Passione Celeste

by Mark Pritchard

  All too soon it was time to set off for the day’s main event: the climb to Vallico di Bocca Trabaria at 3,500 feet above sea level. This was classic Tuscan climbing. The road wound upwards though an amazing series of hairpin bends. Looking up was a daunting sight as I could see the road heading unrelentingly ever higher. Apart from the right-hand hairpins, where riding into the centre of the road was the best strategy to reduce the gradient, the climb wasn’t too steep at around 5 to 7 per cent. But what it lacked in steepness it made up for in length: about 10 miles from bottom to top. So it was a case of getting in a low gear and tapping out a steady rhythm, with the occasional out-of-the-saddle session to stretch my leg muscles and ease my back.

  About an hour after starting I reached the top and stopped to record the moment, and then decided to press on before I cooled down as it was very cold by now. Within 100 yards of beginning the descent it started raining. And not just a shower, this was rain of biblical proportions; the sort of rain that Noah built a boat to escape from. Within minutes the road surface was covered in free-flowing sheets of water and was testing my riding skills to the limit. Not being able to pedal for fear of going too fast and crashing meant that I started to cool down. I was very glad of my wind and waterproof Castelli Gabba foul-weather jacket. After about 30 minutes of descending I finally reached the valley below and soon afterwards the rain stopped. I was then back on dry road surfaces which meant I could up the pace again and start to warm up and dry out a bit.

  In my haste, hunched over the handlebars, I completely missed Amanda and Martyn who were waiting with hot drinks and food. When I was about 15 miles from the end of the stage it finally dawned on me that I must have passed them! After stopping to text them that I was alive, afloat and (almost) well, I pressed on. I passed through Urbana, and then as I climbed out of the valley the rain started again. If I thought the rain coming down the Trabaria was heavy, then this latest storm was the equivalent of a tropical monsoon. Visibility was down to just a few yards and the bottoms of my wheels were now completely immersed in the surface water. Fortunately, I was soon in Urbino and found the hotel quite easily.

  The hotel manager, Guiseppe, was my saviour. We overcame our language difficulties and I learned that the rest of the group were abandoning the ride for the day. Their bikes were being loaded onto the support van and Guiseppe was organising a taxi to bring the gruppetto in. The formalities of showing my passport and registering my arrival were swept aside, and within minutes I was in my room. And Guiseppe even had a wry smile at the puddle of muddy water that I had left on his highly polished marble floor. In my book, Guiseppe was definitely ‘Mio Salvatore’. In no time at all I was in and out of the shower, dry, and tucked up in bed keeping warm until the van with my bag and dry clothes arrived. Although I was the only rider to finish today I took no real satisfaction from this. Instead I was just pleased to see Chris, my room-mate, and the rest of the group, arrive safe and secure. And when we sat down for dinner, everyone had their own unique story to share.

  There we are, an epic route with epic climbing and epic weather. My only real regret was that I didn’t have the opportunity to go and have a look around Urbino,29 which I had been keen to see. A combination of post-ride blues and distance from our hotel meant it was not a practical proposition.

  Monday 25 April 2016, 74 miles

  Stage 4: Urbino to Ancona – and the Sun Shone

  For me, the last day of a tour is always one of mixed emotions. Satisfaction at the prospect of completing the ride. A chance to reflect on times enjoyed and times endured. The pleasure and the pain of an experience shared with new friends. And with a great group like ours, a certain sadness about the imminent parting of ways. So I had a slightly heavy heart as we gathered together for our final Grand Depart.

  The weather forecast was good and getting better. There were even rumours of sunshine to lift our spirits. And if yesterday’s word of the day was ‘epic’, today’s would be ‘stunning’. We were soon under way, and after a minor Garmin moment (cycling readers will understand this term) we were back on track and heading sharply upwards. The climbing challenge was compounded by the gravelly road surface, and with wheel spin, maintaining forward motion was an interesting experience. I eventually reached the top of the climb unscathed and puncture-free and somewhat out of breath. Fortunately, smooth tarmac lay ahead.

  The next 10 miles or so were along an undulating road through a magnificent forest with semi-mature pines on the higher slopes and mixed deciduous trees lower down. The area was rich in wildlife and I was delighted to catch a glimpse of a Hoopoe, which flew across the road in front of me and landed high in a pine tree where I could see its distinctive crest and long bill silhouetted against the sky. There were some stunning views through the trees as we gradually descended. These, together with the gradual appearance of the sun, made for exhilarating riding.

  All too soon we were dropping down intro the Metauro Valley at Fossombrone where Amanda and Martyn were waiting with the van and refreshments. I was paying close attention today so there was no chance of missing them. Fossombrone has evolved from the Roman settlement of Forum Sempronii. I enjoyed some excellent views of the town as I descended to the valley. Church towers and the terracotta roofs of houses on the town’s terraced streets define the town, and above them sits the ruins of the fifteenth-century Corte Alta Palace which is now a museum and art gallery. Finally, and higher still, the ruins of the medieval fort loom over the view. Roman ruins adjacent to the ancient Via Flaminia, which are being excavated by archaeologists, enrich the historical significance of the area. Today, Fossombrone has achieved a certain notoriety too as the Mafia are here in a big way – safely locked up on the edge of the town in one of Italy’s most secure prisons.

  From Fossombrone we rode into much more open countryside, with rolling hills each capped by a succession of ever more beautiful villages and small towns. I made a mental note to return and explore the area further if the chance arises. Although none of the hills we rode over was especially high, the number of them in rapid succession was quite strength-sapping.

  Shortly before passing Corinaldo we had another vivid reminder of the power of nature when we crossed a small, seemingly innocuous stream on a Bailey Bridge. Alongside lay the ruins of a substantial stone-arched bridge which had had its centre torn away. Judging from the debris downstream, this appeared to be the result of flash flooding. A couple of the bridge’s support pillars lay smashed up on the river banks. It was a sobering reminder of the power of nature. Crossing over the stream we headed towards the other side of the valley and a short, yet surprisingly steep climb. I had got quite used to the rolling terrain so an ascent which peaked at close to 20 per cent was a bit of a shock. The view back over the valley was worth the effort though, and I stopped a couple of times on the way up to take some photos.

  Italy has a long tradition of producing world-class cyclists and making fine bikes – especially Bianchis! However, over the last four days I hadn’t seen any cyclists. About 10 miles after passing Corinaldo I caught sight of a rider about half a mile ahead of me. On a rolling, twisting road he was often out of sight, but after riding for about 10 minutes I realised that I was gradually gaining on him. So here was a chance to engage in a spot of pursuiting. Over the next 2 to 3 miles I gradually closed the gap. The key to this sort of riding is to resist the temptation to sprint, with the risk of blowing up at the catch which would be hugely embarrassing. Instead, maintaining a constant pace, riding to the road conditions and gradient, would inevitably lead to catch. Unless the other rider turned off first. Slowly but surely, I got closer and closer. When I was a couple of hundred yards back I noticed that the other rider had upped his pace. I guessed he had spotted me, and the race was on.

  I realised that the gap was holding; I was no longer gaining. ‘Well,’ I thought, I’m here to enjoy myself, not to race, so let him have his moment of glory; I’ll carry on doing what I’ve
been doing all morning.’ However the tables, or rather the road, turned in my favour. After about another mile the road swung upwards and I suddenly saw that I had halved the gap. In less than a minute I was just a few feet behind. Ahead of me I could see someone who was stylishly kitted out, riding a modern full carbon-framed bike which looked immaculate.30 I could also see by his posture and rolling shoulders that the climb was taking its toll. I drew alongside and uttered a cheery ‘Buongiorno’. Nothing, not even a glance. I was being blanked. Today was not the day for the ‘entente cordiale’. So I did nothing, I just continued to pedal at the same rate, and gradually as I headed upwards the gap opened up again, this time with me in front. Reaching the top of the climb I looked back over my shoulder. The other cyclist had stopped at the side of the road. Was I the cause of some humiliation? I hoped not, and instead reflected on a missed opportunity for two cyclists to bond.

  Our final leg into Ancona was chosen by Kim, our tour leader, to avoid the busy roads that approached the city. Although this meant a few more hills, it ensured that we could ride in without too much concern about the traffic. We all joined up at the edge of the city and rode in to Ancona together, just as we had when we set off from Livorno four days ago.

  The approach to the hotel involved riding along the spectacular Viale Della Vittoria with the Monumento ai Caduti31 at its end. As we rode up the tree-lined avenue the church bells started ringing and there were large crowds cheering. What a stunning way to end a stunning day. Well, if the truth is to be told, the cheers were for a football match ‒ but I can always dream!

  7. THE SUPER SIX GO TO THE LAKE DISTRICT

  Friday, 29 April 2016

  A Rendezvous and Some Banter

  Following last year’s Land’s End to John O’Groats adventure, seven of us who rode together – the self-proclaimed ‘Elites’ – thought it would be fun to meet up again. Somewhere along the way we decided to do another tour, the Spanish Pyrenees in the autumn of 2016. And we also thought it would be good to meet up beforehand for a sort of weekend mini training camp. So, through the power of email we arranged to get together in the Lake District at the beginning of May. Three things decided us.

  First, by early May the weather in the north-west should be reasonably good; in other words dry, not too windy, and not too warm or too cold. Second, there should be some good hills to test our legs on for whatever the Pyrenees might present us with. And third, the early May bank holiday weekend was the only one that one member of the group could fit in. Well, like all good plans, things change.

  The first thing to happen was that the team member who preferred the early May weekend decided to cross over to the dark side and take up running, abandoning his bike to his garage. So now we were down to six. Undaunted, Geoff booked a B&B in Keswick for us, and early on a Friday morning Michael, Nick and I set off on the 300-mile drive to the North West to meet Vince who was travelling from Herefordshire, Andy who was coming from the North East, and Geoff who had a holiday caravan in Keswick. All went swimmingly on the drive at first but the further north we got, the darker the skies became. As we started to cross the Pennines on the A66 the rain turned to sleet, and by the top we were being passed by a succession of snow ploughs. By the time we reached the M6 we were each thinking that we might have made a significant mistake on the weather front. And our fears were compounded when we passed a sign to ‘Hard Hills’.

  No matter, we pressed on and arrived at the B&B in good time, where we were met by a smiling Geoff. Any thoughts of inclement weather were soon cast aside and once we had checked in and joined up with Vince who arrived soon afterwards, we headed into town for some (liquid) refreshment. Now Keswick has a lot of pubs. And a lot of the pubs have a large selection of fine real ales. So, with Andy’s arrival, we were soon into reminiscence mode and both the beer and the banter flowed freely. Tales of our achievements on Lejog were recounted and exaggerated with gusto.

  We enjoyed a rather fine meal at a Thai restaurant and the talk turned to tomorrow’s riding. Geoff, who knew the area well, had planned some routes loosely based on the Fred Whitton Challenge which was taking place the following weekend. Until his untimely death at the age of fifty in 1998, Fred Whitton was an extremely popular member of the Lakes Road Club. In his capacity as club secretary he was full of enthusiasm for the club and ran it practically single handedly. He was the organiser of the Lakes Road Club Easter three-day each year which attracted many of the UK’s top riders. Not only was Fred the main instigator behind all the club’s activities, he was always there on the club runs and training weekends, cracking a joke, having a laugh and generally enjoying the sport to the full.

  The Challenge, in Fred’s memory, covers 114 miles, taking in eight of the Lake District’s most iconic climbs. With nearly 13,000 feet of climbing the Fred Whitton Challenge is arguably the toughest sportive in the UK. The event has now raised nearly £1 million for charity and supports local businesses. It rather seemed, from the comfort of the restaurant, that the route would provide us with a chance to explore the area, get a few miles into our legs and climb a few hills. Apart from Geoff, who had ridden the Challenge, the rest of us thought that as we weren’t going to do it all in one go, it couldn’t be that hard, could it? Hmmm.

  Saturday 30 April 2016, 73 Miles

  A Big Day Out

  We awoke to grey skies and light drizzle with a backdrop of snow-capped mountains: Helvellyn and Skiddaw. Over breakfast we consulted the various Interweb weather gurus. Each had a different forecast to offer. The prospective weather was best summed up by that age-old British approach: ‘sunny intervals, with showers and a possibility of some heavy downpours in variable wind conditions’. In other words, nobody really had a clue.

  So, hoping for the best we donned our Lycra and got our bikes ready for the ride. Geoff soon emerged from his caravan and we were quickly under way. The air was damp but at least it wasn’t raining. The wet road surface meant that wheel spray was an issue for anyone following too closely. We set a good pace out of Keswick but had to stop within a mile as Michael and Andy realised that they hadn’t locked their vehicles, so needed to return to the B&B.

  After a short pause we were properly under way, heading towards Braithwaite and the first of the day’s significant hills, the climb of Whinlatter Pass (Warren #82) over 2 miles with a height gain of 760 feet. Whinlatter is an unusual climb for the Lakes as it is very enclosed, rising upwards through Thornthwaite Forest at an average gradient of 7 per cent with a maximum of 15 per cent. This was a good opportunity to test our legs and discover how we fared against each other. Michael set a cracking pace and was first to reach the top, a feat that he would continue to achieve throughout the weekend. Once we had all regrouped at the top we set off westwards on a long, steady descent and were soon into open countryside under clearing skies with, amazingly, hints of some sunshine. The views opened up too and we could soon see right across the Solway Firth to the mountains of Galloway. As we headed south we could also clearly see the Isle of Man in the distance.

  Heading past Ennerdale we rode up another categorised climb, Burn Edge (Warren #180), although I was unaware of it. The climb rises 550 feet over two and a half miles at an average gradient of 4 per cent, which is probably why I didn’t realise it at the time. Despite being fairly close to the west Cumbrian towns this area has a very bleak and remote feel to it. Names like Cold Fell and Fang’s Brow say it all; Cumbria’s take on Mordor. Not a place to be stuck in with a major bike mechanical. Gradually we turned eastwards and stopped for lunch at a delightful café in Santon Bridge, about 35 miles’ riding from Keswick. By now the sun was shining so we sat outside.

  Resisting the temptation to linger or have a dessert we clipped in and set off again, heading for the first main event of the day: Hardknott Pass (Warren #84). The initial approach is very straightforward over a largely flat road up Eskdale alongside the Ravenglass and Eskdale Railway line. Gradually the valley si
des close in and the road starts to feel more enclosed. The high fells begin to dominate the view and hint at what might be ahead. Then suddenly we rounded a corner and there it was: the road up Hardknott Pass. It was breathtaking. We could see the road rising upwards for about half a mile where it disappeared over the shoulder of the hill. I could only guess at what lay out of sight. The stats in Simon Warren’s book state that the climb rises 977 feet over one and a half miles at an average gradient of 13 per cent with a maximum of 33 per cent. Warren’s book says, ‘If you can ride this, you can ride anything.’ And amazing to think that the road was built by the Romans in AD 2 (the ruins of a fort lie at the top).

  We each made our own preparations and then set off. First come a couple of brutal sharp bends at 25 per cent gradient. As I set off my front wheel actually lifted up from the road surface and I was forced to stop and restart. Beyond the switchbacks the road levels off slightly and it kicks up again with a second set of switchbacks climbing at an average gradient of 30 per cent. None of us completed the climb without pausing to recover. Again, Michael was the first to reach the top, and was by now the undisputed wearer of the polka dot jersey. Sadly, I failed and had to endure the walk of shame on the steepest parts. Geoff, who was the oldest in the group, completed the climb, entertaining a passing family on a stroll with his shouts of ‘I am not bloody walking!’ Vince, who let slip that he’d never failed to ride up a hill, made it to the top through quiet and steely determination.

  After regrouping and letting our heart rates reduce to marginally calmer rhythms we set off on the descent, squeezing our brakes to check the speed. The rough road surface meant concentration was necessary to avoid falling off the bike. Oncoming cars, with hesitant drivers, added to the challenge. All too soon we were at the bottom of the valley and crossing Cockley Beck. Ahead of us lay the next climb, Wrynose Pass (Warren #85). The book says that ‘If Hardknott is the king of climbs, then Wrynose is its queen.’ At one and a half miles, 900 feet of climbing and gradients of 6 per cent (average) and 25 per cent (maximum), you could be fooled into thinking that this was going to be easier than Hardknott. I can only say that it was tough; very tough. The start, alongside the River Duddon, is rather pleasant and the flat, open valley with the gently rolling hills leaves you thinking that it is all going to be straightforward. The top of the pass is visible from a long way off, which has the effect of reducing the apparent gradient. After rolling easily along the valley, the climb, when I finally reached it, came as a bit of a shock as the road rears up with twists and turns before the summit is finally reached. The Three Shires Stone sits at the top of the pass, marking the meeting point of the three historic counties of Cumberland, Lancashire and Westmorland.