Personal Story

While laying in bed Friday morning March 5, an SMS came in from my friend Andreas Irsara, “I am sick, can you take my place in the Sellaronda?” My life rule of saying “Yes” to all cool opportunities was adhered to, I jumped up and began packing, the race was the same day.

The Sellaronda Ski Marathon is 42 kilometers (26 miles) with 2800 meters (9280 feet) of climbing. It goes straight up, then straight down 4 times around the Dolomites famous Sella Mountain group and is done in teams of two which must stay together throughout the course. It starts at 6 o’clock, p.m…

In the last couple of years I have gotten pretty into this ski rando racing here in the Dolomites, but until this race I hadn’t done a truly big International event. The Sellaronda is part of the World Cup and as such would draw some big firepower.

My partner for the race was Werner Pescosta, a friend from the Val Badia and also part of the same team I am on for cycling and ski rando racing. Werner is a 2:30 marathoner, extraordinarily strong cyclist, built like a lumberjack and is known for being able to put away 3 pizzas, 5 liters of beer and 7 banana splits, all at once. It was his 13th Sellaronda, it was my first. I knew I was in for it, I have seen Werner in action, he squares his shoulders, puts his head down, and charges like a bull in Pamplona. My job was to stay with him amongst 740 participants.

-20 degrees and very windy up high. Up high, as in where we were headed. This was the forecast for the race. We went to sign in wearing only thin lycra one piece suits. I was already shivering. The start was in the village of Canazei, a classic Italian Dolomite ski town sitting beneath both the Sella Group and Marmolada. Thanks to Werner’s previous years fast times, we had a good starting position near the front, key for not getting tangled up on the first climb.

The entire village, along with every ski tourist and supporting friends were on hand for the start. The sound of cowbells filled the air and only stopped for a moment of silence for the race’s founder, Diego Perathoner, who was tragically lost in an avalanche this winter while trying to help others.

It was time to start, 5:50 pm, and in the day’s last light. The gun fired, we set out into the night and up our first climb of the Passo Sella. As is typical in Europe, race starts are an explosion of lycra and the sounds of scurrying bodies and heavy breathing. We wound our way on a narrow track through the village beneath fans screaming from balconies and windows. Many were swinging cowbells with enthusiasm to match that of the athletes – it was the classic European scene and sound that we Americans love about watching bike or ski races. Once we punched out from the confines of the town we were on the first climb. It was here that the helicopter rose from the slopes ahead and began following our progress. I remember thinking to myself how I am trying to introduce this amazing sport to the US, where it is basically unknown, and here we have hovering helicopters. In ski rando racing, I am playing a game that I know many friends and like minded people would be as happy as myself to take part in. I looked up ahead to the towering vertical walls of the Sella, neon pink and orange as the sun called it a day. My goosebumps weren’t only because of the cold, I was in heaven.

The Sellaronda's first pass of four, the Sella

We climbed. Werner and I found ourselves up near the front as we arrived to the Sella Pass where we removed our skins, took some hot tea and began the first descent, in the dark, on piste. Here I was baptized. The experience was more like a video game, torches lined the piste and in the pitch black we plummeted, turning was not an option, instead you tuck like a World Cup downhiller and point your tips to the bottom. The darkness, as it always does, plays tricks. Small rolls on the slope looked like massive dropoffs and I expected to be airborne anytime. It was a combination of bliss and terror.

Arriving to Selva di Gardena we were once again met with screaming fans, hundreds lined the street which we had to run down while carrying our skis. Back to the transition zone, on with the skins and back into climbing mode. The Gardena Pass is the shortest of the bunch and went relatively quickly, but here signs of fatigue were beginning to show with the pack breaking up and becoming more spread out. And here I too began to hurt, more so as I watched Werner clearly wanting to power away.

Once on top, the speed began again, we dropped like missiles to our Valley, the Alta Badia. Screaming into the town of Corvara we were met by a huge crowd swarming the transition zone, Werner and I, in the local team kit, were the stars and our arrival was announced to the fans, “Arrivano Werner Pescosta ed Andreas Irsara”……. I was Andreas, my name had not been changed on the start list. But, a priceless moment followed, for Andreas, otherwise known as Tata, is one of the Valley’s loverboys, a true Casanova with a large female fanclub, and it was this fan base that I heard screaming with delight. As I stood in the mayhem I laughed out loud as friends called me Tata, but Werner soon grabbed me and again we started to climb.

The third climb, the Campolongo, is a bitch. A long flattish section through a forest lulls you into a state of exhaustion, then the track rears up, straight up for about 800 meters. Pain was now becoming a companion. Every gram that I have saved at the cost of many hundreds of Euros and Janine’s dismay, was truly appreciated. Werner’s ski tails were just ahead yet I could not stay on them, I wanted this section to end. My own post of Born to Run Ski Bike Climb came to mind and I thought to myself that this was the moment I had been writing about, when you look inward and see some truths about what you feel, and what I felt was good. Above, the crystal clear night revealed endless stars twinkling as they always do, I peered behind and below me to discover that I was followed by an endless stream of headlamps, twinkling in their own way.

Finally the top and my spirits soared, I grabbed some dried fruit as Werner helped remove my skins. Werner claims to hate water as it is a waste of space that could be better utilized by beer. He passed on the tea, and encouraged me to move. 4 minutes later we were 2200 feet below in Arraba.

The last climb, the Passo Pordoi is my favorite pass to ride on the bike. But tonight, it was the venue from hell. 3 hours in the well below zero temps with high speed descents in lycra were catching up. My core was frozen, all 130 lbs of me were stiff and achey. I was a Dansicle.

Up we went, but this time Werner disappeared ahead, I was hurting. My left leg so tight and frozen I could barely slide it, my hands so numb I just thought it best to forget them. No matter how hard I worked I couldn’t warm up. It was difficult to see teams pass us when I was keeping Werner back, but nothing could make me go any faster. I just put my head down and slid along. Finally, the brightly lit pass was just ahead and I knew the mental suffering was about to end. I vaguely remember seeing a huge group of skiers holding fiery torches descend the piste in perfect arcing turns. Fans were once again lining the course screaming, “Forza Forza” and here I thought to turn my grimace to a smile, something I learned a long time ago. A smile flashing across the face is like a restart. But I was too frozen, my cheeks wouldn’t flex. Arriving to the top I realized just how cold I was. I couldn’t pop off the skins and I could not get my fingers to close my boots. Somehow, from someone, it all came together and we were dropping into the darkness one final time for the 3000 foot descent to the finish line.

A frozen body combined with tired legs made for a wobbly descent. I tucked in behind someone, maybe three meters from the ends of his poles when suddenly he careened out of control and began tumbling on the icy snow. I swerved around him and continued alone through the darkness. I thought it would never end, and somehow this was okay, but soon the lights from Canazei came into view and I knew I had skied around the Sella, I knew a magnificent experience was coming to a close.

Arriving into the finishing straight I had to find Werner, he was waiting, he descended like Bode while I descended like Bambi. I skied alongside, grabbed his arm and together we crossed the finish. He was looking at me the whole time with a huge grin, he knew I was psyched. Once stopped we were swarmed by girls, perhaps they thought I was Tata, but they were only there to make sure we were okay and to help us get out of our bindings. I am sure I was a mess, I couldn’t move I was so cold, they kept saying “A posto? A posto? Ma sei sicuro?” But I was okay, and once out of my skis I stood with Werner as a photographer approached, he pointed the camera at us and it was then I realized I was smiling after all, it was just frozen in place.

Werner Pescosta and Dan "Dansicle" Patitucci sporting a frozen smile

Without hesitation we headed away from the finish to find the car and warm clothes. But within minutes realized we were not just cold, we were desperate to get warm. I suggested we go into a hotel next to where we were standing. We went through the huge sliding doors in our one piece suits, carrying skis and looking like frozen mummies that Reinhold Messner might find stuck in a glacier. Of course having good taste, I had selected a four star hotel who’s lobby was another world, most noticeably a warm one.

I was half expecting to get the boot, but instead we were met by the concierges who knew were in some trouble. They helped us with our skis, brought us tea and made us comfortable in the lounge. A crowd gathered around to listen to Werner provide details as to our evening’s activities. I soaked it all in while trying to control my shivering and teeth chattering.

Finally, half an hour later, we were able to move. We found the car, put on every item of clothing we had brought, and headed straight for the pasta party. Once warm, life resumed normalcy.

In the end we were 59th out of 320 teams with a time of 4:10.31. It was the coldest ever Sellaronda. Thanks to Werner for showing an American the way, and some patience.

The Sellaronda Ski Marathon