‘One Step at a Time’. The entire documentary seems to reside within those words. On one level, they frame a remarkable athletic achievement: Francesco Puppi’s second-place finish at the legendary Western States, accomplished despite venturing into a distance he had never previously encountered and enduring an almost unbroken sequence of difficulties throughout his preparation. More profoundly, they give shape to a meditation on identity and self-acceptance: an intimate inquiry into self-discovery, the willingness to expose oneself to uncertainty, and, ultimately, a vibrant testament to the power of human connection.

Supported by Hoka, Enervit, Coros and Vibram, and directed by Damiano Levati, with Puppi himself intimately involved in the editing process and the film’s wider construction, the documentary gravitates around the idea of ‘control’ and a paradox at the heart of his experience: that even within the intrinsically rational architecture of a long-distance running career, uncertainty and apparent gaps can, almost inexplicably, be reconciled through a fuller acceptance of oneself and one’s vulnerabilities… and through the willingness to share them with others.

Puppi himself traces the narrative or, more accurately, the interwoven narratives that compose the film. A journey beginning in the desolation of repeated, frustrating injuries. Moving through uncertainty. And culminating in a clarity embodied by a single gesture: the embrace, at the finish line of Placer High School in Auburn, with his partner Gloria Giudici and his coach Tito Tiberti, themselves essential protagonists in everything that preceded it.

Accompanying the conversation are photographs by Daniele Molineris.

Before the Western States, you drew a parallel with your first half marathon, which you ran at thirteen: in both cases, you described the experience as stepping into unknown territory. At this stage of your career, with so much experience behind you, how did Francesco Puppi approach this new challenge?

“Perhaps it is precisely in the most difficult situations that who you really are comes to the surface: how you deal with problems, how you make decisions. Once again, this was an opportunity to question my own limits and uncertainties, and to become an athlete, a person learning how to do something new. More specifically, things unfolded quite differently from what I had expected, largely because I arrived at the Western States after a preparation shaped by my wrist injury, post-operative recovery and a succession of setbacks. I had far fewer certainties than I usually draw from the linearity of my preparation for a race. I also arrived at the Western States with a certain level of expectation surrounding me. A lot of people were waiting for a result. To some extent, so was I. The question then became: how much do you want to remain within that kind of narrative, and how much do you want, instead, to simply be yourself: to let go of some of those expectations and do what you are capable of doing, precisely because, this time, not everything can be under your control?”

The question of control has surfaced repeatedly in our previous conversations: study, preparation, analysis, and an almost scientific relationship with your body are all essential to the way you understand running. This time, many of those certainties fell away. How did the Western States reshape your understanding of control, and how did that understanding evolve during the race itself?

“I had to redefine it. During my preparation, I went through a long period in which my body simply didn’t seem to respond to the training stimulus. It was probably the result of excessive stress, between managing my post-operative recovery and the need to train. I didn’t want to train simply to finish the race, my first 100-miler: I wanted to compete at the level I have always expected of myself. At a certain point, my coach Tito Tiberti and I decided to lower our expectations somewhat and approach it almost as an experience: to see what I could take from it and accept whatever came along the way, without demanding perfection, simply accepting the circumstances for what they were. In the months leading up to the Western States, what really challenged me wasn’t so much the psychological side, which I managed reasonably well, but the physical one. For many days, it felt as though my body simply couldn’t keep up with me. The adaptations eventually came, but they took time. In the final phase of my preparation, things gradually began to fall into place, and I started to gain some confidence that I might at least be able to finish the race. Not that I could actually be competitive. I also remember an exchange with Jim Walmsley, a four-time Western States winner and the course-record holder until this latest edition. In early May, I told him, ‘I don’t think I’m going to join you at the Hoka team’s altitude camp, because in my situation it just doesn’t make sense.’ I was still finishing physiotherapy, and I genuinely needed to focus on myself, on my routine, on my own things. I needed to hold on to a certain set of certainties. He reassured me.

When you come from shorter distances, you have a certain structure, a certain idea of how training is supposed to unfold and what you are supposed to feel… To prepare for this distance, for this kind of race, you have to let go of those paradigms: not entirely, of course, but to a certain extent. That exchange with Jim made me realise that, all things considered, what I was doing was actually working reasonably well. Even though I was finding it difficult to navigate that situation, it gave me confidence. There were still plenty of doubts, but continuing to move forward made sense. I went into the race with that approach, with that mindset… and I think, ultimately, it helped me. Then, when you suddenly find yourself doing better than you expected, of course you get an enormous boost from that. It’s very different from expecting to be at the front and then finding yourself in fifth, perhaps already struggling. I hadn’t imagined such an intense race, without a single moment to breathe across almost fourteen hours. You think, ‘I can manage the first half. There’ll be room to let the kilometres pass. It won’t be hard from the very beginning.’ But that’s the Western States. And precisely because of that, there is only so far control can take you…”

That brings us to the outcome of the race: in light of everything you have shared, an unexpected and significant second place. At the end of this journey, what did that result ultimately come to mean to you?

“In the end, I realised that you don’t need to do everything perfectly. For an athlete, that means training well and, above all, being consistent in the work you put in, without expecting your preparation to follow the kind of linear progression you might find prescribed in an athletics textbook. So, ultimately, it is simply a matter of accepting yourself. I don’t mean lowering your expectations, but accepting that things can unfold differently from the way you imagined they would. In my next races, I’ll try to trust myself more, even when things aren’t exactly as I pictured them.”

Let’s turn to the title of the film, ‘One Step at a Time’. What do those words hold for you, and why did you choose them to encapsulate the Western States experience?

“They are Gloria’s words. She’s my partner, and she followed and supported me throughout the race. She said them at the Foresthill aid station, at around the 100-kilometre mark. I was leading the race, but as soon as I came into the aid station, I told her, ‘I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep going.’ There were still 60 kilometres ahead of me, and my mind simply couldn’t process the idea of continuing at that pace. She replied, ‘The way you always have: one step at a time.’ For all its simplicity, almost its banality, I find that phrase incredibly powerful. To me, it describes exactly how we should try to approach the challenges that sport and, to some extent, life place before us. Of course, there is nothing particularly original about the idea, but it became the perfect core for this film, for the entire Western States experience. In that moment, those words gave meaning to the race, to the fatigue, to the effort I was making, and simply helped me keep going. Obviously, with this film we’re not claiming to teach anyone anything, much less to have invented something new. But I do believe there is value, in any context and any experience, when certain things reveal themselves with such clarity and force. They can become a point of reference for someone else: a way of remembering how to keep moving forward.”

Human connection seems to have taken on an increasingly important role in your recent journey. How have you experienced this growing openness towards others, and how do you understand it now, looking back?

“You’ve identified very precisely one of the central themes of the film, if not the central theme: relationships. When I shared the preview, that’s exactly what I wrote: the film is about the journey I went through alongside Tito, my coach, my partner Gloria, and the other people who stood beside me… And it is about the power of sharing an experience in this way, far more than it is about how to run the Western States in under fourteen hours. It’s difficult for me to talk about this without resorting to words that might sound banal or clichéd, but over the past few years I’ve come to understand that relying on other people, asking for help, sharing your emotions and allowing yourself to be vulnerable are anything but signs of weakness. To some extent, they show a willingness to get to the root of certain problems. It is also a process that requires a great deal of courage. And I think that somewhere within that process lies our real inner strength: a strength that ultimately finds its way into what we do. Then, of course, you still have to run. When people ask me what matters in ultrarunning, I tell them that your legs are what get you to the start line. But how much of that potential you are actually able to access depends enormously on your mental and emotional state. And the people around you can make an extraordinary difference, particularly when they are able to understand you as a person, support you, and put themselves in your shoes.”

How difficult was it to allow yourself to be filmed in moments of doubt while, at the same time, continuing to experience first the preparation and then the race without becoming conscious of the film gradually taking shape around you?

“I think the level of trust and the friendship I developed with Damiano Levati, the film’s director, were incredibly important. Damiano effectively became part of my everyday life and entered some very intimate spaces: moments when I was low, when I was doubtful, when I was struggling… For me, it was essential to have someone beside me whom I could trust, someone by whom I never felt judged and with whom I could simply be myself. I never thought about the fact that we were filming something for a film, or that I was supposed to be playing a role. Nothing like that. We didn’t have a predetermined narrative: we simply tried, day by day and week by week, to document what this preparation meant for me, and then what happened on race day. Working with Damiano Levati, and with Daniele Molineris, who was responsible for the photography, mattered enormously to me for precisely those reasons.”

Watching the film in its entirety, and on the big screen, were there any moments that struck you particularly deeply, either for the beauty of the images or for the depth of what they were conveying?

“There were many. Partly because I was personally involved in the editing, the subtitles and so many other aspects of the film… At a certain point, I almost became detached from it. Despite that, seeing the finished film alongside so many other people made an enormous difference, and genuinely moved me. There’s a moment towards the end when I talk about how, for a long time, I used the feeling of never being enough as a reason to push myself harder, to improve, to work more… The real change over the past few years has been learning to accept that, in certain situations, especially the most difficult ones, simply trying to do my best can be enough. And that sometimes I manage to do things for which I can actually tell myself, ‘Well done.’ Moments when I can genuinely recognise my own worth, which has always been difficult for me. I’m quite insecure. I have a lot of doubts. So connecting all of this with the people who love me, who were there, who supported me and who made it possible for me to finish that race means a great deal. Feeling that kind of support, and that unconditional love towards me, was incredibly powerful, because for a long time I didn’t think I deserved it. Even now, I still struggle somewhat to say, ‘I deserve this.’ It’s always difficult. But little by little, I’m beginning to resolve that tension within myself.”

You mentioned your involvement in the editing, the writing of the subtitles and, more broadly, the construction of the film. Across the different editorial features we have developed together over the past few years, your evolution as an athlete has increasingly been accompanied by a more conscious narrative dimension. How much of an imprint did you leave on the structure of ‘One Step at a Time’, and what did it mean to you to take an active role in the making of a film?

“There is an enormous amount of work behind a one-hour documentary. I think the clips that actually make it into the finished film represent perhaps three per cent of everything we shot. You are constantly confronted with an endless series of decisions: what to include, what to leave out, the narrative choices, the music, the colour, the structure you want to give the story. The same story can be told in radically different ways. Damiano and I made those decisions together. A lot of the time, he would be working directly on the edit and I would give him feedback. I was actively involved throughout that process, and many of the narrative choices we made were decisions we arrived at together. I enjoyed it. Perhaps it’s an unconventional way of working on a project like this, but it mattered to me to be involved in shaping the narrative, with all the limitations that inevitably came with that, because obviously I’m not a filmmaker. But this is ours, and precisely for that reason, I’m happy with what we created.”

During the months of filming, did you ever find yourself experiencing individual moments through the eyes of an editor rather than those of an athlete?

“As an editor, you have to try to detach yourself from the work, to think about it almost as though it weren’t a film about you: as though you were telling the story of someone else. It’s difficult because, obviously, you are personally involved, and that carries a considerable weight, particularly on an emotional level. But you have to find a way of stepping outside yourself. As an athlete, watching the film back, I often found myself conflicted. I experience the same constant uncertainty when I communicate through social media: to people within the sport, to athletes, to those who take running very seriously, certain things can seem almost obvious. But the moment you widen the perspective and consider a broader audience, you realise that they aren’t. Ultimately, though, I simply put into the film what I liked and what I found meaningful, first and foremost, for myself. I hope the people who watch it will appreciate it. And even here, I won’t deny it, I tried to lower the weight of expectation a little: to let it go…”

Taking this reflection beyond the film itself, what might it mean for the trail and ultra community and, more broadly, for the Italian and international sporting imagination, to show that an athlete can also play an active role in shaping narratives and creative work, approaching them with genuine competence and care?

“It’s a thought that, naturally, makes me somewhat uncomfortable, because I find it difficult to think of myself as an inspiration, a role model or a point of reference for anyone. I know that, given the position I’m in, to some extent I am, and there are results that perhaps lend some weight to that. One of the messages I would like people to take from the film, and one that I think comes through quite clearly, is the importance of being yourself, and of not allowing yourself to be defined or confined by the boundaries that other people, and society more broadly, imagine for us and for our ‘role’. For a long time, the figure of the professional athlete was confined within fairly rigid parameters. Fortunately, those boundaries are becoming increasingly blurred. It matters that athletes are able to give space to the different dimensions of their identity, rather than being defined solely by the fact that they are athletes. If, in that sense, the film can inspire other people, then I’m very happy. But I want to be clear: there is absolutely nothing wrong with athletes who simply want to run and pursue performance. I have nothing but respect for them.”

On one side, there was the unknown territory of the Western States. On the other, the decision to tell your own story with this degree of depth, placing yourself at the heart of such a complex project… Which of the two required you to find more courage?

“I see them as two different kinds of difficulty. The first belongs more to the sporting dimension, although there is obviously a considerable emotional and mental component to it. But it is something you know you have built towards through preparation and training. In the film, my partner and my coach keep bringing me back to the reason we had chosen to be there. In moments of difficulty, your mind doesn’t work in a linear way, and you need someone who can bring you back to a place of rationality, who can remind you that what you are facing is, in fact, exactly what you have spent so long preparing for. That was fundamental for me, and it is another reason why having those people beside me mattered so much. 

The other question is how difficult it was, and how much courage it required, to tell the whole story with this degree of depth. Here too, I think of it as a form of preparation: one that began much earlier, through the work I did with my sports psychologist. It has been a process of learning to understand myself more deeply, to accept certain parts of my identity, and to relinquish some of the shame we so often feel towards the things we carry within us. Little by little, over time, with some struggle, some courage, plenty of mistakes and the occasional step backwards, you discover more and more of the person you are. You learn to accept that person and eventually even to speak about them, to share them with others. Gradually, it begins to feel more natural, and to carry less of the shame that so often holds us back: that fear of failing to live up to other people’s expectations.”