Passo di Mortirolo

Heading out with the first riders was a lucky choice today, as we did not follow the traditional Giro d'Italia route to the summit of the Mortirolo. [Those who did, were humbled.] The climb from Grosio was not difficult; I paced myself, expecting the grade to worsen before I reached the top.

Approaching the summit, I was encouraged by the names still visible on the road (Basso, Nibali) and heralded by a cacophony of cowbells (on cows, of course). By the time I arrived, our group had split for lunch or to return to the start. Fortunately, I was able to hand my camera to a touring motorcyclist who paused for a break.

After lunch, my day went south—in both senses. Some miscommunication separated me from the group: I returned to the summit, hoping for some better photos, while the others thought I had gone ahead. I crossed paths with a few when I did start to descend, as they had been delayed by the Guardia di Finanza at the restaurant. [From what they gathered, the establishment was in trouble for not issuing receipts—and they had overcharged us. The tax men must have been expecting this, because they pounced as the last of our group were about to leave.]

I was not prepared to exercise my orienteering skills on this trip, and I failed to study the GPS track on my phone to understand where we were. Instead, I considered myself lucky to have synced up with the one fellow rider who spoke some Italian.

When we came to a fork in the road, we misplaced ourselves on the map. A sign pointed left, downhill, toward Doverio; the fork to the right had no sign and headed slightly uphill, which we did not expect. There was an arrow painted on the road, labeled "G F Pantani," pointing toward the uphill fork. It turns out that my reading was correct—Gran Fondo Pantani—and we should have followed that.

The key point, I now believe, is that the lack of a sign is a valuable clue: namely, that you are still on the main road and should keep following it.

We dropped down a steep set of switchbacks to Doverio, leading to an excursion along a highway (SS39) and adding an unwelcome climb up a minor pass. It also reinforced a surprising discovery about Italian motorists: They have tremendous respect for cyclists. Throughout the trip, it was rare for a vehicle to pass too closely. If there is not enough room to give us a wide berth, the driver waits. For their part, cyclists strive to travel in small bunches, leaving gaps that allow vehicles to leap-frog forward.

We passed through the town of Aprica and descended to Stazzona, at which point we found our way back to the intended route (more or less). I was oh-so-relieved when our home base, Grosotto, was in sight. After covering an unintended distance of 50 miles and climbing 6,600 feet, I was emotionally and physically spent.

And then, in an instant, I was restored: A passing motorcyclist, approaching in the opposite direction, waved and blew me a kiss! Grazie, signore; you made my day.