The Dolomiti Xtreme Trail Race one…

If Carlsberg did B&B hosts, surely they'd be a lot like Anna.

Anna is a lady of the mountains. She was born, grew up, lives and works in the rocky peaks of Forno di Zoldo in Belluno Province in Northern Italy. She's the owner of Dormi & Disna, a tardis like B&B sat on the slopes of a large mountain in the middle of a small village. It's taken 3 hours to get here from the airport, with many nervous minutes spent trying to negotiate a brand new hire car through an impossibly narrow gap on the road a stone's throw from her front door. Her English is excellent, so too her restaurant suggestions.

She's an all round sweetheart and she's driven us to the start line of the Dolomiti Xtreme Trail race at 5am.

We're a big group with some of us doing the 55k trail race, others the 22k. Incidentally, no one opted for the self supported, all day, all night 100k race.

Nick and I have been here before. Literally, the same rooms in the same B&B lining up for the same race. It was so good the first time around, we came back and brought reinforcements.

I’d opted for the 22k race, whereas El had been forced into joining me having recently run a marathon based on a week's training, determination and jelly babies.

As we lined up on the start line, there was the familiar sense of anticipation mixed with the whiff of strong, early morning coffee being carried on the breeze, clutched by those unfortunate enough to have been dragged out of bed to support the race in form or another.

The horn sounded. We were off.

The path was flat for the first 100m. After that, it wasn’t.

We followed a gravel track before swinging right into a forest where the trail narrowed and started to climb. There was a front group of around 8 runners - all looked like fast mountain goats - strung out along the trail, with El and I holding on to the coat tails of the last in the group.

We passed through meadows and forest as the trail wound itself up and over the first mountain pass. We were already high up among the rocky peaks, the race having started 1,000m above sea level. We then had the most incredible descent - the trail running equivalent of Alpe D'Huez hairpins - zig zagging down a steep sloped mountain side.

Eventually the path evened out briefly before starting the next ascent. 

It was here the race fell apart and I didn’t see El again until the finish.

As I reached the plateau of the climb, I was suddenly alone. I ran along the trail following the freshly brushed grass that indicated where the half dozen runners ahead of me had already been. I stopped. I was stood in the middle of a small meadow surrounded by trees. In front of me was a flag, a backpack and two paths. One leading left, one leading right.

I looked around and saw no one. Whoever was here to marshal runners in the right direction was quite possibly somewhere among the trees with their trousers round their ankles at the precise moment I needed them.

A second runner joined me.

Not wanting to let the whole field catch up, I guessed and turned right carrying on through the meadow and back into the forest.

Left. It was bloody left.

As I continued the trail became less, well, trail-like. I could however see and hear others both ahead and behind me, so I pressed on. Almost instantly, the faint path became a 45 degree descent through thick trees with very little of the hazy sunlight reaching us. It gave the place a slightly haunted feel which didn't help the sense I'd just made the wrong decision. I bombed it down the slope, mainly because it was so steep I couldn't slow myself down.  I must have covered 200-300m of descent in less than a minute.

At the bottom was a locked gate and an impromptu committee meeting.

It was decision time. Half chose to jump the gate and press on. Half decided to trudge back up the slope and with it loose any chance of being at the head of the race. I jumped the gate.

I found myself running alongside Tomas from Croatia, a super friendly guy who was right up at the front before having made the same bad guess at the fork in the trail.

We continued on the same mountain track wondering just how far off the race route we were. We eventually hit a road about a kilometre from where we'd started. Without knowing it, we’d done a massive circle and were miles from where we should have been. We agreed to follow the route along the valley floor and then rejoin what was left of the race route up in town. At least we'd cross the finish line.

We pounded pavement for the next few kilometres, descending winding hairpins as the valley opened up in front of us and the clouds tried to escape the clutches of the snow-capped peaks.

We picked up a trail that took us god only knows where. At one point I ran through someone's chicken run and was chased off by an angry pheasant.

It now seemed like hours since we'd left the start of what was no longer a race but simply a run to find something, somewhere we vaguely recognised.

It came in the form of a sign marking Forno di Zoldo 3k.

By this point, Tomas and I were laughing about the error that had sent us massively off course and caused us to run an extra 10k. Unbelievably, from over 100 runners we placed 50th and 51st despite the WI meeting and extra distance. We crossed the finish line to slightly bewildered faces glaring in our direction.

The celebration

Let's just say we knew the perfect place. The type you’d drive past, looking more like a house than a restaurant. It sits on the side of a mountain next to a house selling wooden sculptures to god-only-knows who. It’s run by a bear of a man who's as grizzled as he is hospitable and it’s spectacularly good fun.

We'd been here before, signposted by Anna. Being just up the road, it was handy too when our legs didn't want us to move too far.

Our first experience went something like this.

On walking in, a small number of wooden tables were arranged across the room. We nodded in the direction of another runner who'd obviously had the same tip for a hearty post race meal. The barman popped up and asked us if we were thirsty. What a wonderful question to be asked, I thought. He returned a moment later, without actually taking an order, with 4 steins of locally brewed beer.

This was just the start.

It turns out the barman was also the waiter and the chef. He spoke very little English but attempted to describe what was on the menu, our host running to and from the kitchen bringing out all sorts of herbs, spices and local ingredients to us in an attempt to explain. There was no choice, whatever we were eating was being cooked.

A little later half a cow arrived. It was the biggest rack of ribs I've ever seen. Then chips to feed at least 20 people arrived. Veggies and the sweetest, deep red wine appeared too.

3 hours passed very happily. As did desserts and coffee.

We came to pay the bill and our kind host, who'd spent plenty of time sat down at our table, would only accept a tip if we shared a bottle of Grappa with him. Well, it would have been rude not to...

He took his, the barman's and the chef's share too.

Sadly, and a little Cinderella-esq, we though of heading back down the mountain as the clock approached midnight.

"I drive" - our host said, more as a command than an offer.

"Okay, if you're sure" - we said, slightly unsure of what was about to happen having witnessed him polish off several shots of jet fuel.

To say we bombed down the mountain is an understatement.

Oh, and that narrow pass in the road we took 10 minutes negotiating.

His foot didn't even touch the brake.

Second time around, and several years later, I like to think he remembered us now that we'd returned and brought friends. Either way, he still knew where the Grappa bottle was.