Posted on January 12th, 2015

Words & Photos: Filippo Canetta

I'm glad I didn't get into Western States, otherwise I would have missed out on an incredible race.

I trusted race director Matt Gunn completely, sight unseen, and in putting together this first edition, he showed just how passionate he is about this sport, constantly tweaking the course, sometimes even at the last minute, to keep improving it however he could, even though the elevation gain went from an initial 3,600 meters up to the current 6,600.

From the moment of bib pickup, at an outdoor campground, you can already feel that typically American atmosphere of outdoor lovers. While standing in line, I watch people wearing shirts from legendary races laying out their super-organized drop bags for the various aid stations. Some even have crews and pacers. I've got my three garbage bags with the few things I think I'll need.

With a bit of luck, we manage to snag one of the four spots at the campground in the woods, a kilometer and a half from the start. A unique, secluded spot where it already feels like you're on the race course.

When I step out of the camper door in the darkness of the night, it's still cold, and I don't see anyone heading toward the start. Could it be that, just like in Arizona compared to Colorado, Utah is also on a different time zone? Better pick up the pace. A little later, thankfully, with my heart rate already through the roof, I start spotting the headlamp lights of competitors gathered around a few bonfires. No lights, no microphones, no banners, not even a starting line, Matt climbs up on a rock and wishes us good luck. And so my journey begins. A hundred and sixty kilometers is a real journey no matter what mode of transport you tackle it with, let alone on foot.

This is my first time attempting this distance, there are so many unknowns and variables that I try from the very start to focus on my own pace instead of the other competitors, the standings, or the result, in fact, I'm glad that mixed in with us are also the athletes running the hundred-kilometer race, which keeps me from figuring out my position.

The first section of the race, added in one of the final course tweaks, is something exceptional. As dawn catches up to us, we're immersed in a gentle roller coaster of ups and downs through red-earth canyons dotted with hoodoos, the distinctive rock formations that made Bryce Canyon famous.

Eyes welling up with happiness, I keep snapping photos, trying to post them so I can at least partially share so much natural wonder.

The first aid station is called Thunder Mountain, and with a name that evocative, it doesn't take me long to figure out why, nearly every tree around here is scorched black by lightning strikes.

I move along with a small group that includes iRunfar journalist and athlete Bryon Powell, but I immediately apologize for not joining their conversation, I just can't run, take in the scenery, and speak English all at the same time.

It's still cool, but I know it won't last, so at the Proctor Canyon aid station I drop off my nighttime gear in my bag. If my math is right, I'll pick it back up on the way back, around 9 pm. Taking a bit of a risk can sometimes be a great motivator, and sure enough, I'll pass back through here just after 9 pm.

The contrast between the white bark of the birch trunks and the bright green of the unfurling leaves accompanies me down a gorgeous descent I just can't resist, so I run it flat out, pulling away from my little group. Not long after, I notice the course markings have disappeared. Since I'm something of a professional when it comes to wrong turns, I stop and head back, even though there are plenty of fresh trail shoe prints along the path. It's never on the climbs that you take a wrong turn, always on the descents. So I start running back uphill, when, heading the opposite way, I cross paths with a few competitors insisting this is the right route, and with too little breath left to argue, I follow them back downhill again. About a kilometer later we run into the leaders of the hundred-mile race coming back up. It's not the time lost going back and forth that worries me (minimal, over the whole race), but the wasted energy. I want to get back onto the marked route as fast as possible, so I say goodbye to my fellow strays and run uphill once more. I push as hard as I can to figure out how much I've lost, but now the climb starts up again toward 2,700 meters, and the fatigue and altitude (always above 2,200 m) begin to catch up with me. I claw my way back up to third place, at which point I try to settle into a steady rhythm and refuel to make up for the extra effort. It already feels like a great result to me, especially since ahead of me will certainly be Joseph Czabaranek (28 years old, 14h 47' over 100 miles).

The aid stations have been entrusted to associations, clubs, or families. The one at Kanab Creek is run by the Pine View High School cross country team, whose youthful enthusiasm helps me through my brief refueling stop, so I make sure not to leave without thanking them and sending them off with a somewhat understated "see you again soon."

Even though it's entirely outside the national park, the route leads us to discover corners and views of rare beauty.

Sometimes, coming out of the woods, you find yourself running along the edge of a cliff that ends in a massive arch of red rock, taking away what little breath you have left at 2,800 meters.

Just before reaching Crawford Pass, the halfway turnaround point at fifty miles, I run into the first and second-place competitors. They look remarkably fresh coming down while I struggle uphill, congratulating them on their "great work." I figure their lead at roughly ten and five minutes, just as I estimate my own lead over fourth and fifth, who are running side by side, at about ten minutes. Better not dwell too much on the time lost to that wrong turn, because the race is still long.

I try to keep my time at the aid stations as short as possible, especially since, as always, I'm running on bread, water and gels, no point stopping to eyeball the cheese burritos or bacon tortillas (New Mexico isn't all that far away, after all).

Every competitor I meet coming the other way congratulates me and gives me a high five, but it's them I'll admire endlessly, once they cross the finish line the next day, still smiling.

At the aid stations they tell me the gap to second place is shrinking, but I'd almost rather not know, the race is still long and anything can happen.

The sun starts sinking toward the horizon, painting the canyon rocks an even deeper orange. The wind is still strong, and the cold gusts remind me we're still high up.

Raggiungo definitivamente il secondo a un ristoro dopo qualche chilometro a vista. Vedo che si siede e comincia a togliersi le scarpe, così decido di ripartire subito.

Cerco di non farmi prendere da facili entusiasmi e procedo con il mio passo, ma mi accorgo che riesco ancora a spingere bene in salita. Manca ancora una maratona quando intravedo Czabaranek, che denota una certa apprensione continuando a voltarsi verso di me. Decido saggiamente di stargli dietro e vedere cosa succede. Nella discesa più tecnica del percorso vedo che si ferma e poi riparte un paio di volte, forse ha problemi di stomaco, penso. Lo raggiungo, potrei passarlo velocemente ma mi sembra in difficoltà. Anche se concorrenti a questo punto di un lungo viaggio condiviso si è anche un po’ fratelli, così gli chiedo se vuole procedere insieme a me. Con un timido sorriso accetta ma poi si ferma di nuovo, lo aspetto, cercando di rassicurarlo dicendogli che l’aid station non è lontana, ma mi dice di andare che lo sa.

Ora sono solo, senza punti di riferimento. Cerco di recuperare la mia tabella di marcia. La frontale, a scanso di equivoci, ce l’ho già in testa, ma devo recuperare giacca e buff al prossimo ristoro.

From here on out, the race loses its meaning,
and all that matters is the journey.
A journey through the absolute night, dotted with millions of stars and the eyes of curious fawns watching me pass.

BONUS TRACK

In the Footsteps of American Runners

When I was little, before I knew anything about life, I used to dream of packing all my things and my bike into a van and traveling the world. Then, as so often happens with dreams, this one got shelved too, until Irene and I decided, after ten years together and two kids, to get married. Even though more than twenty years had passed, it seemed like the perfect chance to pull that old dream back out of the drawer and tour the United States by camper van as a family.

So off we went to Denver, Colorado, chasing the footsteps of the great American runners, the ones who chose to build their lives around running in nature as something fundamental. The camper let us stop wherever we liked most, and above all stay in touch with the untouched wilderness of America's vast landscapes. We wanted to taste at least a bit of that "nomad life" that's drawn so many outdoor lovers in.

We slept in places so isolated, welcomed by nature so pure, that silence, sun, wind and darkness became absolute, revealing their true essence. We're just not used to dealing with spaces this vast, untouched by human hands.

I was born and raised in the city, and I realize I'm writing things that might sound obvious to someone used to the mountains, but not having a specific background let me discover certain feelings unfiltered by prior experience.

Your first encounter with the Rocky Mountains marks you forever. The sunset from the Buena Vista campground will be hard to forget. It's as if the world had shifted 2,000 meters higher, in front of us stood countless peaks over 4,000 meters, yet they seemed within easy reach. Now I fully understand Anton Krupicka and Joe Grant, and their drive to speed-climb as many of Colorado's 14ers as possible. Of the seventy 4,000-meter peaks across the US, fifty-four of them are in this state.

It was only after I got back to Italy that I learned Tony had attempted, unsuccessfully, the "fastest known time" on the route called Nolan's 14, which links fourteen 4,000-meter peaks over a distance of a hundred miles, starting right from Buena Vista.

Later we passed through Ouray, where Dakota Jones started running, and Telluride, where he decided to organize his first race, and finally Crested Butte, where Stevie Kramer grew up. Here the mountains are steeper, more demanding, and I fully understand where Stevie's extraordinary mountain running abilities come from.

I like imagining the stories of these people, and understanding just how much the natural environment they grew up in shaped their way of life.

Following the Colorado River as the thread running through our trip, we moved from Colorado into Utah.

We stopped to sleep at Goosenecks, right on the edge of the canyon where the great river forms two enormous bends, resembling a duck's neck. Running along the canyon's edge at sunset filled me with a rush. If you go, take the almost invisible trail that starts to the right of the parking area facing the canyon, following the river's gentle curve, you won't regret it.

Running among the red-stone cathedrals of Monument Valley was an incredible feeling. It felt like being inside a western, like Native American riders on horseback could appear at any moment.

Passing through Page, Arizona, we stumbled, quite by chance, during a walk, onto the edge of another canyon formed by a bend in the Colorado. Rereading one of Timothy Olson's early interviews, I found out he'd also stopped to run in that very spot, during his journey toward getting sober from alcohol and drugs.

In just a few square kilometers, such an extraordinary variety of geological formations has produced landscapes completely different from one another.

From Arizona's red desert, we moved on to the rock formations of Zion National Park. Whereas until now my runs had been short morning or evening explorations, completely off the marked trails, in Zion I ran some of America's most famous trails. The demanding Angel's Landing, with its evocative name, captures the spirit of the park perfectly. But one of the best trails I managed to run was the one leading from Zion Ponderosa Ranch (the upper part of the park) to Cable Mountain, an old abandoned cableway. The trail ends at the edge of a seven-hundred-meter drop, offering one of the most beautiful views in the entire park.

For lack of time, I could only dream, over the park maps, of the famous Zion Traverse, made famous by athlete Krissy Moehl's record-setting run. How I'd love to try setting my own best time there someday.

At every stop, I try to put myself in the natural setting around me and picture the records and feats of the great American trail runners.

I too, in my small way, left a little trace of my own, taking part in the first edition of the Bryce Canyon 100-mile race. It meant a lot to me to run that legendary distance that defines all the great American trail races. I have to admit that the long walks in the days before, carrying my three-year-old daughter Cecilia on my shoulders, turned out to be excellent training. Sure enough, despite the altitude (between 2,200 and 2,900 m above sea level), I managed to run in proper Yankee style, fast and light. This helped me understand the need so many American runners have to travel light, chasing that feeling of freedom where anything becomes possible.

After the magical Bryce Canyon, with its red pinnacles (hoodoos) that look like sandcastles built by giant children, we moved on to Moab, Utah's capital of outdoor fun. We stopped at a campground in town, but we quickly realized we'd completely lost the habit of civilized life, and that we missed those untouched landscapes where your eyes can stretch all the way to the horizon. Maybe it was the twenty hours spent running immersed in Bryce Canyon's wilderness, but I felt like I was suffocating. After just one night, we decided to move into Canyonlands National Park instead. It's less well-known than the more famous Arches, but of rare beauty. We camped at Island in the Sky, a strip of land suspended on a plateau formed by a layer of harder rock, 400 meters below that, itself suspended above two massive canyons another 400 meters down, carved by the meeting of the Colorado and Green rivers. The place gave us one of the most breathtaking sunsets we've ever seen. Finally, I could get back to my exploratory morning and evening runs. Running somewhere unfamiliar is always a unique experience. I follow my instincts, looking for a route with no trace of a path, all my senses on high alert, and suddenly I might find myself right on the edge of a canyon. The shock and the view take my breath away, and I stand there, entranced, eyes glistening, admiring the sheer grandeur of nature until my breathing settles back to normal. Not far from here is the canyon made famous by Aron Ralston's accident, the one the film 127 Hours was based on. In that moment, I fully understand the adventurous spirit that led him into the dire situation that forced him to amputate his own forearm to save himself.

There are still so many landscapes left to take in, but we have to keep moving. I'm determined to understand why so many runners have chosen to settle right in Boulder.

It doesn't take us long to figure out why. Boulder is a wonderful little city, built for athletic people, nestled at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. There are bike paths everywhere, and it's crossed by a river you can navigate by canoe or inner tube. Boulder is also home to one of the best American universities, notable for being public rather than private, unlike most. You can buy excellent organic food, and on Saturdays there's a market where farmers sell their seasonal produce directly. But it's in the details that a place's character really shows. In Boulder, anyone can rent a carbon-frame road bike or a competition mountain bike, and several vending machines stock gels and energy bars instead of the usual junk food. Everything in town is geared toward an active lifestyle. Plenty of people run in Boulder, but almost all of them trail run, and it's entirely likely that while you're pedaling along the bike path, some sweet little old lady in lycra shorts will overtake you on her road bike.

From Chautauqua, the city's main park, overlooking the iconic Flatirons (five enormous slabs of rock that look like they've been driven straight into the ground), more than 80 kilometers of nature trails branch out. I know full well I shouldn't, four days out from a hundred-miler, but how can you resist not running the climb and descent of Mount Sanitas flat out? The mountain is something of a legendary trail sanctuary. Tony Krupicka climbs it more than 200 times a year (in fact, I even run into him myself, coming down the route known as Saddle Rock), all the strongest local athletes train there, and Boulder residents of every age walk its trails. Comparing GPS data on Strava confirms my theory about American runners. Very fast uphill, a little less so downhill. Even though still a bit fatigued, I clocked the ninth-fastest time on the climb up Mount Sanitas, but the second-fastest on the descent, behind only the blazing-fast, very young Sage Canaday.

Running through America's great landscapes is the finest expression of running as adventure. Exploring the world in search of the very essence of trail running, putting in the effort needed to reach the pure pleasure of running in nature, following that need for freedom. Running isn't an end in itself, but the means through which, through effort, you enter into communion with your surroundings, a physical, mental and spiritual journey in which you have to be ready to let yourself be surprised by the magnificence of the landscape you discover along the way.

It took me forty years to figure out what I love doing, but in the end, I got there. Better late than never.

Irene told me that if I ever run away from home, she knows exactly where to find me: Boulder!