Day 55 - July 3rd: Under Fire

Mantua to Albaredo d’Adige: 31.6 miles / 1,507 total

In the aftermath of yesterday’s brutally hot run, I was nursing blisters on both feet. The worst offender: one under my right pinkie toe that was agonizing. I connected with Lisa who recommended the needle-and-thread method—pierce the blister, run thread through it, and let it drain while preventing it from refilling. Luckily, Christina had picked up a sewing kit at our hotel a few days ago. Once I lanced the blister, the rawness was intense, but the pressure relief made it worth it.

Dinner last night was simple and perfect: pizza, salad, and a cold beer at a nearby pizzeria. No frills, just satisfaction. We were back in the room by 8:30 p.m. and lights out soon after—a low-key, much-needed reset.

I snapped awake at 4:37 a.m., pleased to find it still dark outside. As usual, I did my morning limb check—start with the joints least likely to hurt and work my way toward the known trouble zones. I got to the pinkie toe last, bracing for pain—but it wasn’t worse. That alone felt like a win. I jumped out of bed and got moving early.

Christina had picked me up yesterday at kilometer 50, just short of Mantua’s old town, so she dropped me back at that spot around 5:45 a.m. With our new Treviso plan now a three-day, 150-km march, there was no need to exceed 50 km today. I skipped hotel breakfast and fueled with cookies, nuts, and a few sports drinks.

The route started on a peaceful bike path that took me along Lago Superiore, one of Mantua’s artificial lakes, created by damming the Mincio River in the 12th century to defend the city. I wasn’t alone—local run clubs, cyclists, and walkers were already out getting miles in before the sun turned deadly.

As I crossed the bridge out of Mantua, I looked back to see the sunrise lighting up the Palazzo Ducale, illuminating its massive Renaissance walls. After five stressful days on SS10, I was glad to turn slightly northeast onto SP25, a quieter country road with noticeably less traffic.

The villages came in clusters. Tripoli, Ghisiolo, and Castelbelforte were first. In Castelbelforte—a fortified town since at least the 13th century—I found a café and inhaled two cappuccinos and two croissants. As I stood up, the pinkie toe blister screamed at me. I sat back down at a table and decided to take a look. I unlaced my shoe and, without thinking, set it on the table, then peeled off my sock and did the same. An older Italian man sitting at a nearby high-top turned to me and started saying something loudly. I didn’t understand the words, but the way he stared at my shoe said everything: “Get your damn shoe off the table.” I apologized in English—he may have understood, or maybe not—but either way, the message landed. Tired or not, I’ve got to do a better job of being present.

Then came L’Oca, Maldutto, Roncolevà, Trevenzuolo, and Isola della Scala. Most were too small to offer any real stops, just homes and a few bike/ped paths.

Between villages, I ran along roads that wound through flat farmland, with long open views stretching in every direction. This region is thick with agriculture—corn, hay and vines. Tractors rattled past loaded with bales of hay, trailing the dry, sweet scent behind them. Flatbeds full of freshly cut lumber released the sharp tang of pine and oak. A few times, livestock trucks roared by and left a wake that made me hold my breath after the first whiff. Despite the traffic and lack of shade, all the movement and smell helped pass the time.

The heat kicked in hard by 11 a.m. My energy dipped, and I was watching the pavement ripple in the sun when I heard a honk behind me—Christina pulling up with water like a mobile oasis. “Perfect timing,” I told her!

From there, I passed through Villafontana and found a café to refuel with a snack and restock fluids before the final push. I ran through Oppeano, a village dating back to Roman times and historically a hub for brick-making thanks to its clay-rich soil. Then finally into Tombazosana, where I met Christina at the church in the center of town.

Today felt uneventful after the majesty of Mantua—no major interactions, few people on the roads, just small towns, high sun, and sweat. But the quiet brought its own rhythm, and more importantly, my blisters didn’t get worse. Once I get past these blisters, I’m hopeful it will be smooth sailing. That might be wishful thinking—but I’ll take it for now.

Thanks again for the support and following along.

Cheers,
David