Race Report: Dolomiti Di Brenta
When a race in Italy landed on the calendar for 2026, I immediately began learning a few practical phrases for travel and necessities - like directions and ordering coffees. There was one phrase I did not have on my radar:
Il mio naso è rotto. Translation: My nose is broken.
If you know me you know I am the clumsiest athletic person ever to this might not shock you. If you don’t know me, you’re probably wondering, “Gibson, what in the actual f*ck?!” Well, I will tell you, but first, the quick and dirty stats about the Dolomiti di Brenta:
Dolimiti di Brenta is a race in the Dolomites in northern Italy, with three distances to choose from: 21K, 45K and 64K.
Each distance is completed in one giant loop, so all three courses are different. We chose the 64K (obviously).
All courses start and finish in the town of Molveno, at the base of the Brenta Dolomites.
View from San Lorenzo, approximately 10 minutes from the race start.
We spent 2 days in the Dolomites prior to the race and let me tell you - GORGEOUS. Giving serious Sound of Music “the hills are aliivvveee……” vibes. Like I wanted to burst into song every time I stepped outside it was just so freaking beautiful. I only wish I could have also seen the last 28 miles of the course, as I am sure they are INCREDIBLE too. Alas, it was not meant to be.
Fast forward to race day. Molveno was abuzz with runners and spectators and locals all gearing up for the event - the finish line festival was going to be a blast with bands, food vendors, a tattoo vendor, and other super cool stuff. (Yes, I missed that too.) Although we had planned to “vacation pace” the race, I still wanted to give it my best effort in between photo ops. The 64k features about 4200 m (13,800 ft) of elevation, with almost half - roughly 6,000 ft - within the first 9 miles. That was the bogey: get through the first 10 miles of this thing and then enjoy the ride and the scenery!
Into the chute, announcements (in Italian and English), horn, and we’re off. The climb out of town started almost immediately. Expected, so just enjoying the cooler morning air, the electric adrenaline, and taking in the views as we started the first ascent. Eventually we popped out into another smaller town, and ran through the flat-ish streets to the next trail section. Feeling good, people out cheering, waving at the locals, chatting with a couple other English-speakers as we started the next steep section into the mountains. We hit mile 4 and started “the climb.” The one I had mentally been dreading ever since laying eyes on the elevation profile. Yes, I whined, but I also knew that once I got to mile 9ish we’d be cruising. Or at least that the most difficult part would be over and the rest were at least shorter than 5 miles of nothing but UP. There was a lot of “f*cking hell” or “f*ck me running” being thrown about, but we made steady progress and eventually crested the monster at just about 9.5 miles.
The trail flattened somewhat - although I use the term “flat” VERY loosely and only in a relative sense to the rest of the course - and we started running a bit. Even though it was flat, it was VERY technical and narrow, and the downhill side had long grass hanging over it so you couldn’t really tell where the solid ground ended and the death drop began. Daniel, leading our little parade, tripped and landed on all fours, and before I could even ask if he was okay…BAM. I have no idea what happened, and I have no recollection of tripping or even slipping off the edge. All I know is that my face was suddenly mere inches from a very broad, very flat root, and there was a lot of blood. I suspect I made a strange sound, but mentally I was telling myself “oh, ok, we’re good, let’s just wipe the blood and get up, carry on…” And then I heard Daniel turn and just say “OH F*CK. OH F*CK OKAY OH F*CK….OKAY….F*CK F*CK F*CK” and then his hand was on my back and he was asking if I could sit up. Apparently I was still in a weird half-push-up position trying to use one hand like a cup to catch the blood streaming from my nose. I remember saying “No” but then I was somehow magically seated (ironically on a higher portion of the offending root). Daniel was shoving his long-sleeved shirt at me to hold against my nose and scrambling for his cell phone. Much like learning the Italian for “broken nose” we had not really done a lot of research into dialing out from our phones. Not that it mattered as service was nonexistent in this section anyway. By this point a few other runners had come upon us. They stopped and asked if we were okay (the language barrier is SHOCKINGLY low when trauma is involved), offered to call the emergency number for us when service returned, and provided us with an update on the closest aid station, a mere 2k away. After a few minutes to regain my grasp on life, I told Daniel that the only option we had was to keep moving and get to the aid station. There was blood everywhere…and it was sticky. I handed over my poles so I could focus on using my hands to try to stop the bleeding, and we started walking. More runners passed us, each one asking some form of “Is ALL of that your blood?!” and making sure we were okay. A pair of hikers passed us in the opposite direction and insisted on giving us a pack of tissues and several band-aids before letting us continue. Eventually we reached the “aid,” which turned out to be a very cold natural spring someone had directed into a large trough to catch the water for animals. I did not care. Daniel refilled all of our water bottles and I used the cold water to wash as much blood as possible off my hands and face. More runners here offering assistance and saying the next full aid station was just about 2 kilometers away; they’d let them know we were coming. My nose was still bleeding profusely, but I took some tissues, rolled them into make-shift tampons, and shoved them up my nostrils. Now with my hands free, I took my poles back and we were able to make much better time hiking. I even entertained the idea of finishing, telling Daniel that I felt great, and if we could just get some tampons or the bleeding to stop, we could totally finish the race. Then, about a quarter mile later, Daniel mentioned that he left his sunglasses on the trail next to the “blood pile”. I immediately started crying, upset that I made him lose his sunnies AND ruined his race and was a terrible person. For the record, I do not recommend ugly crying with a broken face. It does not help. Clearly neither my logical brain nor my emotions could be trusted to make any sort of decisions, especially about 30 more miles in the mountains.
La ambulanza…
2ish kilometers later we popped out of the woods into a field…and noticed an ambulance backing down the trail (which had widened into a makeshift road) towards us. I sat on a rock while the paramedic took a peek at my face. After an initial assessment and some fresh gauze they asked if I wanted to ride to the aid station…that was less than 200 meters away. I politely declined, wanting to maintain as much of my dignity as possible. At the aid station, which was lovely by the way, another paramedic gave me a more thorough evaluation and offered me the restroom facilities - there was still a lot of blood on my legs to clean up. I was probably still on the adrenaline rush, and seriously thought about continuing, but my nose was still bleeding, and the paramedics were respectfully pushy about a need for me to go to the hospital. While I refused the hospital visit, I did concede to end my race at about 12.5 miles after I started feeling a bit light-headed.
We had arrived at the AS at around 10:15am or so. Being very remote, there wasn’t a great way to get us back to town quickly, so we hung out there with another DNF until the aid station closed around noon. It sounds like a long time, but I was quite occupied with watching other runners coming up the hill through the field, a lovely doggo named Becky who was more than happy to get lots of pets and snuggles, and the medical team (and Daniel) continuously offering me snacks. (Don’t tell Daniel, but Becky was the best nurse.) When the time came to close it down, the volunteers opened a bottle of wine and poured everyone glasses, including me. Because nothing makes a broken face better more than wine and Italian countryside.
At this point it became obvious that there weren’t enough cars to get the volunteers, paramedics AND the three of us off the mountain. Daniel asked if we were a problem, a question that was rapidly brushed off while the EMTs continued to play tetris with the supplies in the back of the ambulance to maximize passenger space. Eventually, we piled into the back, on top of stretchers, med kits, and who knows what else and started for the town. I learned that ambulances do NOT have great suspension systems and were definitely not built for mountain roads. It took an hour or more to get to the EMT station, and then one of the EMTs drove us back to the start/finish line from there in his car.
The adrenaline was wearing off and I just wanted to shower. My nose was STILL bleeding. We made our way to the car and drove the short distance to the airbnb. I took a quick shower, then began to survey the damage. My nose was definitely broken and cut but not crooked, and I was able to get air in and out of both nostrils even though it was swollen and still bleeding. My upper lip was fat from a cut and significant bruising on the inside where I suppose it smashed against my teeth. Side note - THANK THE HEAVENS I didn’t knock any teeth out. My left eye was starting to swell and bruise a little. Other than that, I was in good shape! Totally could have finished (not at all). I dug out one of the tampons I inevitably always have stowed away, cut it in half and shoved it up my nose to try to staunch the bleeding. By now it was morning stateside, so Daniel texted his sister - a Trainer at a Memphis school - for advice on what to do next. She told us how to apply pressure and ice, and after about an hour the bleeding had stopped. Mel saved the day: at that point, my nose had been bleeding for over 8 hours and I was starting to think a hospital trip might be necessary. Freshly staunched, I decided that some wine, some pasta, and Clue with Tim Curry was exactly the remedy I needed, along with some sleep.
I’m writing this almost 3 weeks post-race. My nose is still quite tender, a little puffy and sometimes it whistles when I breathe. I’m still bummed I didn’t get to finish the race and hang out with the Italian cover band at the finish line festival. But I am also still super grateful for the chance to even start a race like this, and for all of the runners, volunteers, hikers and medical staff who were so incredibly helpful and kind. It really just highlights all the reasons I LOVE the trail running community - every single person who passed me stopped to ask if I was okay. Many people stopped and spoke to me at the aid station asking the same. Because out there, that’s what it is about. Community and taking care of each other, regardless of where you’re from or what language you speak.
On the whole, this experience taught me a few things:
The Dolomites are exceptional and everyone should at least visit them if not race in them.
Italian ambulances are TINY, but the EMTs have BIG hearts.
Every aid station should have wine. Fireball is fine but we need to level up the classiness, amirite?
Arnica is THE SHIT. I put arnica salve on my eye and the bruising was gone within days. Even the bruises on my nose faded quickly, within a week or so.
Daniel is an excellent trauma buddy. Just the right amount of urgent panic (OH F*CK) but not so much that he freaked me out. Also, he told me I was pretty even when I had snot and blood all over my face.