Posted on May 5th, 2025

Words: Filippo Canetta

Photos: Giulia Bertolazzi

The report of the 39th Marathon des Sables "The Legendary": 4 friends, 250 Km, 7 days of self-sufficiency, 6 Stages, 1 Sahara Desert.

It's very hard for me to admit, but as I've already said: something broke, and I don't think I'm the same anymore.

Already at Western States 100 in 2023, and even more so at Badwater 135 in 2024, I didn't feel up to it anymore. It was as if my mind kept working the way it always had, setting itself increasingly ambitious goals: staying under twenty hours at Western, under thirty at Badwater. While my body started no longer wanting to suffer for these goals. I no longer "heard the music", that unique energy you only feel when you're running to reach your dreams.

On top of that, physical problems I'd never had before started piling up, first one meniscus, then the other, which seriously made me think I might not be able to run anymore, keeping me from planning any new goal or the training that goes with it. Luckily, my passion for my work with Wild Tee absorbs me completely, leaving me little time to feel sorry for myself.

I know these aren't the "big problems" in life, but there's no denying that for me, the freedom to run holds real significance. It's one of the few things I'm proud of about myself. As I go back through race stories for the podcast I've wanted to make for a couple of years now, I realize just how much my situation has changed.

I'm getting older, and it's very hard to accept.

At the lowest point of my "athletic career", though, the day came to honor a promise made to a great friend of mine, Simone, who I met at my very first Marathon des Sables, back in 2018. For him, after so many years of waiting, the time had finally come to take it on, but would I be up to it? Would I once again be able to run 250 km self-sufficient across the Sahara Desert, sleeping on the ground for a week?

With zero chance to train, given the meniscus surgeries, I had to swallow a big dose of humility and let go of any dream of doing well in the race.

Luckily, alongside me and Simone, Luca and Floriano also joined in, putting together a bit of an impromptu team ("Not Now") and, as they say, "misery loves company".

Since almost all of us work in the industry, though, we put together top-notch gear in no time. Floriano, Global Running Brand Manager at Diadora, brings the brand into the project and provides the shoes, along with a budget for content production. Thanks to that, we manage to bring Giulia Bertolazzi on board to shoot a documentary of the adventure. Luca, co-owner of Runaway, puts us in touch with Roberto from Dangergrizzly, with whom we design a super backpack suited to the occasion.

I, drawing on all my experience, put together a custom ultralight clothing kit, designed and made by Wild Tee. With my old friend and shoemaker Marco Zanchi, we create dedicated gaiters that we integrate directly into the shoes I have Diadora send us before they're glued on. Thanks to Andrea, a runner friend, we get in touch with Akta®, a fine new Italian company that produces top-quality organic freeze-dried food.

Time flies, I still feel inadequate, but at least we have all-Italian gear that would make even the most acclaimed teams jealous.

Without even realizing it, the day of departure arrives.

Coming out of an extremely intense work period, I sleep through almost the entire flight and the twelve-hour bus ride. When I suddenly wake up, I find myself on a windy day in the middle of the Sahara Desert sand, under a Berber tent that will be our home for a week.

As I already recounted in 2018: the MdS isn't just a race, it's an adventure into a unique situation we're no longer used to. The organization only provides five liters of water a day and a tarp overhead, everything else we have to carry on our backs. I have a beautiful memory of the first time I ran it and, with the thousand doubts running through my head, I'm terrified of ruining it.

Luckily this time I'm not alone, and seeing the "discomfort" of my other tent-mates somehow eases mine a little.

We still have a few hours to decide what to bring with us, before handing over the suitcase we won't see again for seven days. It's a crucial moment, one where it's easy to get swept up in panic.

Each of us has to choose between more nighttime comfort/food and less weight. As high-end (and lightweight) as our gear and food are, a backpack packed for seven days always feels incredibly heavy. In the few training sessions I managed to fit in, I realized that my fat-burning capacity isn't what it used to be, and that my caloric needs keep climbing, so I decide to bring as much food as I can fit into the backpack. I'll definitely pay for it in the early stages, but I don't want to suffer too much from the nighttime cold and hunger in the final stages, when food starts running low.

In the dedicated technical section (at the end of the story) you'll find all the details of what I brought.

Handing over the suitcase, in the end, feels like a release for me. I no longer have to think about what to bring or not, and whatever I've packed has to be enough. This kind of minimalism, deep down, relaxes me. I want to disconnect as much as possible from my ordinary life, I turn off and abandon my smartphone when I hand over the suitcase.

The Race

The MdS organization changed with the 2024 edition, the legendary Patrick Bauer no longer runs the show, and the pre-race dinner is no longer provided, competitors have to sort it out on their own, so we enjoy our last supper of bresaola and homemade bread and get ready to begin this adventure.

One thing I'd appreciated about my first experience in the desert was the need to adapt to the rhythms of nature and sunlight instead of those imposed by society. You eat early, around 6:30 pm, and by 8:00 pm, as the sun goes down, you settle in to sleep, ready to set off between 6:00 and 7:00 am depending on the stage. Start times have been moved earlier compared to the past, to avoid the hottest hours. A bit of an odd choice for a race famous precisely for its heat, but all the better.

The tents forming the camp's circle seem closer together than I remembered, giving less the impression of being isolated in the middle of the desert and more that of being at a holiday resort, the 1,009 competitors are younger and much louder.

I had a memory, partly idealized, of a kind of monastery made of tents, where everyone was focused on their own personal experience, and I realize how much, with social media, trail running and this race have changed. This time I find it a bit hard to adjust, and while almost everyone sleeps, I wander around the camp enjoying the peace of the starry desert nights.

Finally, after a few hours, the silence is absolute, and the night sky, free of light pollution, feels incredibly close, with the Milky Way almost within reach. I start to think it was worth coming all this way.

At the start of the first stage, a 32 km loop with 312 m D+, it feels like being at the half marathon world championships. Everyone sets off at a wild pace with their huge, wobbly backpacks. With no expectations and no training, I have no idea how my body and mind will react to this race, and I don't want to compare myself to others, I don't even want to be influenced by the GPS, so I start last and set a cautious pace. The sensations aren't the best, but with a steady pace in the final stretches of the stage, I slowly work my way past many competitors who are starting to struggle with the desert.

Despite the weight on the first day, the backpack we designed is stable and comfortable. Not a single grain of sand gets in through the gaiters built into the shoes. The Race fabric long sleeve tee is cool and light. All my worries about the gear have faded away, and all that's left is to focus on what I love most: running.

I don't want to think about the ranking, and I try to relive that sense of peace that comes from having to do only three things: run, eat and rest.

It's quite hot, and staying under the black tarp of the Berber tent during the middle of the day is tough, we try to move as little as possible to conserve energy, but even sitting still we sweat a lot, and sand carried by the wind quickly covers us through the gaps in the tent. It's not an easy situation, and I'd forgotten these downsides. Luckily, once the sun goes down we can step outside the tent, the camp comes back to life quickly and we can stretch our legs.

At the end of this experience I want to ask my teammates what they missed most from civilization. In my case, the answer is very simple: a chair. Among all the comforts we go without, the simple ability to sit down is the one that bothers me most. Because, aside from those two minutes a day spent sitting in the field toilets, for seven days we won't have the chance to do it. If you think about it, we spend most of our day sitting: at work, in the car or on public transport or on a bike, at the table and on the couch. Suddenly having to go without isn't easy, and being able to sit only on the sand isn't the same thing.

The sun sets quickly, we light the fire and enjoy our dinner. Akta®'s freeze-dried meals are genuinely good, the recipes are all typical Italian dishes, rice and peas, buckwheat polenta, chickling peas and escarole, maltagliati and chickpeas, and pasta with lentils. They're quick to prepare, even with water that isn't quite boiling, which isn't easy to heat with the wind blowing nonstop. We're all convinced they'll be our weapon against hunger. I've planned for two a day, except on the long stage day, for which I only have one. During the first three days I'll supplement with a bit of Parmesan, meat and dried fruit.

Some of us, worried about the backpack's weight, carry less food, but run lighter.

My teammates seem eager to lie down, and by eight o'clock they're already stretched out on their sleeping pads, I suspect each of them is, in their own way, anxious about the unusual situation we're in. I, who always struggle to fall asleep, wander off from the camp with my headlamp and walk beyond the "pee line", the outer perimeter around the tents where everyone relieves themselves, which will keep shrinking in the days to come, as legs grow more tired.

I like watching the tents from a distance in the evening silence, it's like it gives me a bit of distance from the fact that we're still running a competitive race.

It's the third night (the first two were "acclimatization" nights) we've slept in this camp, and with tomorrow's stage, I can't wait to move on and change scenery. The fact that the camp is no longer nomadic like it used to be, when we slept in a different spot every night, has taken away some of the charm the MdS once had as a traveling Berber caravan.

Space in the tent for eight adults isn't much, and when I get back I find my spot reduced to the bare minimum after my teammates spread out in my absence. During the night the wind blows in gusts that grow stronger and stronger, seeming to slap the tent's canvas and shower us with more and more sand, even zipped inside the sleeping bag it's hard to breathe without swallowing some. I don't sleep very well, after a quick breakfast and repacking everything into my backpack, we're ready to go, or rather the others are ready, I'm always running late and head to the start with the last group. I don't want to start at the front and get pulled into the pace of the leaders.

Even though the backpack's weight loss was minimal (300 grams), the psychological impact is significant, and I run more relaxed.

I dread the pain that tormented one leg and then the other for all of last year, and I focus on running evenly on both legs. The sand, with its soft impacts, seems to help this process. The second stage, 40 km with 614 m D+, is very varied, and I enjoy gaining positions, trying to optimize my stride depending on the terrain and its challenges. I remember that feeling well, it's like running on a surface not made for running, one that swallows all your energy without giving any back.

There's no point pushing too hard when the sand is fine and soft, it's better to move gently, saving energy for when the ground is firmer. A few rocky stretches finally remind me that this is, after all, a Trail race.

Roughly halfway through the stage, I catch up to and recognize Gemma, an English competitor I'd met back in 2018. I tell her that this time I won't make the mistake I made years ago of passing her, since she'd then put a big gap on me during the long stage. On that occasion she finished third on the podium. I tell her I'd taken a photo of her looking at a picture of her kids while we were waiting to start the second wave of the long stage, she remembers that moment well. You can read about it again in the 2018 story.

There's a lot of headwind, and we decide to take turns leading. The strategy seems to work, and the kilometers fly by even through the endless final straight.

When I get to the camp, strangely, it isn't ready to welcome us yet, so I lie down on the mat and wait. This had never happened before, the camp not being ready. Under the old management there were two camps, and while we slept at Camp 1, Camp 2 was already set up, then Camp 1 would move on to become Camp 3, just like a traveling village.

We've only covered 72 km of the 250 total, but the mood in tent 99 is more relaxed, and the tension of the unknown seems to have vanished from the faces of Floriano and Simone, who are tackling this for the first time. Luca is a different story, coming off a rough crisis during the stage, he wants to drop out, and as soon as he reaches us he says he wants to call a taxi, making us all laugh! He'd spent too much time under the sun, and after going to the infirmary he disappears for two hours. We only find out when he gets back that they put him in a tub full of ice to bring his temperature down.

With my thousand doubts about my physical condition, I'm worried about the 83 km stage waiting for us in two days.

I don't want to repeat the mistake I made in 2018: pushing too hard in the first three stages, and then hitting big crises that forced me to slow down and lose a lot of time on the long stage.

Unexpectedly, we're third in the team ranking (the mathematical average of the team members' times), just a few minutes from fourth. This fills us with joy, but we know very well it's still a long way to go, and anything can happen.

On the third stage, 32.5 km with 468 m D+, I struggle a lot instead, I can't find the rhythm I had the day before. The harder I push, the more it feels like my legs aren't responding the way they should. I try not to worry and to keep in mind that the race is still long and anything is possible, but I feel like I'm moving very slowly, confirmed by a few competitors passing me on a stretch that isn't particularly demanding.

I make an effort not to fall too far behind them and to keep them in sight, when the course climbs up a rocky hill, finally, since we started, my feet can push off solid ground. The climb isn't very long (around 150 m of elevation gain), but it's fairly technical. To my great surprise, the other competitors seem to struggle on this terrain, especially on the descent that follows. I, finally, feel at ease and manage to make up some ground.

I definitely lost positions in this stage, but I don't know how many, since, strangely, the organization no longer posts the rankings at the end of each stage.

It always feels a bit strange having to carry everything with you, only to end up right back where you started. But those are the rules, and anyone who leaves something at the camp not only won't find it again, but gets penalized thirty minutes or more, as happens to a Dutch girl who loses her third-place position for exactly this reason.

Even late into the evening, when almost everyone is already asleep, they still haven't posted the list of the top 50 who'll start two hours after the main group the next day. It's a strange thing, given this is still a competitive race after all.

Luckily I'm fifty-fifth and not on the list, so I'll get to start with the first wave at 6:00 am and take advantage of the cooler hours. This reassures me and pushes me to give my best.

Oddly enough, the next day I feel great. I know this is the point-to-point stage, 82.2 km with 690 m D+, where the race really "begins". It's a bit like the first three stages were just solid training in preparation for today's appointment, I feel ready to put myself out there and measure myself against the other runners.

I want to start up front this time, and Simone wishes me "good hunting". After all, I'm here for him, and it feels like I owe him this. I set off with determination, without looking around, I want to build my own "bubble" and only look ahead. It's a feeling I'd already had before, one that takes me back to our Paleolithic ancestors, chasing their prey and catching it through sheer exhaustion. Deep down, humans haven't evolved much in the last 1.5 million years.

The course is very varied, we pass through tall red sand dunes where we're forced to climb using our hands, pushing with feet alone just leaves you stuck in place. We cross desolate plains where any form of life seems impossible, we run on single tracks carved out by the passage of animals, staying in the shade of a hill. We see camel herds and a few remains of ancient fortresses, practically swallowed by the sand.

For the first time in a long time, I feel my body responding well to the signals from my mind and the environment. For the first time in a long time, I "hear the music", which, strangely, maybe influenced by the organizers' language, is in French. The song I keep replaying in my head is "Alors on Danse" by Stromae, not exactly the hard rock I would have expected, but the line "Et là tu te dis que c'est fini….Quand y en a plus et ben y en a encore" (And then you tell yourself it's over... When there's nothing left, well, there's still more) fits ultras perfectly.

Whether it's the lighter backpack or the drive to hold onto our team's third place, I move well, adapting to whatever terrain I come across, catching up with the front group who started at 6:00 with me. Around the fortieth kilometer, Rachid Elmorabity blows past me at supersonic speed, the unbeatable Moroccan athlete who will go on to win the MdS for the eleventh time this year. In practice, in 40 km he made up an hour and a half on me. I remember him from the 2018 edition, where I'd tried following him for a short stretch to study his technique on the dunes, where he seems to move like those insects that skate across water with tiny steps, he floats over the sand while I sink up to my knees.

I don't want to look back and let it get in my head, but I expect the top 50 in the ranking to pass me soon. Instead, oddly, more than an hour goes by before Rachid's brother and another competitor catch up to me.

As is almost always the case, it only takes one small detail to flip an ideal situation upside down.

At the fifty-fourth Km aid station, unexpectedly, alongside the usual water there's a small spread of dates and dried fruit, and I grab a handful to eat as I set off again. Finding food in a situation of scarcity, like on the fourth day of the MdS, feels like an opportunity not to be missed, but after a few kilometers I feel something's off, and my stomach stops working the way it should.

I'd feared this kind of problem the most, it's the one thing that's ruined nearly all my races. I'm stuck between two aid stations, unable to drink or eat anymore, I'm alone, it's 1 pm, and there's not a sliver of shade or anywhere to stop and rest.

I start thinking that all my calculations, time, pace, position, are falling apart. There's no way out. I'm forced to walk, a couple of competitors pass me, out of sportsmanship I cheer them on, but I watch the finish line drift further and further away. As I drag myself along an endless straight leading to nothing, when everything seems over, a flash of clarity cuts through the flood of negative thoughts and I remember Death Valley during Badwater, and I put the situation into perspective. It's at least ten degrees cooler here than it was there, and it can't get worse than that did, I'm still in a good position, if I alternate walking and running I can still make it. And so I do, trying to clear my mind of the worst thoughts. Slowly the straight comes to an end and I reach the next checkpoint, I know I can't stop, I refuel quickly and force myself to leave right away.

I focus on the flags to follow, I have to try running again, but I'm afraid the situation will get worse and that I'll get dehydrated. I fall in behind a guy who catches up to me, I switch off my brain and follow him like a shadow. When he starts walking, I grit my teeth and keep running. I know I'm going into the red, I'm barely drinking and can't eat, but I hold on. Luckily, things must be getting hard for the other competitors too, because they seem to be slowing down. I see in the distance that the gap between us stays the same. It's time to catch them, after all the effort it took to pass them earlier. In the side pocket of my shorts I find my last gel, I try taking a sip and it seems to go down. With about 15 kilometers to go, I see the camp and the stage finish line in the distance.

In an almost endless environment like the desert, you can spot the finish line even when it's still very far away. I start to think I can make it. I still have two competitors in sight, and I focus on them. It's very hot, and when the wind isn't against me I can feel myself sweating, but I also think that if I'm sweating, it means I'm not dehydrated yet. I do a quick calculation and figure I could reach the finish in under an hour and a half. I know I'm digging into my very last reserves. I try not to think about the two stages still ahead in the coming days. There isn't much energy left, but I should make it there, and I'll deal with the consequences afterward.

I run with everything I have left, and a few kilometers from the finish I pass the two who'd overtaken me earlier, and I see one of the top-ranked competitors sitting down, trying to call for help with his GPS tracker, I show him which button to press and he tells me to go on. A few sand dunes stand between me and the finish, I try to focus on the best line through them, by now I've learned there's always a spot where the sand is firmer, and that's where it's worth running. Not much left, I'm exhausted but I keep pushing, with "the music" in my head, all the way to the banner marking the end of the stage. I don't know how the stage went for me, since once again the rankings aren't posted, but I'm happy with how I ran mine.

I won't deny that arriving at the camp when there's almost no one there, helped by the fact that the top fifty started an hour and a half later, is a deeply satisfying feeling, and it lets me enjoy, in solitude, the minutes it takes to recover from the effort. I set down my backpack, take off my shoes, socks and shirt, find a shady spot in our tent, lie down and enjoy the breeze passing through it. It's a beautiful moment. The camp is empty and silent, competitors still trickle in one by one, a few minutes apart, and when they pass by our tent we congratulate each other, aware that we've just finished the hardest part of the race. Nearly 190 km are behind us, and less than 70 remain.

Everything takes on a different dimension.

My teammates arrive in scattered order, first Luca, who wanted to drop out but who evidently benefited from that ice bath treatment, then Floriano, who'd done well in the first three stages but has now hit some difficulty and arrives together with Simone, who, always with his cooperative spirit, helped him finish the stage.

Now a well-earned rest day awaits us, one that's actually needed by those still walking to complete the longest stage. The mood at camp is more relaxed, and besides the usual 5 liters of daily water, we're given a can of Coca-Cola. One of the best of my life. Hunger is starting to bite, but we have to be careful not to overdo it, dipping into the supplies we still need for the last two days. I'd already noticed it, but after a few days of limited eating, your stomach shrinks, and it doesn't take much to feel full and satisfied.

Our Akta® meals keep doing their job, and I don't feel like I'm running short on energy.

Compared to the frantic "normal" life made of family commitments, work, and constant outside demands for attention, what we're living here, despite the kilometers covered and the fatigue, leaves me with more energy than expected, I feel less tired than usual and need less sleep.

In the evening they only announce the list of the top 50 who'll start an hour and a half later, but they don't show us the rankings until morning, just a few minutes before the start.

We have a decent lead over the fourth-place team, and I'm third in my category, just a few minutes behind an Australian whose bib number I try to memorize to keep an eye on him. On a stage of 42.2 km with 424 m D+, starting later doesn't worry me, so I take my time with the usual pre-start routine and make the most of the toilets (the only place where you can actually sit!) without the anxiety of others queuing outside the latrine.

At the starting line there are far fewer of us compared to the usual crowd from the other days. I spot the Australian competitor right away and tuck in behind him right after the start. I think he noticed me too, since he keeps glancing back. In races it often happens that you latch onto a rival, and in the early stages you size each other up to figure out their weak points, uphill, on the flat, or downhill, whether they're holding back or pushing from the start.

I feel good and want to see if I can widen the gap between us. We glance at each other one last time and I extend my stride. Before long, I can't see him behind me anymore. I focus on hydration, even though by the fifth day my body has adapted and my needs have dropped, I'm especially careful with fueling, which is my Achilles' heel.

My plan seems to be working perfectly, I keep gaining positions without any drop in performance.

It's a feeling I hadn't had in a long while. When you're in shape and running with the front group it's very different, it's as if your body turns into something unexpected, something different.

Jokingly, before races my daughter always asks if I'm going to turn into "a rocket missile", even though I've never actually been fast. It had been a long time since I felt like this, and it's wonderful, I push right to the limit and end up finishing twenty minutes ahead of my Australian friend, gaining a few spots in the overall ranking too.

The finishing order among my teammates shuffles again: Floriano bounced back, thanks in part to food Simone offered him, who had a steady run throughout. Luca, meanwhile, is the one who struggled a bit on this stage.

Still, we're holding third overall!

Everyone laughs and jokes as we eat the last portions of food we have left. Hunger is starting to bite! Probably due to the faster pace in these last two stages, I've burned more than usual, and my stomach is growling, keeping me from sleeping.

By the last breakfast, the backpack is practically empty, it barely even feels like it's on my back.

Only a half marathon (21.1 km, +202 m D+) separates us from the finish line, studying the map we've figured out that it starts with three kilometers of dunes and ends with six kilometers of dunes too. There's no calculating to be done here, you just have to go all out from start to finish.

I try not to think about anything, and to picture the finish, the joy, the bus that'll take us back to civilization, and the snack the organization will hand out.

I manage to keep pushing on the first dunes, then I realize I never started the GPS, I don't stop at the first aid station, I try to hold the fastest pace I can on the long straight before the next dunes, I skip the second aid station too, rationing out the last gel I have left. Crossing the final "Erg" (the dune field) separating us from Merzouga, where the finish line is, is no easy feat. The dunes are tall, and instead of staying along their ridges we keep climbing and dropping steeply, the finish line seems like it'll never come.

I sprint like it's the last run of my life, because this is still a race after all, and I want to honor it right to the very end.

I've got nothing left, I struggle hard on the climbs through sand that feels softer than ever, soaking up what little strength I have left. My breathing is fast, my heart pounding harder than usual, trying to push whatever energy remains through my body, but I hear the announcer and I know that sooner or later these ups and downs will end and I'll see the finish arch I've been longing for. I can hear the crowd cheering, waiting for us, I'm almost there, one last climb and I see it, the first seventeen runners are all still standing there.

As always, the finish is a release, all the tension I've built up melts away as if by magic and a goofy grin spreads across my face. I catch the smell of ammonia in my nostrils as I breathe in, meaning I've given everything I had.

The usual finish-line photos don't interest me, I pull out the action cam I brought and run back toward the last dune, I don't want to miss my teammates crossing the line. I see them arrive one by one in their white uniforms, now filthy from head to toe, eyes glistening with joy, and I film all three of them, feeling more moved by their finish than by my own.

Simone is so satisfied that he's almost sad it's over. I head back to the finish and the four of us embrace together, under the finish line of the thirty-ninth Marathon des Sables.

Maybe I could have pushed a little harder in the first three stages, but there were so many unknowns weighing on my mind. I had more fun than I had in a long time, and it was another important life experience.

How I miss that wonderful feeling of freedom that only the endless, self-sufficient spaces of the desert can give.

See you soon.

Desert Gear

• Wild Tee x DangerGrizzly Backpack (480 gr.)
• x1 Not Now Longsleeve (99 gr.)
• x1 Not Now T-Shirt (69 gr.)
• x1 Everglades Shorts “Menta” (79 gr.)
• x3 Rockies Bianche/Nere (3x30 gr.)
• x1 Not Now Endurance Cap (49 gr.)
• x1 Not Now Neck Flap (10 gr.)
• x2 Scaldacollo “Trail is Metal” (2x29 gr.)
• x1 Photochromic Sunglasses Astral S "Gradient Purple” (26 gr.)
• x2 Underwear Briefs (2 x 44 gr.)
• x1 Diadora Sestriere XT2 with Wild Tee Gaiters, crafted with Marco Zanchi.
• x1 Petzl IKO Headlamp with backup batteries (90 gr.)
• x3 Soft Flask (500 ml)
• x1 Pair of Wild Tee “custom” Slippers (25 gr.)
• x2 Pack of Tissues (2x20 gr.)
• x2 Pack of Disinfectant Wipes (2x80 gr.)
• x1 Nordisk "Passion One" Summer Sleeping Bag, 12°C (350 gr.)
• x1 Thermarest NeoAir Xlite1 Sleeping Pad (370 gr.)
• x1 Toothbrush (9 gr.)
• x1 Tube of Marvis Mint Toothpaste (30 gr.)
• Earplugs (4 gr.)
• x10 Mini Compressed Towels (thanks Simo)(90 gr.)
• Flakes of Soap (thanks Simo) (40 gr.)
• x1 DJI Osmo Action 5 Pro (145 gr.)
• x1 Prayer Card of St. Jude Thaddeus, made by our friend Marco Mascetti (3 gr.)

Total: around 3,2 Kg
Totale with 1,5 L of Water: around 4,7 Kg

Nutrition

• x12 Akta® Freeze-Dried Meals (12x125 gr.)
• x3 Pieces of Grana Padano (80 gr. each)
• x3 Beef Jerky Pouches (40 gr. each)
• x3 Pieces of Dried Meat (70 gr. each)
• x3 Pieces of Dried Fish (50 gr. each)
• x1 Pouch of Dried Fruit (100 gr.)
• x6 Breakfast Müsli Pouches (6x110 gr.)
• x8 Maurten Solid 160 Bars (8x55 gr.)
• x4 Maurten Gel 160 (4x65 gr.)
• x3 Maurten Gel 100 (3x40 gr.)
• x3 Maurten Gel 100 CAF 100 (3x40 gr.)

Total food: 3.9 kg

Mandatory Gear:

• x1 Emergency Blanket (45 gr.)
• x1 Lighter (11 gr.)
• x1 Mirror (20 gr.)
• x1 Cup (55 gr.)
• x1 Compass (30 gr.)
• x10 Safety Pins (10x0,8 gr.)
• x1 Knife (40 gr.)
• x1 Sunscreen (60 gr.)
• x1 Disinfectant (50 gr.)
• x12 Bouillon Cubes (12x10 gr.)
• x1 Whistle (incluso nello zaino)
• x1 Passport (40 gr.)
• 200€ cash (4 gr.)

Total: 483 gr.

Total Starting Line Weight: approx. 9,1 Kg

Stages on Strava: