One way ticket to Angeles Crest

The fact that many people wonder why you came all the way from Italy to run this race, still experienced by the locals as a country run despite being one of the most prestigious in the world – the fifth in history as well as the one with the oldest record – makes you understand that you are in the right place. In the race pack you can only find your bib and a very poor quality Gildan cotton shirt. The graphics are the same as thirty-two years ago and one of the two staff ladies advises you to get the Large size, it will shrunk in the washing machine, and you will grow until it fits you.
The organization does not provide a shuttle to go back to the starting point, no showers on arrival, no chips or timekeepers. You could be Kilian Jornet, but you still have to hitch a ride back to the start after the awards ceremony. If you give up, you should had booked the shuttle for $30 before; if you haven’t, you’re fucked. The other fascinating aspect of Angeles Crest is the distinction between “solo” runners and runners with a crew. If you run as a “solo” no one can help you except the volunteers at the aid stations, you can’t have a pacer or someone who gives you water, even if you are dying of thirst on the roadside. The first “solo” athlete is rewarded with a special prize and applauded more.
Waking up at half past three in the morning – but you weren’t sleeping that much – you notice that yes, you’re a little bit nervous.

At the start line your heart is pounding. You are under the same banner where people have been wondering for thirty-two years whether they will be able to get to the finish line regardless of how fast they are: all these people before you, and like you, have asked themselves if they were ready. Under that same banner that will be removed after the start and reassembled on arrival, 160 kilometers later. The tanned skin from all the workouts under the sun is sensitive to the soft wind of August and gives you goose bumps. In a few hours, when the sun will be high in the sky, hell will descend on the run: it will set the asphalt on fire, make the air suffocating and the water in the bottles boiling. It will force many people to seek far deeper motivations than an iron buckle to get to the finish; a third of the participants will end up wanting to withdraw. In the middle of August, in the mountains of the city called Los Angeles, there will be demons and runners, with bandanas filled with ice wrapped around their necks, pain written on their faces.
It’s five in the morning and you are present in the moment. You feel privileged to stay at the edges of hell. And not as someone who drives a Ferrari in the middle of Puntos, you feel privileged for being part of history, something bigger than yourself, as an individual. While the usual freak ranger, the same one that at the awards ceremony will scream the name of every runner, who has been present for thirty-two years and who in the morning shook hands with all the 300 starters, shouts out a kind of prayer . He says “may he always be present and accompany you all the way, step by step, through day and night, continuing to push you forward.” He does not name any god and, as far as you are concerned, he is talking about your motivation.
Some front lights are lit, someone does not use it to save weight, he will have to tag along with some other runner until dawn. Everyone’s eyes are fixed forward, in the dark: it’s not cold but you have chills and can’t wait to start.
Five screams someone. Four, others answer, Three says the guy close to you, Two you hear the sound of people from behind, One you scream too.