Emanuela Pagan runs since she was a child. She started following the footsteps of the father: firstly some short courses, then the competitions on the track, then the road races. Today she lives in Parma, but she was born and grown up in Venice, as well as his passion for running. She run the Venicemarathon twice. This is the story of her first time as a marathoner.

The Liberty Bridge is a asphalt strip that connects Venice to the mainland. It can seem inteminable for the marathon runner who is about to end his effort. Venice looks like a fading mirage. Perhaps for fatigue or simply for the fog that almost always surrounds Venice. The contours of a dream are never defined until the dream comes true. You are not a marathoner before having run 42.195km. The first marathon is an unforgettable love that becomes rock in the waves of time. I have run my first marathon in my homeland.

The Venetians live to the rhythm of the tides. Sea and lagoon determine such a unique combination that is difficult to separate the two elements. Like breathing and steps. I remember the first time that I ran the
Venicemarathon.

The emotion was dissolved in a solitary tear while the speaker screamed after the gunshot: "The marathoners are left!". My shadow projected forward was full of memories, filled with rides made between sea and lagoon while fatigue stretched the way to the finish line. The mind is full of images, while step by step the asphalt became warm and bright.

"You can do it", a phrase swaying in my mind. The author died a few years afret he pronounced this sentence. An insult to his youth. The cheering of people along the Riviera del Brenta evaporates the sweat. The river flows quietly, almost as it was a tapis roulant. Until arriving in Mestre is almost everything easy, it is from the bridge that the Venicemarathon starts. A train makes its voice heard. The sound becomes
a greeting while it is going fast closed to you. A smile makes a mockery of fatigue. The heart is ligh while it sees the towers of Venice become closer. A pigeon is frightened and flies away. From a ledge it will see thousands of colored running tops making a parade over the bridges.

Everyone runs with its own history inserted in steps, silent as the whispered prayers in the wind to reach the arrival. The marathon starts on the first training day and ends one centimeter before the finish line. The experience enters in the skin and it will remain there forever. The bridges in Venice seem slipway, but they have not lost their slope. The flier tells about thirteen bridgees, but some runners count some more of them. The last is the most beautiful: you can see the arrival. It’s the moment when you see the dream become true, it’s the moment that makes you change from runner to marathon runner. Venice is here and it seems motionless. A seagull screams in the sky (maybe it's a compliment). It flies away, while a medal slips on your chest. The mainland is far away, hidden by the water of the lagoon. The dream now has the contours of Venetian palaces. The windows are the eyes of history to which you now belong.