ultra Trail, when there weren't even any aid stations planned, and we had to fend for ourselves, scooping water straight from streams. Thinking about how much Italy's most important Trail race has evolved since then, I don't know if these are just the musings of a nostalgic old trail runner, or if the way people approach the mountains has genuinely changed for the worse. I try not to dwell on it, I don't have a clear answer either way.

Coming down from Passo Prato Piazza on the trail, I come across two guys aiming a precision rifle toward the far side of the valley, way off in the distance. I don't understand what they're doing, it seems impossible they could ever actually retrieve whatever they're aiming at.

At Cimabanche, right where one of the current LUT's main aid stations sits in late June, I find the crew, who, jokingly shouting "pasta's ready," hand me a nice warm AKTA pouch. It always amazes me how good it feels just to sit down for a moment and eat something warm.

Setting off again onto the (dirt) bike path that'll carry me to Cortina, the pain starts clouding my thinking, my head feels almost bubble-wrapped, connected but not quite tethered to my body, a bit like in a really long race, when, apparently, all you can see is the finish line. My memories of that stretch are hazy, a few tunnels, a bridge, the Olympic Village with its 377 prefab houses sitting on the Boite River's gravel bed, and the landslide warning poles rising right above the village.

Maybe it's just too many hours spent wandering alone through the woods, but when I reach Fiames, right next to the village, where they're recording the day's second-to-last interview with Fabio Tullio from Legambiente, all I catch from his audio are the words: floodplain, and landslides. I only manage to thank him for what he does, shake his hand, then head off for the final stretch of my route.

The finish, in Cortina, sits in a lovely green clearing, shaded by the parabolic dish of the "Sliding Centre." The whole Crew's there waiting for me, applauding, smiling, and I'm genuinely happy to see them all. With them is Silverio Lacedelli, an indigenous local, as he describes himself, and an activist. Silverio's testimony turns out to be one of the most moving and powerful moments of the entire trip, recorded just meters from the reinforced concrete walls of the track. He shows us project plans and other material he's gathered over years spent fighting this construction site. I genuinely don't know how to thank him enough. Unfortunately, we have to head straight back to Milan, so as not to waste the last hours of daylight on the long four-and-a-half-hour drive ahead.

In the car, knees wrecked and bent awkwardly in the seat, I replay everything I saw over these 570 km, up and down the mountains, and I know it'll take a long time to fully process it.

I saw wonderful landscapes, but also humanity's stubborn attempts to reshape them to fit our own needs.

Standing in front of certain construction sites, we found ourselves speechless, a thousand unanswered questions spinning in our heads.

Does it still make sense to pour so much public money into a business model no longer compatible with the planet? Aren't we going well beyond, far beyond, the climate crisis, given how unlikely it is to keep snowing at all? Wasn't this the moment to do something genuinely good for sport and for mountain communities instead?

This project affected me deeply, emotionally as much as "physically," because I feel like part of the problem too, as someone living in a city who heads to the mountains for their own activities. Through this run, I wanted to make a statement: this business model, one designed for people like me too, isn't one I want, because it's simply incompatible with what I love, and what I'm searching for, in nature.

I can't shake the feeling that there's an active attempt to make the mountains resemble cities, reshaping the natural environment to make it more accessible, easier to manage, activated only on the calendar's schedule rather than the weather's own. Snow has to be there exactly when needed, not just whenever it happens to fall, slopes need to keep growing bigger to accommodate more skiers over a weekend or a ski week, the bobsled track has to be reinforced, refrigerated concrete rather than shaped from ice itself, the snow park built from dirt and coated in artificial snow, the ski lifts ever larger, faster, more widespread.

I don't know if the sense of sadness this journey left me with will ever fully lift, and, honestly, it's even starting to sap my will to keep fighting. It feels like everything's been turned inside out, the true priorities, fighting climate change, environmental sustainability, cost reduction, preserving the environment, benefits for local communities, weren't given the slightest real consideration, all in the name of a business model that's already proven itself unsustainable.

I hope it snows as much as possible, and that snow, with its pure white color, softens just how vast these interventions really are, visible in full only to those who actually live the mountains, unfiltered by the small screen the Olympic Games will be broadcast through.

Strava data:
Bike: 212 km, 2,936 m D+, in 9h4'
Run: 357 km, 13,124 m D+, in 50h25'
Total: 569 km, 16,060 m D+, 59h29'

This is a project funded and produced by Wild Tee, alongside co-sponsorship from Mount to Coast and Globathlon, with AKTA as technical food supplier.

You can watch the documentary on YouTube here, directed by Giulia Bertolazzi, with the interviews by Sofia Farina.

Here's the photo zine, with photography by Giorgia Archetti.