🇮🇹🏃♂️ 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 at all. The kind that pushes you, steadies you, shakes you a little, then hugs you back. The kind of hundred-kilometre day that ends with a quiet smile and a simple thought: “yes… this one was a story.” 😍
After two days roaming through Bari, Polignano a Mare, and Alberobello — tasting the local food but keeping a bit of discipline — that long-awaited morning finally came. The one I’d been carrying inside me for three months. I woke up with heavy emotions. The training plan hadn’t gone the way I wanted, but I didn’t feel like I needed that flawless, mathematical perfection anymore. After three Ironmans, a Transfier, and another 100 km in February — all in the same year — I had a strange kind of confidence. The kind you can’t put into words. I knew I was ready. Or at least… that I’d manage, whatever the day would bring.
It took me a while to settle on the route. I wanted a day of running, not a day of hunting for water or stepping in and out of shops. In self-supported runs, water is the only real obstacle — you can’t carry much, and you can’t cheat it. Everything else I can improvise. But water… two or three flasks, maybe four if you push your luck, and that’s already too much weight.
So I planned the day around three loops of roughly twenty-eight kilometres each, plus a shorter sixteen-kilometre loop at the end. Start at six in the morning, finish in daylight. Nae would join me for the first loop; the second I’d run in reverse; the third I’d switch back again — just enough to trick the mind and avoid that feeling of retracing the same road to the millimetre. And the final loop would round the distance to one hundred.
I met up with Nae a few minutes before six. The air was cool — around eleven degrees — but the humidity was so high that everything looked soaked, as if a heavy rain had passed during the night. We exchanged a few words, his usual jokes, my usual nerves, and at six sharp… we simply started. No countdown, no fuss, no theatrics. Just the two of us stepping into the dark.
The backpack felt heavy from the very first strides. It was clear I hadn’t run with it in a while. It must have been close to four kilograms, maybe more. I had packed it for every possible scenario, so I could change the route on the fly if needed. Three flasks, nutrition for the entire effort, a rain jacket, a wind jacket, a spare T-shirt, a long-sleeve, my ID, some cash, a tiny torch, a survival blanket, an elastic bandage, the drone, two extra batteries for it, a power bank for the phone, earphones, salt tablets for eleven hours, those Decathlon tablets with minerals and vitamins (chlorides, potassium, sodium, magnesium, B1, B6 and C). I also had a few “just in case” pills — Espumisan, Metoclopramide, Imodium — plus the supplements for every forty kilometres: a 1000 mg magnesium and a vitamin C just as strong. And of course… the phone.
I had the headlamp with me, but I barely got the chance to use it. Dawn came faster than expected. We left Alberobello behind and entered those roads I love — the stone walls, the olive groves, the trulli scattered like pieces from a fairy tale. The sun started to rise, and a thin layer of mist settled everywhere, as if the whole of Puglia was hovering between sleep and waking. The fog wrapped itself around the valleys, the olive trees seemed to lift slowly out of another world, and the warm light tried to slide between them. It was a scene you can’t fully describe; you have to live it.
The road twisted in every direction — here, flat ground simply doesn’t exist. A hill, a dip, a cool breath of air, a sudden wave of humidity. But it was a beautiful morning, calm, almost fragile, and we just enjoyed the run, the landscape, that easy rhythm where nothing needs to be rushed.
We talked nonsense, we talked seriously, we stayed quiet, we breathed, and I began sticking to the nutrition plan with almost religious discipline. Like I told you, I’d made some big changes. The target was 80 grams of carbs per hour — something I had never tried in a 100 km run. I’d gone up to 75g before, three gels an hour, but never for an entire race. And the interesting part wasn’t even the quantity, but the alternation: one hour of carb drink (Maurten 320 — a few solid sips, around 170 ml every twenty minutes), one hour of gels + 500 ml of water (Maurten 160 — one every thirty minutes).
I started exactly like that, minute by minute, and everything worked beautifully. Of course I was waiting — and honestly curious — to see what would happen after five or six hours. That’s when the real adventure begins.
The kilometres passed. I had planned to take a photo for each “adopted” kilometre, to send everyone a personal thank you, maybe even a joke. But reality always gets the final say in a long run. The photo idea didn’t survive the day, but the messages did. All of them. I carried them with me. I’ll tell you later what that meant, because it ended up being one of the defining moments of the race.
At kilometre twelve we entered Locorotondo. I know the town from wintertime — decorated, warm, full of lights that soften the soul. And sure enough, it was already dressed for the holidays. Nae and I ran through it wide-eyed like two overly enthusiastic tourists, enjoying every step. At the exit we found the first fountain, the one I was counting on. A bit of splashing around, as we call it: Nae filled his flask (he had just one), I took a few gulps, we cooled off a bit, and we kept going.
We descended from the old town on the same staircase where, back in February, I’d been jumping around like a lunatic to “Libera la mare – Andre.” I wasn’t singing this time, but I still caught myself smiling. Funny how places tie themselves to your memories. The second half of the loop started with a long downhill. I joked with Nae that on the way back I would really understand how long it was. I turned out to be right — but that’s another scene entirely.
What I didn’t know was that this road hid some climbs that felt endless. The kind that pull the strength straight through the soles of your shoes, especially when you’re tackling twenty-eight early-morning kilometres. Nae grumbled, I laughed, but we both knew that by loop three, when I’d be coming through here alone, it would be my turn to lose my mind. 😂 That’s the beautiful, slightly ridiculous part of ultrarunning — you laugh now, you pay for it later.
With more talk, more silence, and that comfortable quiet between two friends running together — the kind where you don’t need words to feel like you’re in the same world — we reached around kilometre twenty-three. I hoped to find another fountain there. I had spotted it on Google Maps, even checked the place on Street View, memorising the landmark: a big umbrella-pine after an intersection. Never been there before, but when I saw the tree… I knew the fountain had to be close. And yes — pure joy. 🤭
We finished the first loop with about 28.5 km. After a three-kilometre descent, I noticed some purple flowers on the roadside — wild cyclamen, the tiny brave ones that grow everywhere around Locorotondo. I don’t know what came over me… I stopped and picked a small bunch. I tucked them next to the flask so they would stay with me until I reached Alberobello.
It was a small gesture, but it meant a lot. I thought of Carmen. Of everything she carries with me without actually running — the waiting, the emotions, the long days, the support that never shows up in photos. The flowers were my clumsy “thank you” halfway through the run. A simple, quiet “I’m OK, I’m here, and I’m happy.”
Then I entered Alberobello, climbing that sneaky false-flat that tests your patience right when you feel least prepared for surprises, and reached the little piazza where Carmen was waiting for me. Exactly where she said she’d be, holding two bottles: one with the carb mix, the other with water lightly cut with cola. I know it sounds strange, but that mix is a lifesaver.
After hours of drinking water and sweet stuff, plain water starts to taste… wrong. It’s as if it stops doing anything — like you’re drinking something that doesn’t quench your thirst at all. But if you add just a splash of cola, barely enough to change the flavour, it turns into something else entirely: colder, cleaner, lighter somehow. It takes away that faint nausea and gives the feeling that you’re drinking something that actually helps without bloating you. I have no idea how it works scientifically, but in long runs it’s magic.
I said goodbye to Carmen and Nae, exchanged a couple more jokes, and headed into loop two. For real this time. I knew it would be tougher. Running the route in reverse meant steeper climbs, longer stretches of steady effort, and sections where, if you go into the red zone, it can take twenty minutes to climb back out of it. So I picked up the pace a bit — partly because toward the end of the first loop I had slowed down to stay side by side with Nae, and partly because refilling all three flasks had taken longer than expected. I also changed my shirt — I was drenched, not just from effort but from the wet, heavy air.
Up to Locorotondo, everything felt fine. And then came the climb. The climb with a capital “C.” The one that wrung me out completely. Remember those stairs from “Libera la mare”? This time I had to climb them, not descend them — and they hit hard. Much harder than during the first loop. The temperature had gone up, the humidity hadn’t dropped at all, and every sip of drink felt like it vanished inside me instantly, as if I was pouring it into a black hole. 😋
I had gone through far more liquid than planned. Much more. In nineteen, maybe twenty kilometres I had emptied three flasks, and I was still thirsty — the kind of thirsty that makes you feel like your body can’t keep up anymore. I was counting on a fountain that was supposed to be about five kilometres before Alberobello, near the end of loop two, but somehow I missed it. No idea how. And the thirst… impossible to ignore. The kind where you feel like you could chew the air.
I could tell my energy was slipping away in all the wrong ways — heavy legs, fading sharpness — and it was far too early for that. I was only at kilometre fifty-two.
Then I remembered I had saved all the messages from the “adopt a kilometre” post in ChatGPT. I stopped for a moment, took out my phone and… hit play. That’s it. And what followed was something no graph, heart-rate chart, pace line, or nutrition formula can explain: emotion hit me like a wave. Strong. I listened to the messages, kilometre after kilometre, person after person (I know, that’s not the correct way to say it, but that’s how it feels). All of them. And yes, the tears came. The good ones — the kind that wash tension out of you. It changed the entire course of the day.
Two kilometres before entering Alberobello, I called Carmen and told her not to come out to meet me — I’d go straight to the room. I needed a full reset. And a bathroom.
Right near the end of the loop, I saw some yellow wildflowers on the roadside. Large ones. I picked a few for Andra, my daughter, who was waiting with Carmen. I tucked them next to the flask and kept going. A small gesture — but the kind that feels right.
I ended up losing twenty-eight minutes there, but honestly, it was one of the best pit stops of my life. I ate a little, changed clothes, stretched, washed my face, took care of business 🤭… and left that room a different man. Calm. Light. The first few hundred metres were stiff, but the moment I stepped out of Alberobello I was singing and shouting like a happy idiot. Everything felt different compared to the version of me who had finished loop two.
By then I was already doing small calculations in my head about how to avoid that final short loop of sixteen kilometres. I really didn’t feel like running all the way back into Alberobello only to head out again. I had everything I needed on me, and I hoped I would find water on the way. It was a risk — but a calculated one.
I called the girls and asked them to check on Google Maps how many kilometres there were from Locorotondo to Cisternino — a town further south that I’d always wanted to reach on foot. Unfortunately, the distance was a bit longer than I needed, but it still seemed like the best option. All I needed at the exit of Locorotondo was a small detour. Done. New plan. 😁
I kept going, feeling good again — running with energy, with a clear mind. And after about five kilometres, I finally came across the fountain I had missed earlier. I emptied a flask in one go, drank from the second, and refilled them both. It was warm, but a cold wind was blowing — that strange mix where your body doesn’t quite understand how to feel, but you keep moving forward anyway.
Then Ana-Maria called. We talked for a while — just enough to keep me company through that stretch. And while we were chatting, I stumbled onto another fountain, about three kilometres after the previous one. Imagine that — I had passed it twice that day without seeing it. Third time lucky. I was around kilometre sixty-five.
And just like that, talking and running and letting the day shape itself, I reached Locorotondo again. I was passing near the old town walls, right at kilometre sixty-nine — the kilometre I wanted to run for Oana and Gheo — when I heard someone shouting. At first I ignored it, certain it couldn’t be for me. Then I heard it again. I turned my head… and there they were: my friends. Delia, Gheo, Maria, and Nae — the same Nae who had run with me in the morning. They had taken the train from Alberobello to Locorotondo and arrived exactly as I was passing through.
I ran toward them, Delia ran toward me, we hugged, and suddenly I had a whole new battery of energy. All of it. I don’t know how to explain that moment. It’s something you remember for years. 😍 We took a photo, laughed, exchanged a few words, and I headed on with a grin so wide it felt almost illegal. It was exactly what I needed right then. Friends in my heart, friends on the phone, friends on the street. Pure privilege. Not even in a race do you get support like that. ❤️
After the “Libera la mare” stairs — you know them already 🤭 — I turned left toward Cisternino. I started running on that road, but it felt too serious, almost like a small expressway. Not crowded, but too… road-like for the state I was in. I kept looking left and right, and when I spotted a narrow lane framed by stone walls, vanishing into nowhere… that’s exactly where I went. It was, once again, precisely what I needed.
That narrow lane between the stone walls was… I don’t even know what to call it. It didn’t feel like a simple road. It felt like one of those Puglia portals — it takes you, spins you around, pulls you out of the world, and drops you inside a story. A road that climbs and drops without mercy, yet somehow gives back a kind of quiet you don’t even know you’re seeking until you find it.
I chatted a little longer with Ana, a few laughs, a few words of encouragement, and then it was just me. Me and my breathing. Me and those white stones, impossibly white, made for reflecting both light and thoughts. Me and those old olive trees with their twisted trunks, stretching in every direction as if trying to show you the way, even though they don’t know it themselves.
And in that silence… Italy changes. Southern Italy especially. It has something I can’t quite explain — a warm kind of magic, a calm that smells of damp earth, old stone, and stories that exist only if you live them while running. That’s where I felt my run shifting into something else. That I wasn’t just covering distance anymore — I was slipping into a rhythm that felt like it had been waiting for me for years.
And maybe that was exactly it: that moment when it was just me, that breathing, undulating road, and Puglia placing a hand on my shoulder as if to whisper, without words: “Go. You’re fine. You’re exactly where you should be.” 🥹
At kilometre seventy-three I sent a message to my mother. Her kilometre. She’s seventy-three as well — and she only recently started running. On Monday she was going to finish her first ever twenty-one-day running challenge. I wrote only one thing: “Mom, I’m at seventy-three.” And I think it was one of the most beautiful moments of the whole run. A knot in the throat that somehow feels good.
When the lane met another road, I turned back. I had no guarantee I’d find water again before the end, so the plan was simple: reach the fountain six kilometres before Alberobello. It had to be there. There was no backup plan.
On the way, Florin called. He was out running too. I was at kilometre eighty. We chatted a bit — just enough to pull my mind away from the constant question: “Where’s the next water source?” Hearing a familiar voice helped.
At kilometre eighty-six I finally reached the fountain. And I indulged completely. I drank as much as I wanted, refilled the flasks, splashed myself, reset. I knew I wouldn’t have enough kilometres by the time I got back, so I had to improvise. I decided to head toward a small road near Alberobello — the one Carmen and I ran in December. The safest option to round up the distance without weaving through random streets at the end.
At kilometre ninety, from sheer joy, I started singing. In Hungarian. Like a madman who stops feeling fatigue and channels some sort of inner warrior. 😂 Songs came and went in the playlist, but I sang whatever my mind threw at me. And yes — I remember the exact song. Szeellemvilág, by Edda. It came out of nowhere and instantly brought Attila into my head — my childhood friend, the one who accompanied me three times at Ultrabalaton, the one who knows what it means to be there when things get hard. I don’t know why, but that song put him right next to me on that road. And it felt right. It felt like I wasn’t running alone.
At kilometre ninety-two I entered “Carmen’s road.” The one I knew well. The one that carried that strange kind of reassurance — the feeling that everything was under control again. And at kilometre ninety-five… I was shouting “De ce plâng chitarele” at the top of my lungs. Alone on a road in southern Italy, with ninety-five kilometres in my legs, the sun dropping behind the olive trees, carrying both longing and joy in the same tight knot in my chest. One of those moments when nothing else matters — not pace, not heart rate, not who might hear you. Just freedom. Five more kilometres and the hundred would be done.
And the finish… the finish came with a lot of emotion. In the final kilometres I listened to the messages people sent me for the third time. And this time I didn’t hold anything back. I cried — the kind of crying you do just for yourself, a release. Then I pulled myself together, entered the town square, and saw Andra and Carmen waiting. I stopped, the quiet settled over me, and I just let myself be happy. It was exactly what it needed to be.
It was a hundred kilometres unlike any other. Maybe not the fastest, maybe not the neatest, but definitely one of the most alive. A hundred where I felt like a lion at times and completely drained at others. A hundred where I laughed, sang, cursed, cried, went silent, and ran more with my heart than with my legs.
I finished in eleven hours and eleven minutes, with ten hours and thirty minutes of actual running. And I don’t know what that time means to others, but for me, it’s exactly right. Especially with twelve hundred metres of elevation gain, a self-made route, missed fountains, pauses, improvisations — the entire self-supported package. It was the kind of race where I wasn’t fighting anyone. Not even myself. I just carried what needed to be carried.
And I have to say this clearly, because it was a first for me in a hundred: I never ran out of energy. Not for a single second. No matter how many climbs came my way, no matter how many improvisations I made, no matter how many times I switched the route… my body stayed with me the whole time.
The nutrition plan was flawless. Those eighty grams of carbs per hour, the alternation — one hour carb drink, one hour gels and water — turned out to be the best strategy I’ve ever used in my life. No climb broke me. Not even the extra ones I added to compensate for skipping the last short loop. I had no crashes, no empty moments, no “tunnel.” I felt strong from the first kilometre to the last. A lesson I won’t forget.
And the most powerful thing: I didn’t run a single moment truly alone. Even on those roads lined with trulli, olive trees, and fog-soaked valleys, I felt the support of everyone who had been part of my running community. Literally.
Every kilometre I had symbolically linked to someone’s name mattered. Every name. Every message. Every story. They held me up when I was thirsty, when I hurt, when I didn’t feel like hunting for fountains anymore, when I felt the tank draining.
It was the first hundred where I understood what this community really means. A whole community following along… but that day it felt like they were right beside me. For real.
And if you ask me now, after eating, sleeping, and gathering the entire day in one place, what remains…
It’s not the time. Not the route. Not even the stunning stone walls of Puglia.
It’s something else: even when you run with yourself, you still need people. Their thoughts. A word, a name, a dedication, a silly message sent with heart. That’s what you gave me.
It was the last hundred of the year. And the fullest one. Not because it was perfect — because it belonged to everyone who had been part of the journey.
Thank you. 🤍🏃♂️🇮🇹
Thank you to my partners — SportGuru, Hoka Romania, and Yolo Events — for being with me in all these beautiful kinds of madness. 🤗