Cemeteries are inhabited by ghosts, but mountains are inhabited by spirits.
When I came to URMA for the first time last year, I met Paco’s spirit. No, I never got to see him in flesh and bone; no, I never met him in what people would call “real life”. But who’s to say the things we feel aren’t as real as the ones we see? Who’s to say that death is the end, when you can trace someone’s legacy in the mountain air, through the bird’s song, through the shadow of tree branches moving like puppets over the soil, through someone’s invisible footsteps?
Coming back this year to tackle the 50 kilometres with almost 3000 metres of elevation, I felt not just more physically prepared, but also more familiar with the community and the spirit of the event—one my friend Elena first spoke to me about back in 2022, when we were running through a cemetery in Almaty, Kazakhstan.
I met Elena in her hometown, Trento. The town hadn’t changed much since I first visited last year, but being able to wander around the cobbled streets under the sun, visit the local market, and make my best efforts to ask for a coffee in Italian gave me a fresh perspective on this little gem, circled by mountains not many people know about. Plates brimming with pasta and rice, bread, cheese and eggs set me up in the two days before the race, with Elena’s mum making sure I was getting all the fuel I needed.
No matter how early we woke up on Sunday, we were running late. Leo, who I met last year, came to pick us up—but he didn’t know there were two of us, so we had to squeeze into the front seat of his two-seater van. In a few minutes (not just because we were already in the mountains, but also because Leo drove kinda… fast) we gained altitude, and I could see the Dolomites tracing the horizon from afar.
After parking the van, we had to walk around two kilometres to reach the base camp where the race would begin. Loaded with a massive bag and a yoghurt cake, I started getting nervous about not making it on time, so I left the guys with all the stuff and began running. As I passed others walking there, I wondered if maybe I was getting a bit too anxious and time-conscious (the British way, I guess), but I needed at least ten minutes to relax and gain perspective on the day.
I had no time goal or expectations—you can’t really pace a trail race with this kind of elevation—but I wanted to go as quickly as possible and walk as little as I could.
The energy at base camp was electric. Despite the altitude, it was around 25 degrees. Dogs wandered around, and I saw some familiar faces from last year. I picked up my bib—a small piece of fabric with the number 34 painted on it in the most punk way—and pinned it to my shorts, had a quick chat with Yuri from Rayon Vert, and met Bartolo, who was wearing a pair of Nordas signed by Zegna.
We gathered for the briefing and the speech in memory of Paco. The race began when a guy, who suddenly appeared like an angel in the sky, landed with a parachute and the URMA flag waving in the air. La Cospirazione (aka the organisers) lit smoke flares, creating a tunnel of colour that we ran through as if crossing into a new world.
The first 13k loop felt smooth; the trees sheltered me from the sun and I stayed focused on the path. I surfed down the hills and hiked the climbs. We crossed a small river, and I told myself, “Be careful when you cross this again—you’ll have already run more than 40k.”
After a quick stop at base camp for water and slices of bread with peanut butter, I set off on the second section. Though the route was hilly, I tried to maintain a steady, slow pace. We crossed a little stream and arrived at a parking lot where the team had set up another checkpoint.
I wasn’t checking my watch at all—I was completely in the moment—but when I stopped for snacks there, I realised we’d already covered 18k. “Oh, that felt quick,” I thought.
The next section was basically a climb up Cima Verde (Green Summit), which meant a lot of hiking. I joined Paolo and Francesco, two runners from Ancona, and tried to chat with them using English, the few Italian words I knew, and some Spanish words made to sound Italian. To reach the top, we had to scramble over rocks, which shifted and slid under every step. On the descent, I didn’t realise we had to climb a second peak, Cornetto, where a stamp and a box of ink with the URMA logo awaited for us to mark ourselves.
We made it back to the checkpoint surprisingly quickly, didn’t hang around for long, and began the return to base camp. Though it was only 5k with minimal elevation, I could feel the pain in my quads starting to creep in. But I knew stopping would only make it worse, so I kept going, numbing the pain and the thoughts, focusing only on each step.
Back at base camp, Mattia asked me how I felt. To my surprise, I felt better than expected and wasn’t too worried about the final 13k, which followed the same initial loop. This time I ran alone, moving slowly but comfortably, in a raw state of calm and peace. When I reached the river again, I remembered what I’d thought the first time I crossed it. I stopped and thought of what Heraclitus said: “No man ever steps in the same river twice.” And indeed, this wasn’t the same river, and indeed, this wasn’t the same me.
In the final couple of uphill kilometres, my legs began to give up—but I didn’t let my mind do the same. I kept moving, knowing that once I reached base camp it would all be over, so I tried to soak in every last drop—the cramps, the chafing under my arms, the sweat, the fatigue… Sometimes it takes pain to feel alive, but by approaching it with curiosity, one unlocks the potential that fear and comfort block us from reaching.
After a shower and devouring a veggie burger that Ale kindly gave me, we spent the last of our energy in a mosh pit while Riviera, an Italian punk band, played. Apparently, I finished in 17th place—URMA’s lucky number—so I received one of Paco’s prints, which now hangs in my bedroom in London.
This community has my heart. When I left, I felt both full and empty at once. I’ll keep coming back, tracing Paco’s spirit—forever alive.
