8' read
The Transap.
Posted on November 7th, 2016
Words: Niki Gresteri
a.k.a. Transappeninica
Sometimes life asks you to make hard choices. Not to mention the times it doesn't leave you any choice at all. But we're not here to philosophize: the fact is that other times, a simple impulsive "yes" is all it takes to throw yourself into something new.
And it was with that spirit that last year Maria Carla and I found ourselves among a handful of kids half our age, but with enough enthusiasm to move a mountain. There was the Apennines involved, running, and doing it as a pair with someone special: too easy to fall for it.
The Transappenninica had been something of a revelation: for the joyful way of tackling two days around my mountains, for the seriousness the guys still brought to putting the whole thing together, and for the great atmosphere created with the other participating pairs. We'd come home with plenty of great memories and quite a few new friends. And the sense that a different dimension still existed within running.
No question, we would go back. And to make sure we got it right, we brought along someone who could appreciate the spirit of the thing. Because showing up at the Transap thinking you're going to a race... well, that's not the right mindset.
The Transap has a leaderboard, but the winners aren't the ones who arrive first. The Transap has no set route, it leaves the burden of choosing one entirely up to you. The Transap has no aid stations, but it teaches you to make a virtue of necessity. It's a two-person crossing from point A to point B, traversing the Ligurian Apennines toward the sea. Passing through preset checkpoints that earn you points, but you alone decide how many and which ones.
Running, for what it's worth, isn't even mentioned: you decide the pace to move at, and you can enjoy it walking or running, trying to arrive early or late, eating bars or polenta. Simple concepts. Straightforward. Basic. But ones that maybe become hard to grasp, given a certain way of thinking about running in nature that you see out there these days.
Long story short, Filippo was already in before we'd even mentioned it, and as his partner, Wild Tee's mighty propaganda machine managed to convince good old Giulio to leave the Euganean Hills and come back home.
Plus a few other Wild runners who'd wisely sniffed out the chance for a couple of great days in good company, like Luca and his partner, or Sara, whom fate had paired up (sportingly speaking, of course) with good old Enrico, the sole survivor of last year's Genoese Trio. And of course there were plenty of pairs back from last year, including a few fierce ones ready to give battle.
The Transap gets off to a great start already. Meaning that on Friday evening you pitch your tents, then everyone eats together and tries to throw off the competition with improbable route choices.
Stories, backgrounds, and expectations get swapped, and a bottle of wine or two makes the rounds. Which helps. This year we were guests at Cascina Baraban, a lovely spot born from a group of young people who decided to rethink their own boundaries a bit. Never a bad idea. Then everyone retreats to their tents, since we're athletes after all, dammit.
The crisp morning air gives us the last remnants of a fantastic starry night, and for a few hours at least we'll enjoy sun and views, putting off any thoughts of the forecasted storms until later.
Between striking tents, an improvised breakfast, packing up, morning routines handled guerrilla-style, and exploded camelbaks, we set off once everyone else has already left camp. But the road is long. And it teaches you well, or so they say. We, on the other hand, are fools, because at kilometer one we take a wrong turn and end up in front of a bell tower, sure, but of the wrong town.
In Maria Carla's eyes I see again the terror from the last ten kilometers of last year, when some questionable navigation choices of mine had stretched an already long journey way beyond what it needed to be. But we bounce back quickly and, at least until the second checkpoint, we tag along with the others, so at least we're sure to get lost together.
Once we reach the ridge, a bit of that Appennino Magic starts to reveal itself, the kind only true connoisseurs know.
The green of the meadows and woods blends with a brilliant blue sky streaked with white clouds creating magical effects, and meanwhile we find our rhythm, starting to weave in a few running stretches and stringing together checkpoints along the ridge with a logical, rational approach. Almost a forced choice, we tell ourselves.
But no, because some devious minds decide to shuffle the deck and take on a checkpoint hunt that, over the two days, will produce tales of ordinary madness, epic sporting feats, and episodes of pure survival worthy of Bonatti himself. As for us, we're modestly aiming to arrive as early as possible, so, while deeply admiring the genius and recklessness of the point collectors, we stick to the shortest route.
Even so, Filippo and Giulio attempt a move, in their own words, "a little detour to Reneuzzi, since it's been a while since we wanted to go there". Luckily, one look from Maria Carla is enough to make them think better of it.
Mount Antola
Morale is high as we approach Monte Antola, the cult mountain for every Genoese trail lover, and we run into the organizers' crew again, as generous as ever with smiles and encouragement.
But more than anything, we're closing in on the mountain hut, where we finally get the chance to put our feet under a table, so much so that we send an advance party ahead to order lunch: some go for beer and tart, others for Coke and fries, nothing healthy either way.
At the hut we also find Luca and his partner. Now, a quick aside is worth opening here on the fact that the Transap really must inspire confidence. Because Luca's partner has never run more than twenty kilometers before: here he's already past thirty-five, and yet there he is, smiling and ready to set off again, perfectly happy. Giulio, too, is on his first long outing, yet he runs like a gazelle with his light stride. Maria Carla is coming off months of her usual training routine of five kilometers a week. The moment the descent toward Caprile starts, off she goes... and who sees her again?
This stretch is pure trail running essence: a continuous descent through the woods on an engaging but never overly technical trail, and so conversation, laughter and gossip fly. These are my trails, and images come flooding back before my eyes, the legendary Righi-Antola out-and-backs done with Massi or the Prof, the Rigantoca with its punch card and broth at the aid stations, the Sentiero dell'Alleanza with Fabri or Ezio, all unique days, in some ways unrepeatable, in others all bound together by the same common thread: get out there, pick a route, and do it as fast as you can.
And if you can, drag some good friends along with you. Isn't that really the whole point?
The clouds close in over the sky toward the sea, toward our destination. And so, almost without noticing, we all pick up the pace, and the villages fly by. Now we're focused on getting past that last mountain so we can finally see nothing but blue on the horizon. Sant'Alberto arrives too, the last outpost of the inland. And right on cue, the rain arrives as well, so we take shelter at a bar, where the owner sees how tired and hungry we are and, along with four cans of Coke and Fanta, brings us a big bowl of chips that she'll end up refilling several times with loving, motherly care.
After converting even the reluctant Filippo to the healing gospel of fizzy drink and industrial fried tuber (I still like to think Sparta's finish had something to do with our enlightening influence), the downpour stops. A sign from fate, the sea awaits us.
With the last light of day, we reach Colle del Bado, where we pull out our headlamps and set off again. Whether it's the darkness, the magical dusk atmosphere, or the fact that the end is drawing near, the more kilometers Giulio and Maria Carla clock, the harder they push, and so the beautiful stretch to Case Becco flies by, and once we come out onto the road, there it is, right in front of us, the view we'd been waiting for since this morning: the sea, and the lights of Sori down below.
But it's not over yet, because the stretch leading to Saint'Apollinare is one of my usual routes, and I know what's waiting for us: it's long, tough, and it's all meant to be run.
But by now we're a well-oiled train: four friends who, after more than twelve hours, have found the right rhythm, moving on the same wavelength, having shed every thought to simply enjoy the moment: magic. We reach Sant'Uberto, and from there it's just the plunge down toward the beach.
One last selfie at the church of Sant'Apollinare, then the cobbled creuze paths appear, the Aurelia road, and finally the beach, where we're the first to show up: the crew asks if we got hit by much rain, and when we admit we escaped it entirely thanks to our Sant'Alberto pit stop, they tell us that whoever's just behind us is catching storm after storm between Val Borbera and the Genoa hinterland.
Not satisfied, we head to the pizzeria to celebrate properly and refuel, sit down blissfully and, within moments, buckets of rain arrive, promptly stopping the second we finish eating. One of those days that was just meant to go well, in short. Also because this year's finish, Sori, is five minutes from our house, where we retreat for a proper shower and a night's sleep in a real bed, even for Giulio, who originally proposed sleeping in his sleeping bag in the entryway to avoid the three flights of stairs.
In the morning, well rested, we head back to the beach for the storytelling: every pair has an anecdote, a story, an encounter, an image to share. And everyone's smiling, even those who had to throw in the towel and take the bus back, or those who spent eight hours in monsoon-like rain. Those still up for a swim in the sea, and those beached on the sand with blisters the size of a small country. Those saying "never again", and those already asking where the starting line is next year.
In the end you'll find them all again anyway, because once you try the Transap, it gets under your skin.
And in winter, on those evenings when the trails feel far away, when it's nearly dark by five and the sun is just a yellow flash on the windshield (to borrow the Maestro's words), you'll start thinking that maybe if we hadn't taken a wrong turn at that crossroads... or what if next year, instead of boots, we brought a pair of trail shoes... or what if instead of a tent we just brought the sleeping bag?... I really shouldn't have eaten all that polenta... and by the end of summer you'll somehow find that weekend free again, to reunite with all those crazy people you wandered around with, chasing forgotten villages and places to take shelter.
Long life Transap: where if you show up with a smile, you leave with a hundred new friends.
For the record, the head-to-head duel goes to the Sgarlata-Pelà duo, with a monster performance that saw them crisscrossing the entire Val Borbera in every direction, defying weather and landslide-torn trails, followed in the feat by Manze and Haupt-Moriero: but next year...
