Italy Divide: Part 2

Day 3

My 0430 alarm finds me in a cave. I make the usual double take ("Why am I in a cave", "WHAT AM I DOING?") before wriggling from my bivvy and repacking my bike. I can smell fresh croissants baking as I ride through cobbled streets in the next town, it's so tempting to stop but I need to keep moving through this rolling farmland towards the Strada Bianchi.

early morning 

1st hill of the day

The white roads start with a long gravel climb to the fortified village of Radicofani (880m). I enjoy this climb, visitors encourage my efforts up through winding cobbled streets with shouts of ‘forza!’ and I'm able to pass several other riders on the way up. I’m now entering a Tuscany that I recognise from Sunday supplement magazines. I trace a poplar lined bleached gravel ribbon winding between lush meadows up and around domed hill tops. Hillside pastures peppered with yellow flowers coming into bloom. Fortress villages reign over the valleys, standing watch over fertile farmland and ancient ways below. Late in the afternoon the low light reveals the unique beauty of this landscape. Tall swaying grass under a deep blue sky contrast with the pale limestone tracks winding toward the horizon. 

route checking

typical Tuscany

Strada Bianchi

fortified village

This rural idyll is not fully appreciated until I'm descending into Siena. The 20% climbs of the Strada Bianchi are relentless and I sympathise with the l’Eroica riders who annually grind their way through this landscape without the benefit of 22 gears. 

I realise here that I’ve made a mistake. I have emptied the backup battery that powers my navigation iPhone by charging my spare light. It will be dark in a couple of hours and I’m not moving quickly enough to recharge the battery or run the phone. For now I minimise the phone screen to save power and keep the rider ahead of me in view. Siena is stunning, the route leads me into the old town through a towering gatehouse which leads to narrow cobbled streets flanked by centuries old buildings. Eventually this opens out into a enormous square; the Piazza del Campo, around which bars and restaurants bustle with tourists. 

Siena

Piazza del Campo

I take the opportunity to buy enough food to see me past Florence, I know the next section is remote in places. I book a B & B for the night as I need to recharge the backup battery and get a proper wash after two nights under the stars.  Sadly although my booking is accepted the B & B owner is absent and I waste two hours messaging him from outside the B & B. I wind up riding out of town at midnight and bivvying in an olive grove.

Stats: 146 miles 16000 feet

Day 4

6AM! Aargh, I slept in! I make up for it by reclaiming a few places on the first big climb of the day up Poggio Querciabella. Of course there are more steep climbs on the other side of this col and it’s only on arriving in the centre of Firenze (Florence) that there’s any respite. The architecture here is amazing and it's a pity that my visit is fleeting.

Florence

After getting told off by the Carabinieri for riding through a pedestrianised area I point my front wheel at the hills once again. The woods shelter me from the light rain that has started, broad leaves protecting me from the thunder storm that is kicking off above me. Emerging into the storm by radio masts at the summit of Poggio Capane, hikers in heavy duty ponchos rush past in the opposite direction seeking shelter. On the ridge the wind chills exposed skin and heavy rain is accompanied by regular bolts of lightning which are getting closer with every strike. I quickly don a waterproof and attempt to get moving again, except I can’t get any grip on the sodden clay. My worn back tyre spins hopelessly and I’m forced to push. Petr Novak passes me on a mountain bike with chunky tyres, I only get past him later by taking riskier lines on the descents along the ridge. The rain is soaking through my clothes and I’m getting chilled. A part built house offers a veranda where I stop and put more layers on. The ridge way I am following is the ancient Via Degli Dei but the gnarly winding  path displays little of the Roman engineering prowess that I've seen elsewhere in Italy. 

The eventual descent to the valley is frequently unrideable due to deep mud and a deeply rutted path. I’m relieved to arrive at a cafe which is buzzing with racers exchanging tales of extreme conditions. I’m surprised to find Mitch Jones and Scott Cornish here, I thought they were miles ahead but I forget that I'm not the only one struggling in difficult conditions. 

Dusk is nearing and I’m keen to reach Bologna tonight. It’s only 60k but who knows how long that could take, I roll on.

It’s tough, first a climb up through a special kind of clay that blocks wheels within 5 revolutions and renders your bike so heavy you can no longer lift it. It’s so sticky you could build sky scrapers with it! Which is of no comfort to me as I look for another stick to scrape my wheels with. A couple of hikers pass in the opposite direction asking how far to the village I’ve just come from. They’re eager to reach civilisation before nightfall, an unwelcome reminder that it’s going to get dark and cold before I sleep tonight. Petr catches me in the woods and we ride, shove and carry in company for the next couple of hours. The rock steps are a particular challenge after sixteen hours of racing today but there’s no turning back, it’s just ‘to do’ if we’re to remain in contention. The hike-a-bike continues for hours, in places the deep mud forces portage downhill. Meanwhile a bitterly cold northerly wind chills sodden feet and exposed skin, I’m reluctant to climb skywards once more for the next section through the woods. It's midnight and climbing up to 1200m seems like a bad idea, however a weather check shows rain from 5am the next morning, I need to be through here before it arrives so once more I push on north.

By 2.30am I’m sure I’m getting close to Bologna and the landscape is now gentler, I’ll bivvy soon, just a few more miles. Some mud, some gravel, more mud, more gravel and SNAP!! No drive, the cranks won’t move. A quick look down reveals my rear mech swinging on the chain, the mech hanger has snapped. Not ideal, but I have a spare - if I can just remove the broken one, which proves impossible - the tiny screw securing it has bent and won't move more than quarter of a turn. Hunched over the bike frame I push hard on the screw but the screw head eventually starts to round off and the tool slips. It won't come out. I remove the rear derailleur, shorten the chain and set the bike up single speed before getting in to my bivvy bag only to shiver and doze for three hours. Rain wakes me, water is my enemy when it’s this cold. Hurried packing in the grey half light, and the deflating discovery that the single speed ratio I’ve gone for is not going to work. I use all four spare split links discovering that the cassette and chainring combo I’m running are incompatible with my usual single speed hack. The chain eventually wedges itself deep into the middle of the cassette, forcing the teeth apart so I can no longer turn the cranks. 

I don't have an answer for this, I'm miles from a bike shop and in my current semi-hyperthermic state I crave warmth above all else.

corpses have prettier feet

I scratch, I’m out of the race. There’s no bike shop within walking distance and anyway, having already written off one identical frame with a stuck mech hanger screw I’m reluctant to let anyone have a go at this one. I will sort it in my workshop back home.  

The next twelve hours are spent defrosting aboard trains and buses on my way north to the finish at Torbole. Outside Rovereto station I scrape and poke as much mud from my bike as I can before smiling nicely at the bus driver in a bid to be allowed on the bus to Lake Garda.

I arrive in Torbole to see joint winners James Hayden and Sofiane Sehili roll in together in a refreshing display of humility and self-awareness. After all who do we actually race? Is it really the riders ahead of us? Or is it our other selves? The self that won’t leave our comfort zone, the self that fears the new and unfamiliar, the self that fears ‘the other’. Aren’t we all just striving to be the best version of ourselves out here, pushing beyond what we know to be possible? That’s not just about pushing physically, it’s about finding new truths in the mental environment that we find ourselves in when endurance starts to bite. 

Respect to those who acknowledge the humanity and suffering of their fellow racers, self-supported bike racing is by and large free of egos and long may that continue.

winners James Hayden and Sofiane Sehili with race organiser Giacomo Bianchi

Gear

• Cannondale Slate converted to rigid Whiskey fork
• Apidura bags
• Klite lights and USB charging
• 52/36 - 11/34 drivetrain
• 40mm Schwalbe G-Ones (unsuitable for wet clay!)

Italy Divide: Part 1

A red and grey 737 rises from the early morning mist at Leeds-Bradford Airport carrying the apprehension and dreams of three Italy Divide virgins. After all, the prospect of racing 1200 km of what could optimistically be described as ‘lumpy’ terrain up the backbone of Italy is enough to make even the most seasoned of racers a little nervous.

Cruising at 37000 ft over banks of cloud, my thoughts drifted and I saw familiar landscapes in the contours of the cloud below. Stanage Edge towering over the western Alps, Kinder lying over French shores. Meanwhile my imagination conjured up scenes from a route so far only glimpsed as a coloured line on a screen, snaking north though the heart of Italy.

Waiting in line the next morning under a dark Napolese archway, we‘re all trying to ignore the stench of stale urine at the chaotic bag drop. It’s nowhere near as chaotic as the Napolese traffic though. Roundabouts are a whirlpool of cars, cabs and scooters. Jumping in looks like a bad idea but Mitch, Virginia and myself all need to get across town. Once immersed in the maelstrom, my senses are overloaded, a cacophany of horns, revving engines and music from open car windows. I vie with scooters to make it through unlikely looking gaps. It’s like going back to my motorbike despatch riding days but unlike UK traffic, nobody is harbouring a grudge and everyone seems to have 360 degree vision, give a little, take a little, easy. 

Day 1

2pm and we're relieved to finally be setting off on our Italian odyssey. Once clear of the city centre the pace picks up and packs of riders power their laden machines north through its industrial hinterland. I giggle to myself as I pass a sign for a ‘Sexy Disco’, that must be quite the place to be on a Friday night. The pace is good and 40k is done in no time, I drop on to my aero bars as we near the coast again, lapping up the heavy scent of rapeseed from the fields we pass.

As dusk falls I divert from the main road onto an ancient Roman road, the huge granite setts make slow progress but at least I’m heading in the right direction - apparently all roads lead to Rome. At 10pm I reach the first hike-a-bike section, 3km takes more than an hour of clambering round bushes and scrabbling for a footing on slippery limestone. All the while I can see cars cruising along a perfectly good road 200m away at the base of the hill. It seems a little early for a #bemoremike section. By 0015 I’m ready for some sleep, I fall asleep to a chorus of cicadas and dogs barking.

Stats: 128 miles 6700 ft 

Day 2

0430, the day starts with a natty little 25% climb up through a hill top abbey. This won't be the last time I engage my granny gear.

The track dives back down to the valley but I find the riverside path blocked by a belligerent farmer. It’s a little early for this kind of nonsense, sliding down a 3m slope into a ditch to scrabble back up the other side dragging my bike. Other racers emerge from their slumbers under bushes and behind walls as I pass. We’re all finding our rhythm on this adventure.

I cruise past fishing ponds amidst meadows of buttercups spotting bike-packing veteran Mike Sheldrake as I navigate a particularly vague section of trail.

Three old fellas look on with amusement as I refill my hip pack, wash, and insert contact lenses at a water fountain in the square of the next town. I explain that I am riding from ‘Napoli per Lago di Garda’ which amuses them. 

I’m keen to reach Rome within 24 hours of the start so I’m soon chewing bar tape once again on a steep climb in the woods north of the last town. Fortunately the trails around Lago Albano make up for the climbs with some grin inducing bermed single track. 

I can sense Rome is close and drop onto my aero bars for a slightly wobbly 30mph along a cobbled road which leads to the Via Appia, 20 km of straight as a die Roman Road to the centre of Rome. I could have stepped back in time 1000 years as I cruise down the tree lined avenue towards the centre of Rome. Weather beaten Roman buildings sit to each side of the avenue, eroded as they are, the engineering within their design is impressive. Meter cubed quoins connect multiple courses of faded weather beaten brick.

 

Up a short rise and I'm suddenly in the centre of Rome facing the colosseum, I’m in a scene from a post card! I share a meal with Stu Taylor and a couple of French guys whilst rain falls outside. Stu buys a poncho from a street vendor, it comes in handy as the afternoon is wet. Riding on I reach the first long 20% ramps of the event. Seemingly it was unnecessary to go round the hills in this area, the roads go straight up and over regardless of gradient. 250m of pain to face down. 

sunset

The Italy Divide route is split into 17 GPX files and I will soon be nearing the end of this one, there’s 5k to go, I’m sure that I'll be done in no time on these fast gravel roads. Twilight draws the curtains on a beautiful sunset as I am still ankle deep in mud somewhere deep inside a dense woodland. I wrestle my loaded bike through fallen trees and over a small river all the while wondering what I’ve got into. More than an hour has elapsed by the time I emerge hungry and thirsty into the dewy starlit night. 

That night I find a cave for my bivvy by the roadside, it's dry and sheltered; sleep beckons.

Stats:130 miles, 11000 ft 

GT 24 Take 2

Unfinished business apparently, so I said back in 2016 after my last attempt at the West Highland way and Great Glen Way in 24 hours (also known as the ‘GT 24’). That one was a joint attempt with Saul Muldoon and we rode south-north with some support. Tonight I was back on the 1811 from Glasgow Queen Street, bound for Inverness for the ride south to Glasgow via Fort William in the morning. This time there was no doubt in my mind, I knew it would be tough.

Unsurprisingly it's an early start at the SYHA where I bump into fellow riders Alistair and Tam. There’s only four of us at South Kessock and we soon split to ride our own pace. For once I haven’t got lost out of the start and the going is good, dry trails weave through picturesque young woodland.

Scotland is bonny today; gorse in bloom, broom laden with seeds, and trees fresh with new growth. A headwind is the only factor against me in my quest to reach Fort Bill within seven hours. I mentally tick off what was ridden in reverse twenty months ago; steep climbs and rollercoaster gravel singletrack abound, the payback is miles of commanding views of the Great Glen. After Fort Augustus it's a slog into a stiff headwind to reach Fort Bill but eventually I round the Shinty stadium and pass old Inverlochy Castle to arrive at the end of the Great Glen Way. Garmin says 7 hours and 2 minutes since I left Inverness, a good start, now where’s the nearest chippy?

Only a ripped tyre sidewall slows me on the way to Kinlochleven, I fit an inner tube and hope that this will be the last puncture of the ride - I've only a single inner tube left.  I meet the first runners racing the West Highland Way a few minutes after I get going again, absorbed by their epic struggle they pass in silence. Its a different story climbing the Devil’s Staircase, runners stop to chat or utter ‘respect!’ despite their exhaustion. They set off at 1am today, our challenges are equally ridiculous.

Arriving in Tyndrum by 9pm is a relief, a final chance for real food and a water refill. The wind has dropped and the midges are hungry, they keep my rest stop brief. An Aussie guy wearing a midge net asks if I'm winning, I think so. 

I'm into the last third, and the worst is yet to come. It's late dusk by the time I reach the shores of Loch Lomond and I'm starting to feel the fatigue. Its hard work handling a drop bar bike on the trail which is littered with steps, water bars and tight squeezes as it snakes along the steep wooded loch side. The moon reflects off the loch whilst the hill tops across the water look majestic from down here but the spectacle is marred by my fatigue. I walk more of the narrow trail than I should and that's before the real hike a bike section takes me into the darkest hours. Several crashes and the onset of exhaustion brake progress, a ten minute power nap helps but I curse the seemingly unnecessary climbs that just keep coming.

Finally it's just a sharp shove and a carry up Conic Hill to greet the rising sun before I plunge back down to the moorland at its foot in a blaze of squealing brakes and dust. I’m pretty exhausted now, I can’t get my heart rate much over 100 even on the brief hills, this is like a modern diesel car’s limp mode. As usual time is flying (or I’m stuck in slow-mo). At least I'm familiar with this section and the route does a lovely job of dodging Glaswegian suburbs in favour of riverside paths that spit me out right by the finish at the Riverside museum. Selfie and sleep. 25 hours 11minutes will do.

    

Stats

176 miles

18437 feet climbing 

Torino - Nice Rally 2017

Fiat Pandas¹ and Rapha man²: two things that you are nearly guaranteed to find on a Alpine col.

I felt right at home 2000 metres up an alpine col surrounded by men (and women) in full colour coordinated Rapha strip. Sitting on the short grass in groups, gazing out over the valley discussing the merits of various obscure cycle frames, I had found Rapha man's mountain habitat.

In truth, we were all grateful for a break from the seemingly unrelenting loose gravel climb of the Colle Colombardo: 6 miles of climbing at an average gradient of 8.7% interrupted only by an oncoming Fiat Panda with a bale of hay strapped to its roof. This was a tough start to the second Torino-Nice Rally.

The night before most riders had met in the centre of Turin (or Torino in Italian) for pizza, beer and bike spotting. The Piazza Giambattista Bodoni was littered with gravel bikes, cross bikes, classic steel tourers, full sussers, hardtail mountain bikes and all the weirdness that lies in between. We talked route options and swapped tales of similar events until the beer tokens ran out.  A late night tour of Turin's cycle lanes ensued, dodging tramlines and relaxed revellers.

Back at the Piazza for the start of the rally the next morning, the atmosphere was laid back and we didn't leave the square until nearly half an hour after the planned 9am start. Rolling out of the city towards the distant mountains under a clear blue sky, I remembered why I loved riding in Italy. Hectic city streets gave way to fields of golden corn punctuated by traditional villages, each with their church, tricolor flag and troughs of colourful flowers. A section of ancient cobbled roman road was our first encounter with the rough stuff; a good opportunity to see how our fully laden bikes felt off road. My Cannondale Slate felt fine on the flat but the 10kg of luggage I had strapped to it made its presence felt as I started the 1000 plus metre climb to the Col de Colombardo.  I started to doubt whether my standard 52/36 and 11-32 gearing would be suitable. I stopped at a roadside fountain for respite from the midday heat; a welcome chance to refill my backpack with water and cool my head in the chilly mountain water. Little by little, I inched up the loose gravel of the Colombardo to be rewarded by increasingly spectacular views with each gravel switchback. Nearer the col the gradient eased, before I plunged down into the next valley round blind hairpins to the sound of overheated brakes and G-One tyres skating over tarmac .

I was riding the rally with Mick, another rider from Yorkshire who I'd run into the night before. He was also excited by the massive descents and like me had no itinerary for the event; eat - sleep - ride should do it. That night we found a good bivvy spot next to a water fountain several hundred metres up the Col de Finestre.

climbing into the night in search of a bivvy spot

What we didn't realise was that French rider Benedicte (one of several woman riding the rally) was trying to take a shower in the fountain as we showed up with our torches blazing. Torches were swiftly turned off in the interests of international harmony.
The next morning we were at the Col de Finestre by 9am for a breakfast of sheep’s yoghurt, cappuccino and fried eggs.

gravel switchbacks on the Col de Finestre climb

Just what we needed before the famous Strada Assietta3 which snaked along the side of the mountain ridge before climbing to the Col de Assietta at 2474m. Motorbikes and 4x4s kicked up clouds of dust as they squeezed past on the Assietta, unsurprisingly we weren't the only ones to seek the cols and abandoned forts along this old road. At one dusty col three Italian old boys on electric bikes inspected my Cannondale Slate and asked questions about the bike, the single-sided fork proving particularly perplexing.

The descent from the Assietta was a riot of scattered stones, vague lines, dust trails and the occasional crack as rocks hit my downtube. Unfortunately it was too much for my front wheel which gave up a spoke to the descent, the rest of the wheel relaxed and bends became more than a tad unpredictable. Mick tweaked the remaining spokes and I restrained my descending to make it to Briançon where a independent bike shop fixed the wheel for an amazing five euros whilst we had coffee.

Progress so far had felt slow, the Strada Bianca4 were more fun than tarmac roads but progress on them in the mountains seemed pedestrian. The smooth tarmac of the 2360m Col d’Izoard was a welcome change, we enjoyed the views switchback by switchback until we made the col just in time to see the sun retiring behind a ridge far above us. The scenery on the far side of the col was more dramatic; razor sharp ridges, limestone pinnacles and scree dominated our view, it was difficult to take in whilst repeatedly gunning for hairpin apexes on the fast, smooth hairpins of the descent. The next morning we climbed the Col Agnel, an idyllic meander up a lush valley to reach the eleven percent ramps of the final kilometres.

climb to the Col Agnel

the border stone at the Col Agnel 

The col was already busy with motorbikes and cars so we soon dived down the Italian side overtaking a BMW motorbike on the descent. Near the base of the climb we stopped for a plate of penne pasta and cappuccinos in a traditional village. The elation of the descent was soon dampened by news of a road closure ahead followed by a puncture on my Slate which took forty minutes to sort out. Whilst some rally riders obeyed the road closure for cycles we rode through it  and onto the Colle di Sampeyre climb, granted the road was rough in places but no worse than most of the roads back in Yorkshire.

The narrow road was quiet but dark clouds closed in overhead and we saw our first rain of the rally so we didn’t hang about at the top. The famous Death Road beckoned far below and we were looking forward to riding it. We could soon see why this stretch of tarmac, gravel and landslides had become notorious. A ribbon of narrow tarmac clung precariously to the side of a steep ravine, diving under rocky overhangs and burrowing through rocky outcrops leaving rough stone arches which were generally damp, potholed and pitch black inside.  A rusty steel rail served inadequately as crash barrier, in some places it had been ripped through by unlucky cars leaving the ironwork flailing in the breeze.  We stopped to peer down a hundred metres to the final resting place of the road’s victims on the rocks below.

Just one more climb, one more climb; one more climb to the Rifugio Ristretta where we were promised beds for the night. Unfortunately that one climb was around 1500m, initially along the valley bottom and past a couple of villages to open ground. Once past the villages I gazed up at the spruce trees clinging precariously to the steep mountain sides that surrounded us but I could not see where the road went. We knew though that it must climb up there for us to reach the hidden gem known as 'Little Peru". Following the road round tight hairpins it kicked up and had both of us out of the saddle wrestling handlebars through the hairpins to make the crest of the climb. Meanwhile the clouds closed in again and thunder rumbled in the distance; dusk beckoned. I wondered whether we had stumbled into  a horror film where we would be the unwitting victims.





The tarmac road ended at the Colle del Preit but we kept moving up a gravel track following signposts for the distant rifugio, we did not know how far but we had to be there for 7.30pm or we'd be going hungry tonight. Finally a flag was glimpsed and we rounded a corner to see a collection of old stone buildings with bright red painted doors and window frames, most importantly we’d made it in time to eat.

sunrise in 'Little Peru'

The next morning I was up early to wander over frosty grass under a deep blue sky before breakfast, the feeling of tranquility up here away from roads and villages was sublime. After breakfast we rolled off after through the breathtaking beauty of Little Peru along the old military road. Limestone pinnacles punctuated the skyline and far below cows grazed golden meadows between steep scree laden slopes, it was a dramatic landscape. So dramatic that we were soon retracing our tyre marks after a missed turn. A steep shove up to the highest point of the track at over 2500 metres revealed a panorama of peaks stretching far into the distance.

cows grazing in 'Little Peru'

We would have hung around longer but the descent looked like fun and it didn’t disappoint, the track continued to the tarmac road head where we could have turned off to the Pantani memorial at the Col dei Morti however we were keen to press on so we'd be in Nice the following day. The descent into Demonte seemed endless, we passed shepherds, a cafe and a group of Lada Rivas on the rollercoaster of a road. It twisted and turned through blind gravel strewn bends until we ran out of gradient in Demonte. A quick stop at a bakery for focaccia and pizza fueled us for the next two minor cols but the big one was coming up at the border. The  Col de Tende, although tarmac on the way up would be more of a challenge. There is an unwritten rule though that before leaving Italy via the Col de Tende you must buy gelato and fortunately we found the best gelati in Piemont-Limonte. The lemon sorbet and fruits of the forest ice cream that we indulged in were out of this world, bursting with crisp natural flavour and just what we needed after a thousand metres of climbing in the midday heat.

Col de Tende

The Col de Tende was fortunately well graded, it was the old road over the border until a 4km tunnel was built far below us through the base of the mountain. We spun cranks to the col where the road ended, the French had long since stopped maintaining their side of the pass and it had deteriorated to loose gravel with drainage berms every few hundred metres which made for interesting descending at speed on fully laden bikes.

It was now late afternoon and we had no plan for where we’d stay or how we’d get to Nice the next day. We bumped into French rider Benedicte once again and decided to ride together as far as we could make it that night. Following a pizza at a nearby bar we set off up a remote valley towards the biggest dirt climb of the rally - more than 1500m to the top. The pace was relaxed but intent as dusk fell and we turned left onto a forest road that zigzagged up through the trees above us. The track climbed slowly to a ridge by which time it was pitch black apart from a blood red moon rising in the distance. Spinning our way along the ridge we could see valleys far below filled with mist in the moonlight whilst distant streetlights to the south reminded us that we weren’t far from our destination. Nights like this reminded me why it’s so good to get out and ride at night or in the early morning, it was a different world up here in the darkness high above the civilisation of the valleys. The three of us continued up into the cloud and towards the ruins of the Fort de la Forca. Winter gloves and leg warmers were hastily found and wrestled on to numb limbs at the summit just after midnight. It was too cold to bivvy up here so we descended quickly past the Col de Turini to find milder air at 800m. After a few hours sleep by the side of the road we free-wheeled round the remaining tight bends of the Col Turini and along the base of a spectacular limestone ravine towards Nice.

descending the Col Turini

The last few miles into Nice were something of a shock after days in the mountains; trams, traffic lights and the noise of the city all serving as reminders that we were on our way back to normality. Reflecting on our journey at the Cafe du Cycliste I felt privileged to have ridden to the places we’d been in the company of like-minded individuals. James Olsen was absolutely right in his event briefing, it’s a rally not a race; a dram to be savoured, not a shot to be downed. Find out for yourself next September.

¹Fiat Panda- small Italian car which doubles as tractor, shepherds dog and spare bedroom.
²Rapha man - Discerning 30 or 40 something male who prefers a garment hand crafted by artisan seamstresses. Seeks adventure
³Strada Assietta - 34km military road dating from the 1800s connecting Sestriere with Pian dell’Alpe, used in the 2015 Trans-Continental Race. Most of the road is at an altitude of more than 2000m
⁴Strada Bianca - Gravel roads

Gear

Cannondale Slate Ultegra with Hunt Wheels
Apidura bags (Specialized handlebar roll)
Navigation by Komoot on iPhone
OMM Sleeping bags and waterproofs
MSR Shelter

Thanks to James Olsen for the route, Jen@Velofondista for bike prep and Mick for laughs along the way