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Five months later, I found out why I almost dropped out at Ironman Emilia-Romagna. Not from fatigue, not from lack of energy, but because of a muscle I didn’t even know existed. A story I stumbled on by chance, at the table, after Gerar.
The first race of the year usually comes with emotion and excitement. This year it arrived at a sprint—wedged between tasks, exhaustion, and a 15‑minute nap that felt like a fight I’d already lost. Gerar isn’t just a competition; it’s a team exercise in acceptance and moving forward together, even when one of us is the weak link. A story about running, people, different rhythms, and the meaning that stays beyond the kilometers and the results.
I don’t run to escape the past. I run to meet it. To face what I left behind — not to fight it, but to give it a place. “Din” isn’t a location. It’s a moment. A memory. A weight. A source. Where my strength was shaped, and my silence began. This song is not motivation. It’s not triumph. It’s the quiet truth of choosing to move forward — not lighter, not faster — but whole.
Gerar isn’t about the weather—it’s about people. About teams that stay together, negotiated paces, stories told on the run, and a “we run as one” that’s actually respected. If you haven’t run Gerar, chances are you won’t quite get it. But if you’ve been once, you already know why you come back.
For a few days, Monopoli wasn’t a city—it was a rhythm. Food as an excuse, people who take you in naturally, little streets that make you slow down, and that rare feeling that you’re not just a tourist. A place that doesn’t reveal itself right away, but if you leave it alone, it sticks to you—and you don’t leave the same way.
For New Year’s, I ran away to Monopoli—not to chase performance, but to sleep, to eat, to run with no goal, and to get my head straight. With the sea, with quiet, with slow runs and the simple joy of being present. Sometimes it’s not about kilometers or plans. It’s about knowing when to leave. And where.
After nearly three weeks without running, the fog, cold, and wind on Lacul Morii showed up exactly when they were supposed to. It was more than a physical comeback—it cleared my head after an intense stretch of work, projects, and short nights. A simple run, no pressure, that put everything back in place and quietly opened the road toward the next goal.
It wasn’t a year about records—it was about people, roads, and meaning. About races that broke me and put me back together, about community, family, friends, and moments that mattered more than any finish time. A full, heavy, good year, in which running wasn’t a battle with limits, but my way of living my life, with everything in it at its most intense.
At 8:20, coffee in hand and five hours of sleep behind me, it all felt like a bad idea. Fatigue, cold, chaos. And yet the promises, the people, and the energy before the start line outweighed everything. It was a run without an obsession for time, but full of meetups, stories, and moments that remind you why you run. Not for peace, not for the medal, but for that rare feeling that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, with the right people.
After 100 km in Alberobello, sleepless nights, exhaustion, and a forced break, today’s run came exactly when it needed to. Bad weather, familiar roads seen through a tourist’s eyes, unexpected encounters, and stories told on the move. A run with no pressure, but with meaning—one that reconnected my legs, my mind, and my confidence for what’s next. Sometimes a comeback doesn’t arrive with fireworks, but quietly, in 19 kilometers run with a clear head.
🇮🇹🏃♂️ 100 km in Puglia. One run, one community, and a man who never spent a single second truly alone.It was that kind of race — the one that somehow comes together perfectly without being perfect a...
Our first evening in Bari started exactly the way it should: the whole crew together, streets you happily get lost in, the sea close by, and way too much good food. From crispy polpo eaten on the run to octopus that practically falls apart on your plate, Aperol by the gallon and stories with dear people—everything was the perfect warm-up for what was coming. The 100 km run wasn’t here yet, but its story was already beginning, between plates, laughter, and the south of Italy.