brought her knowledge and expertise to cure any injury and, above all, to give me moral support at the most grueling moments. Olivier and Benjamin have studied the route, which each now knows like the back of his hand, and will be at different points to give me food and drink. Gino and Jean Yves are the representatives of the brand that’s sponsoring me and have come to help wherever necessary: in the kitchen, on the mountain, transporting my pacers. The pacers are Adam, Josh, Ross, Sean, Kevin, Jean-mi, and Bryon, who by turn will accompany me over the whole course. The film crew comprises Marlène, Raf, O. J., Mimo, and Lolo. Finally, Lotta is responsible for the overall organization, although everyone in fact does a bit of everything—cooks, gives out food, lends mutual encouragement, gets my clothes ready, and gives me support. And no one sleeps.
Bryon and I start running. I feel fresh and light. My feet feel nimble, finding the quickest path and powering me into the woods of California. I can hear Bryon start to pant behind me, and that motivates me as the first light of day begins to shine through the trees. A spectacle of nature unfolds before us.
The sun shines brightly between the tall pines north of the lake on the high plain of California. The light has a strength, is intense, solid, with a body of its own. It is no mere spectator illuminating nature, but is transformed into a living element, like the mountains, lake, or the sky itself. The show of colors offered by the combination of water and light relegates to second place the baroque architecture traced by the old pine woods between the small lakes and undulating terrain. The sinuous shapes seem designed by thebest modernist architects, their impossible knots like gargoyles on Renaissance cathedrals and their thick, striated bark giving the forest the massive presence of a Romanesque monastery. Green phosphorescent lichens bring light to spaces not bathed by the sunbeams that are painting the tree bark and sand red.
In this dance of colors we are also like dancers striding forward, possessed by their energy, and we tease the broad path that glides between gentle undulations and then amuses itself by changing rhythm with each bend, each descent, and each sunbeam that passes us by. I spur my legs on and feel my muscles tensing before I drive them harder and then relax completely as my legs glide through the air. My watch records a pace of about 10 miles an hour. I feel really good, and it’s as if my feet prefer not to make contact with the ground. We swerve through the trees at top speed, flying on silent strides, breathing in the fresh air, alert to everything around us.
I feel as if I have been transported back in time, like a young Indian brave silently pursuing an elk that is running away, hiding among the huge trees. I must move swiftly forward, follow the majestic animal’s elegant strides, but I must also advance silently, almost without touching the ground, so that I don’t trample on a branch and give away my position. As I peer between the branches of the huge, lichen-covered pines, I feel the strength of the warriors who ran along these slopes a few centuries ago. I smell their scent in the moss, I see their shadows running by my side between the rocks we are crossing, and I see their faces reflected in the rivers where I stop and drink the water they once drank. I hear their words on the wind that caresses our faces as we leave the woods. And I turn myself into one more member of their tribe as I run along the same tracks where they ran, lit by the same light they saw come to life and die.
Today we are left with what was strongest, with what men were unable to destroy. We are left with rocks, rivers, sand, and trees. Tremendous efforts have been made to conserve these natural spaces and, unlike many areas on the planet that have suffered wholesale destruction, these parks preserve nature almost as wild as the nature experienced by the
Bryon and I start running. I feel fresh and light. My feet feel nimble, finding the quickest path and powering me into the woods of California. I can hear Bryon start to pant behind me, and that motivates me as the first light of day begins to shine through the trees. A spectacle of nature unfolds before us.
The sun shines brightly between the tall pines north of the lake on the high plain of California. The light has a strength, is intense, solid, with a body of its own. It is no mere spectator illuminating nature, but is transformed into a living element, like the mountains, lake, or the sky itself. The show of colors offered by the combination of water and light relegates to second place the baroque architecture traced by the old pine woods between the small lakes and undulating terrain. The sinuous shapes seem designed by thebest modernist architects, their impossible knots like gargoyles on Renaissance cathedrals and their thick, striated bark giving the forest the massive presence of a Romanesque monastery. Green phosphorescent lichens bring light to spaces not bathed by the sunbeams that are painting the tree bark and sand red.
In this dance of colors we are also like dancers striding forward, possessed by their energy, and we tease the broad path that glides between gentle undulations and then amuses itself by changing rhythm with each bend, each descent, and each sunbeam that passes us by. I spur my legs on and feel my muscles tensing before I drive them harder and then relax completely as my legs glide through the air. My watch records a pace of about 10 miles an hour. I feel really good, and it’s as if my feet prefer not to make contact with the ground. We swerve through the trees at top speed, flying on silent strides, breathing in the fresh air, alert to everything around us.
I feel as if I have been transported back in time, like a young Indian brave silently pursuing an elk that is running away, hiding among the huge trees. I must move swiftly forward, follow the majestic animal’s elegant strides, but I must also advance silently, almost without touching the ground, so that I don’t trample on a branch and give away my position. As I peer between the branches of the huge, lichen-covered pines, I feel the strength of the warriors who ran along these slopes a few centuries ago. I smell their scent in the moss, I see their shadows running by my side between the rocks we are crossing, and I see their faces reflected in the rivers where I stop and drink the water they once drank. I hear their words on the wind that caresses our faces as we leave the woods. And I turn myself into one more member of their tribe as I run along the same tracks where they ran, lit by the same light they saw come to life and die.
Today we are left with what was strongest, with what men were unable to destroy. We are left with rocks, rivers, sand, and trees. Tremendous efforts have been made to conserve these natural spaces and, unlike many areas on the planet that have suffered wholesale destruction, these parks preserve nature almost as wild as the nature experienced by the
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