Giro Dei Cento Pozzi 15km Trail RaceGoing Up? Going Down? Going nowhere fast!
Denise’s tale of the Trail “Dei Cento Pozzi” (one hundred wells)
I’ve never written a report before but I thought it might be nice to describe a little Italian trail race we did last weekend. For those of you who don’t know me, I divide my time between our old life in Italy and our new life in Portobello (which is still a bit of a work in progress, but that’s another story). I’ve been running with PRC for just over a year now and have managed to do a couple of events in my PRC vest, as well as quite a few Wednesday sessions. But this summer, I’ve given up Porty Prom for a few months in the sun, and come out here with the specific objective of getting as much running in as possible.
Which is what brought us to the remote Italian wilderness, on top of a mountain, all alone, on a balmy summer evening (actually hot, sticky and not very nice) in a clapped out old camper van, ready to wake up early the next morning “on location” for the Giro Dei Cento Pozzi 15km Trail Race, also the Abruzzo Regional “Mountain Running” Championships.
As the sun started to go down I realized we probably hadn’t thought the whole thing through very well, as by 8pm, it was already total darkness and in our “what a nice quiet spot” of a corner, some suspicious and very not “they’re just birds Denise” noises in the bushes noises made me think that maybe there was actually some truth to all the tourist bumph I translate as a profession “Abruzzo, the green region, home of the rare Marsican bear and truly rich and extensive wildlife”. This was later confirmed by the race organizers who arrived back down the mountain about 9pm after their last check on the course. Yes, those weren’t birds dancing on the twigs in the bushes, those were wild boar in the woods looking for their dinner.
Enroute heading into the hills
Nearly there. Only the Madonna can help me now.
The hill I hoped I was going to be striding across the top of.Well, the friendly Italian organizers took pity on us and we were duly invited to join them for supper (carbo-loading extraordinaire!) in the sanctuary (see below), a very jovial evening was had before we were also kindly escorted back down off the mountain and assured that camping in the race manager’s garden was definitely the safer option.
The sanctuary we started from.Bright and early next morning, we head back up the mountain and in the light of day, we discover we’re actually heading to the site of a famous “men-only spiritual retreat”. In my personal scale of remoteness, that’s really quite remote.
Spiritual Retreat for Men-OnlyIn true Italian style, all 200 runners managed to get their cars up the same forest tracks to said remote spot and parked as close as possible to the starting gantry. Right by the spiritual retreat. There seemed to be something ecologically and spiritually wrong about that, but by this time, the place was really starting to buzz, the sun was shining, the music was blaring (great old Italian 70’s stuff) and some really serious technical kit was beginning to appear. Oh dear, I thought, I wonder if I’m going to make it up to the top of that hill (see photo) in my swanky new white Adidas and hubby’s old sunglasses. I seemed to be the only one that didn’t look the part. Some even had poles and backpacks. How much of a climb was it going to be?? At that point I was faced with the choice? What course shall I pick? The 8km “ladies and old men” route (antiquated and quite sexist Italian Athletics Federation rules dictate that in regional championships, the women and old guys are not allowed to run with the “real runners” and have to stick to a girly 8km predominantly downhill route instead of a proper but still quite modest 15km trail course with dirt, hills, streams, bogs, paths, rocks, trails, etc). Now, was I going to wimp out and do the downhill with the senior citizens, or stick with the real men and pretend I was a proper runner? Obviously there were the nice new white Adidas trainers to consider, but after a bit of thought, and especially when I heard that there were Salomon shoes on the prize list for the women in the full race, it really was a bit of a no-brainer. The chance to win a pair of shoes? For a girl with a shoe habit?
So there I was, all revved up and raring to go, I’d picked up my race pack of carrots (none of your usual t-shirts here, it’s all bella vita and what’s cooking) and was fantasizing about sunshine and Salomon shoes as we lined up under the red arch.
The pre-race energy drink: just place cup under, turn on tap and fill up.The gun goes and it’s a fast 1.5km downhill with everyone throwing themselves hell for leather to the front. Don’t they know they’ve got to run uphill in a bit, I think. Shouldn’t they be saving themselves for later? What’s all the rush? Sticking to my race plan, I decide to take it easy, I’m not really a fast starter and like to pick it up once my legs have actually connected with my brain (which usually happens once my 4th kilometre stitch subsides). Well, we get to the bottom of the hill, round a bend, off the road surface and wey, hey, we’re onto the forest trail. But no. We’re not. We’ve all stopped. We’re queuing. It’s a race and we’re queuing. Oh dear, it’s a bottleneck and we’ve only been running for 6 minutes. The penny drops. Ah hah, so that’s why everyone was trying to get to the front. I seemed to be the only one that hadn’t read the leaflet or done the recce, and was totally unaware that if you didn’t make the first (narrow uphill) path in the first 20, then you were walking up it single file behind the slow(er) guys. And that’s what happened. I spent the first half hour grunting behind sweaty bodies, unable to see in front of me, unable to run, no hope of the white Adidas ever getting to see any running action, or put into practice any of that Arthur’s Seat training I’d been getting (never mind the Seven Hills) with PRC. Scared of treading on anyone’s toes, and being the dreadfully polite little British person that I am (?), I silently fumed behind people that I really wanted to be running in front of. Then, out of the blue someone from behind me surges past in a flurry of elbows, knees, branches breaking, rocks falling, scrambling over stones and general “I’m going to get past you if it kills me” kind of attitude and there I was. Overtaken.
Well, not one to be overtaken lightly when I’m in a running frame of mind, I didn’t really need any more encouragement. White trainers or not so white, I was going past and I was going up! From there on in, for the next 500m ascent in altitude, it was sprint past, heart racing, get breath back, walk for a bit, sprint past, heart racing, get breath back, walk for a bit. But what a rush! What fun. What a joy to be alive and to be a runner! Unfortunately, I was very rudely awakened from my reveries by a very loud, a very grunting man behind me who I thought 1) would have collapsed before he got past the first km and 2) that if he didn’t collapse I’d manage to lose in my mad scramble up the trail. But no. He had actually picked up on the technique and sailed (snorted) happily past me as I reached the first water station – which was a mountain stream and a nice man with some plastic cups. There’s nothing like a man with a breathing problem to spoil a girl’s wildlife experience though.
Ristoro (water station)Nevertheless, by this time I had a lady in an orange vest in my sights, picking her way a bit too daintily as she traversed the next part of the course. Having got the start all wrong, I definitely wasn’t going to miss out on a spot of real running now that the course had flattened out a bit. So off I go, across and around her and back behind the grunter/snorter. Oh dear. why does this always happen to me I ask? Didn’t I just have to go to the loo at Leith Links during the Edinburgh Half just to get away from the man who’d obviously had one heavy too many the night before and or who just had a bit of an unfortunately phlegmy chest that morning? Hoping to relieve the tension, I have a bit of a giggle about it with a guy in a red vest who seemed to be following me, and off we trot onwards and upwards full of the joys, enjoying the feel of the earth beneath our feet, the sun on our faces, the wind in our hair (ehm, that might be pushing the poetic licence as by that time it was 40 degree heat and not a leaf was moving in that forest, never mind blowing through our hair). But we were finally getting into our stride and really enjoying some proper running. But no. We’re not running after all. We’ve stopped again. We have finally reached the top and have been running for all of five minutes and we’re queuing again. Time to go back down. And the only way down is over a tiny rope bridge. Which only fits about 1 person. And there was more than 1 of us. Me, the grunty one, grunty’s mates, and red vest. Oh well. I guess it will be fun going down I think. Oh no. Yet again, if only I’d read the leaflet or recce’d the course, I might have been more prepared.
What I thought was going to be a jaunt across the mountain plateau, sun beating down on me, striding across the grass kilometre after gorgeous kilometre, turned into Go up through woods for ever (behind grunty man). Go across beautiful plateau for five minutes. Go back down through woods forever. No more scenery. No more “the hills are alive”. Just trees. Lots of trees. And lots of trees + summer = lots of leaves underfoot. Now I don’t have much experience of this kind of running, but how can anyone possibly find it easy to find their feet on three foot of leaves hiding all sorts of dangers like rocks, stones, branches, or even the odd wild boar (how was I to know, I’m new to this, I’m the girl who takes brand new white Adidas trainers to a trail race??) Or maybe if I hadn’t been wearing the nice new white Adidas I might have been a bit more confident. But let’s just say that me and grunty quickly parted company as he strode off into the distance, and even red vest left me to struggle down on my own. As all the men thundered down to the finish as men usually do on this kind of trail, I did the kind of girly “I don’t want to get my trainers dirty but don’t really want to fall down either” kind of waddle as I weaved my way around endless path after path through the woods as we made our way back to the start.
The finishOne last hill to climb (another 300m difference in height) and I start to hear the sounds of the speaker announcing the finishers as they cross the line. First woman. Blah Blah Blah. Second woman. Blah. Blah. Blah. More Blah. Blah. Blah. Still more Blah, Blah, Blah. Oh my god. They haven’t announced the third lady. I climb the last few steps. Blah Blah Blah. I sprint up the last 200m of track towards the sanctuary. Blah Blah Blah. I round the corner. I see the big red arch. I see my cute little five year old sprinting towards me. I hear my name. No more Blah Blah Blah. Just Third Lady, it’s number 149, from Scotland, running for Runners Chieti, it’s Denise Muir!
Whoo, I think, that’s me. Third. Third, oh my god, the Salomon shoes for the first three, that means they’re mine. I did it. I won the shoes! Now, not even a grunty old man and a trail run with no real running can spoil that kind of satisfaction!
Report and photos Denise Muir
