Wandering in Tuscany – Tuscany Crossing 100 Miler
04/19/2024: Tuscany Crossing—a hundred-mile jaunt through the gorgeous Tuscan countryside, taking in favorites like Pienza and Montepulciano. It’s rather a cross-country run, not a trail race, with a reasonable 5800 meters of elevation gain. Receiving this race as a gift, believing it a gentle countryside stroll, I anticipated a sweaty (and sun-baked) experience. And it was…
Twelve hours seems ample for the drive to Castiglione d’Orcia. Wednesday afternoon finds me attempting a lie-in, though I’m not great at it. I initially aim for an 8 AM, then a 9 AM departure, but don’t leave until almost eleven that evening. I take the classic route toward Vienna, planning a route through Austria, past Venice and Florence, to a location in the heart of Tuscany. I haven’t driven such a long distance in ages; shortly after Vienna, I feel it—my head starts to droop. I stop for a ten-minute power nap, only to wake up two hours later. This trip is proving more challenging than anticipated. After several more hours of driving, now in Italy, I snatch another two hours of sleep, rewarding myself with a gas station beer to sip while driving—pure Italian gold. I don’t reach Pienza, my accommodation, until approximately 4:30 PM. This timing means I’m walking from the car park to the hostel when a major storm hits. By then, I’m already seated in a small, cozy restaurant, enjoying the local cuisine and several glasses of wine. The race doesn’t begin until 5 PM the following day; I postpone packing and race preparations until morning, drifting off to sleep after a couple of pre-race snacks.
The morning unfolds beautifully. I prepare for the race, and enjoy a stroll around Pienza. The valley views remain breathtaking. With thirty minutes until the start, I leave after noon and arrive in Castiglione before 1 PM. A pre-race presentation to a sea of strangers follows, along with drop bag drop-off, then I take a walk into town. Well, more a quick stroll; it’s a tiny hilltop town, easily explored in fifteen minutes. I skip the tower climb, the main attraction (having done it before), opting instead to sit on a wall with a beer, enjoying the warmth of the sun. One Messina is so good, I have another.
Then, it’s back to my car (conveniently parked fifty meters from the start), where I recharge my electronics and bide my time.
At 4:45 PM, I finally change into my running clothes. I’m sticking with what works: longer, loose shorts with built-in mesh (meaning no underwear and no chafing), a mesh top to keep me cool and avoid resembling Homer Simpson while running, and—for this race—my classic teal Czech Ultramarathon Team t-shirt, so everyone knows where I’m from. And, of course, my trusty finger socks.
I hear there’s a pre-race briefing at 4:30 PM. Given my past experiences with Italian race briefings, I don’t expect much. And I am not surprised. On stage, the race director attempts to speak, but the microphone and particularly the poor-quality speakers are barely audible beyond the front row. Unsurprisingly, everything’s in Italian. I excuse myself and return to my car; my bladder is already pushing its limits. Had I been closer and understood Italian, I would have learned that the route had been altered due to recent rain, making a large part of my carefully planned GPX track useless. Blissful ignorance…
The weather remains favorable. Ten minutes to five, I make a phone call and take my place at the starting line. Front row—naturally, when every second counts, particularly at the start, haha. The race consists of two laps, each approximately 60 kilometers. The organizers warn about potential wade-through river crossings—adding to the fun.
The race begins. We run through town then ascend the hill. I’m not playing games; I walk at the start, planning to run later. It’s a great start, a gravel path, time to take in the views. After descending from Castiglione, the landscape becomes slightly undulating. Perfect. At the eighth kilometer, the first fun part—we transition from roads to trails, running for several hundred meters along an embankment, then through a lengthy, unlit tunnel. I don’t want to carry my headlamp yet, so I follow a colleague who’s less lazy and has his headlamp on.
The descent from the embankment into the woods proves a bit adventurous; it’s a muddy, slippery slope alongside a railroad. I manage to avoid a muddy backside. Most of the course traverses open country, the trails are soft, the sun shines, and—enjoying the scenery—I’m really enjoying the race. It’s not too warm; the only thing missing is perhaps a beer garden with draft beer.
After the half-marathon, I unexpectedly reach my famous photo-taking spot at Cipressi di San Quirico. I run among dozens (literally) of photographers, marveling with them at the setting sun and the lighting. I’m too lazy to get my phone out to take photos. Darkness creeps in; I prepare for the night.
There are few straight stretches. Numerous steep climbs and descents, though not very long, increase in frequency. Judging distances in the dark is difficult; my headlamp illuminates only a few meters; occasionally, I glimpse the glow of distant towns.
At the 35-kilometer mark, I find a welcome distraction—Montalcino. Around 9 PM, we run through the crowded town center; it’s pleasant. Soon, we’re back in the darkness. The reward for climbing to Montalcino is a long downhill run. My stomach remains cooperative; I feel strong and continue as planned. After a 40-minute climb and descent, I reach Castiglione at kilometer 60, after six hours and 45 minutes.
I can’t say the sixty kilometers are entirely painless. During the last few minutes, I begin to feel cold, but the knowledge of a hidden beer at the checkpoint keeps me going. I sit, change my shirt for a warmer one (anticipating bad weather and a cold night), and open the beer. I enjoy local snacks. After fifteen minutes, I must continue; I need to warm up.
Following the arrows, I begin the second loop, but—oops—something’s wrong. The markings don’t align with my GPS. When the next arrow points in the opposite direction from my watch, I stop and ask for clarification. Another competitor approaches; we talk; he calls race headquarters, learning that the course has been adjusted, and my GPS is useless. The route has been impeccably marked thus far; I haven’t needed my watch for navigation, but I’m slightly anxious about relying solely on the markings without my watch.
In a few kilometers, we should reach Bagno Vignoni, a beautiful, historic town with a former Roman bath and a small lake in the central square.
This is how it looks like in daytime.
Before that, a river crossing is scheduled, but it’s cancelled. As I climb, hearing the river’s roar below, I understand the reason for the route change. The river is swollen; the organizers avoid a wet-foot crossing. Instead, we face a steep but short climb into a small town. At 1 AM, it’s crowded, well-lit—a different experience from my previous visits.
An hour later, I’m in San Quirico, again deserted; how different it feels at 2 AM. I also enjoy passing through Pienza at night. I’ve never seen these places at night; it’s fascinating and helps distract me while navigating the undulating night landscape. By the time I reach Montichiello around 4 AM, dawn breaks. Rain is forecast for the next day, which I’m not looking forward to. After an hour, I’m back on the railway embankment, beside the river. I look down, trip and fall like a sack of potatoes—scratching my arms, nearly falling into the riverbed. I unleash a torrent of swear words.
Before the blood on my hands dries, a rope appears; I cross the river. Knee-deep water, about 50 meters across, a rope, and an off-road vehicle parked on the bank—likely a rescue vehicle. The danger of drowning is minimal, but the current is strong. The water is useful for washing off the mud. Less pleasant is the trail continuing almost in the river, across deposited sand and silt, making a mess of my boots.
For the next three hours, I push through the overcast, misty morning landscape. Occasional showers fall, but nothing serious. I’ve stopped eating; I have no appetite. Even sweets hold no appeal; I occasionally eat cheese or crackers. I avoid Coke as they only have Pepsi, which upsets my stomach. I hydrate with water, consistently replenishing salt and minerals to prevent a Hong Kong-style collapse.
At the 114-kilometer mark, I struggle ascending the road and later, into Campiglia. My energy wanes; I walk on the asphalt I’ve anticipated for hours, overtaken by several competitors. Negative thoughts assail me. At the summit, I can barely move. I sit, force down a candy bar from my emergency stash, and attempt a downhill run, somehow managing to do so. I’m still running; fifteen and a half hours into the race, with forty-five kilometers to go—it won’t be twenty hours, but hopefully twenty-one. My stomach feels awful; my digestion is failing; I’m overstuffed and bloated. I take the unusual step of inducing vomiting. After emptying my stomach behind a bush, I also cleanse my bowels and, now feeling significantly lighter, continue.
Unfortunately, the bridle path ends; the nice trails are now hidden behind woods or hills. One major climb remains, peaking at 1003 meters. Two tourists sit at the base of the hill. When they ask if I need anything, I yell, “Beer!” They have some. I give them two energy gels, pilfer a snack from their bag, and begin climbing. I take it easy; I reach the summit in an hour and a half, enduring one false summit along the way. I descend; it goes well; I occasionally see the tower in the distant town. I pick up the pace on the next downhill section, a reward for the previous shorter but steeper climb.
The finish is close—or rather, on a hill. Eight kilometers from the finish, I stop for a final refreshment, though I shouldn’t need it. I have water; I don’t want food; I’m extremely tired. But seeing an open beer, I can’t resist. And I regret it.
I run a few hundred meters when I feel a sharp pain under my left collarbone, accompanied by weakness. I suspect I’ve caught something, just like in Hong Kong. I sit, replenish salts and minerals, and eat one last candy bar. The sun shines; at a house in a secluded clearing, I lie on a wall and rest for fifteen minutes. I get up, walk slowly; it’s better; I start walking; it’s slightly downhill. Within a hundred meters, I know there’ll be problems. My legs burn; I’m weak. I begin to slow. As forecast, brutal black storm clouds gather overhead.
Five kilometers to the finish. It’s no longer about position or time, just finishing. One final climb remains. A third of the way up, I can’t continue; it’s drizzling. I lie down on the rocky trail, pull my hood over my head, and nap (without setting an alarm). I fail to sleep; runners on the 100km trail, passing by, ask the obligatory, “Are you okay?” After the tenth time, I’m tired of answering; I’m asleep! I stand, continue, climbing in short bursts. The storm hits—I’m drenched; the wind howls; I shiver from cold, exhaustion, and probable illness. I fight relentlessly; thankfully, no one overtakes me.
A kilometer from the finish, I see the tower. If the organizers had included a tower climb, I’d be dead. Five hundred meters. No tower climb. One hundred meters further, the town gate and finish line appear. I’m shaking, leaning against the gate wall during a downpour. A woman, maybe in her seventies, stands under an umbrella, confused why I’m not finishing the short distance. But I can’t. With a final surge of strength, I pass the gate and descend to the finish. I cross the finish line in 24 hours and five minutes, greeted by an organizer handing out medals, and another in the tent, where I receive another medal for completing the 24-hour challenge (I missed it by five minutes, but that’s not the Italian way).
I briefly forget the cold and fatigue, enough to get me the hundred meters to the race center. I sit in a chair, unable to move, next to an elderly couple. People speak to me; I realize I need tea. I gesture my inability to walk. A gentleman brings me hot tea. I sip slowly; it barely warms me. I feel faint. I stand and shuffle to a nearby car. I pull the plastic seat cover over, fold down the armrest, strip to my shorts, start the engine, turn on the heater, cover myself with a blanket, set an alarm for an hour and a half, and try to sleep. Soon, I’ll be okay. Then, I can report back that I safely finished.
Final word
155 kilometers of satisfaction; 5 kilometers of disappointment. My struggles at the end cost me two hours and a few places. 12th place overall—a surprisingly good result. Combined with the beautiful surroundings and interesting route, the trip was worthwhile.
My thanks, as always, to everyone who followed and supported me.
In a couple of days, I will face the Grand Union Canal Race—235 kilometers across England, from London to Birmingham, along the Grand Union Canal. We’ll see how my recovery goes.
