Last year, somewhere in the Italian countryside around 3:30 a.m., the electric vehicle I'd rented in Rome sat in the driveway of my Airbnb, refusing to start. So my partner and I stripped off our warm-ups, threw on our race vests, and started running toward the nearest highway, hoping to hitch the final 5K to the start of our 123K ultramarathon.
Dan from Serbia had no reservations. He scooped us up in his Fiat 500 and deposited us at the start line with 90 seconds to spare, where I found myself standing within three feet of Kilian Jornet and Jim Walmsley.
Shivering in the warming hut afterward, still sopping wet and covered in fango (Italian for mud; I will never forget this word), I immediately knew I wanted to go back. Not for revenge. Not to prove anything to the mud.
Here's why, and what repeating races has taught me about actually running them.
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