Passo del Ghisallo

This was the first day that I managed to bike with our host, Laurenz. We headed downhill and traced the shoreline of the lake to the city of Como, passing through many of the little towns we had admired from the water yesterday. After relaxing in the Piazza del Duomo, we meandered [with a few wrong turns, for good measure] toward a café at Lago di Segrino.

At small places like this, lunch is whatever they are serving: in this case, pasta with pesto or a tomato/bacon sauce. As we were leaving, the matriarch approached me, expecting that I spoke Italian. From what I gathered (through others), she was suggesting that we call ahead the next time we have a giro and want some lunch. Nonetheless, they had accommodated our crowd of hungry cyclists with grace.

An unanticipated bonus was a visit to the tomb of Alessandro Volta, which was being tended with fresh flowers by an elderly woman. She chattered on about Volta, and I did not have the heart to tell her that I do not speak Italian; I smiled and nodded and offered si and grazie when she would pause. That worked out quite well.

One disadvantage of this loop was that we would take the easier approach to visit the Santuario Madonna del Ghisallo as we returned to our hotel, rather than earning our blessings with the long, steep climb from Bellagio. The locals had assured me that the climb to the hotel itself was the worst part, so I did not feel like a complete shirker. The rest of it, though, is pretty darned steep. At the end of the day, I had covered 47 miles and climbed 3,605 feet.

The chapel is an inspiring place, venerating cycling champions the world around—not just Italians. Admission to the nearby Museo del Ciclismo is discounted if you arrive by bicycle [keep that in mind].

It was a chance encounter, though, that I cherish most.

I lingered after the rest of our group had departed. An Italian cyclist in full team kit rolled up; as the only other cyclist there, he wanted to chat. Non parlo l'italiano, I explained. Deutsch? Belgian? he tried. With a mixture of gesture and simple words, we established that this was my first visit and the route I had taken. He drew my attention to the key bicycles in the chapel—especially Casartelli's. He pawed through the brochures and handed me one in English. He kept going back to one tray in particular, clearly troubled that it was empty.

And then, it became clear: That was the tray that normally held prayer cards with an image of the Madonna del Ghisallo, the patron saint of cyclists, that are meant to be carried with you.

Reaching into a jersey pocket, he retrieved a small plastic box and spread the contents on the table.

He found the image of the Madonna that he carried with him.

And then, he gave it to me.

Como

Despite our host's admonishment,

You will not dissolve, like sugar, in the rain!

most of us opted not to bike again today. If it is necessary, I will bike in the rain. If it is not necessary, I will not. Primarily, it is not fun.

Toting my new umbrella, I joined a small group that chose to take the slow boat to Como (two and half hours). We strolled about, had lunch, visited the Duomo, and took the slow boat back to Bellagio.

Out on the lake, the skies opened up and nearly everyone fled to the cabin. I popped open my umbrella and shared the deck with another member of our group who did the same.

First to arrive for dinner, we scouted a table with a great view of the lake and were treated to an ever-changing show of clouds and distant lightning.


Tomorrow, it will be dry.

Bellagio

5:19 a.m.? I didn't ask for a wake-up call.

Apparently the local roosters get started before sunrise.

Expecting last night's rain to continue, most of us opted for a rest day and hiked down the hill. After exploring the gardens and antiquities on the grounds of the Villa Melzi, we headed for downtown Bellagio.

My first order of business: Buy an umbrella. [Just like the last time I visited Europe ...]

Much to my surprise for a Sunday morning, the shopping district was fully open. Even more to my surprise, a cyclist wearing a full kit from Stanford cruised past.

A few stalwart souls from our group chose to bike, despite the weather. All returned fully drenched, one having met the pavement along the way. The rest of us were content to stay dry. Sheltered on the hotel terrace overlooking the misty lake, I worked at the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle over a steaming cup of tea. There are some constants in my life.

Grosotto to Bellagio

A lovely coda to our stay in Grosotto was a choral concert at the church after dinner last night. For a small town, the Santuario della Beata Vergine delle Grazie is unexpectedly elaborate, with enormous organ pipes adorned with carved wood and a magnificent frescoed ceiling.

Our next home base would be on the shores of Lake Como. We followed the route of the Sentiero Valtellina, as best we could, aiming to rendezvous with our hosts at an abbey for lunch.

What a bike path! For most of the first 41 miles of our journey, we enjoyed the seclusion of this path. One stretch of highway challenged our nerves, but advice from a local cyclist got us back on track.

The Abbazia di Piona is situated on Lake Como ... uphill, of course. After some 60 miles of smooth, mostly flat riding, we did not begrudge a little climbing. But, cobblestones? Well, those are another matter.

Each day's riding had included some stretches of cobblestone streets. Or, so I had thought, having mistaken cut stone blocks for cobblestones. About one mile of the undulating road leading to the abbey was entirely paved with cobblestones.

That means the road surface is studded with closely-packed stones, rounded and polished smooth by centuries of use. Climbing is tricky and mildly uncomfortable; keeping a light grip on the handlebars affords some relief. Descending is treacherous and painful; gripping the brakes to control speed, the vibrations rattle through your wrists, arms, and shoulders, jostling your brain. Emulating the pros at Paris-Roubaix, I made a beeline for the concrete gutter at the edge of the road whenever possible.

Before the end was in sight, I dismounted and walked.

Our day's journey was not yet over. Having procured tickets for ourselves and our vehicles, we lined up to be ferried across the lake. Ahead, one final surprise awaited us.

Fourteen percent. As in, 14% grade (according to a roadside sign). One rider exclaimed:

This is a cruel joke!

Our hotel was located along the famous Madonna del Ghisallo climb, featured in the annual Giro di Lombardia. At least we didn't need to pedal to the top ... today.

Our longest ride so far: 72 miles, with a mere 1,310 feet of climbing.

Passo di Gavia

Truth be told, I had not yet earned my new Cima Coppi jersey. While Stelvio is named prominently on the front, the back features three Giro d'Italia high points: Mortirolo [check!]. Stelvio [check!]. Gavia [not yet].

The logistics for attacking Gavia were a prime topic of conversation at the bar yesterday afternoon. The outcome: our host would shuttle half the group to the nearest approach, outside Bormio; then, shuttle the remaining riders to the far end, parking the van at Ponte di Legno. After climbing to the top from either side, one could descend to Bormio and ride back to Grosotto or descend to Ponte di Legno and be shuttled back.

The more difficult (Giro d'Italia) approach ascends from the south, but the only viable route for me was from the north—slow as I am, I could not afford to start with the later bunch. It would be unreasonable to ask anyone to wait for me to finish.

With no particular need to hurry, I reveled in another glorious day on another famous climb. As with Stelvio, I began to pass other cyclists as I neared the summit. [Pacing is everything.] From Bormio, the climb is pleasant and never difficult. Although the pass tops out at 8,700 feet, I was not troubled by the altitude.

Facilities at the summit were modest; the Rifugio was a combination bar/café/souvenir shop. I enjoyed a slice of fruit tart before heading for Ponte di Legno. As I launched, I heard a fading voice:

And we waited for her, why?!

I actually stopped to take photos on the descent—that is a rare sacrifice indeed, which should tell you something about the beauty of this area.

Moments after a few motorcycles zipped past me, I was suddenly grateful for their presence. I was headed, full speed, into a galleria. One that was totally unlit. [I would later learn, from those who climbed this side, that there was a walkable bypass with a mural memorializing those who lost their lives when a convoy truck plummeted down the cliff.]

What I should have done: Stop. Fish headlight and taillight out of saddle bag, mount them, and turn them on. Swap the dark lenses in my sunglasses for clear ones. What I did: Fly into the tunnel and follow the taillights of the motorcycles. Pedal faster, accelerating in an effort to keep them in sight and to get the heck out of that tunnel as rapidly as possible. It was longer than I expected, and the taillights went briefly out of view ... the tunnel is curved—yikes! One final glimpse kept me on track before they vanished, just in time for the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

A word to the wise: Do not do as I did. Look for a bypass, or prepare yourself for the darkness. I am extremely fortunate that I did not come to grief.

Studying the plot from my bike computer (speed, heart rate, altitude), it is quite evident where I entered the tunnel. The map confirms it. I was traveling approximately 23 mph as I entered. My heart rate, steady up to that point, quickly spiked up by 15 bpm. As I gave chase to keep the motorcycles in view, I accelerated to and sustained 30+ mph for three tenths of a mile. The tunnel appears to be about four tenths of a mile long; it took me just under a minute to travel through it.

I covered 28 miles and climbed 4,600 feet; the 17-mile climb to the summit accounted for all but 20 feet of that.

Grosio

Having enjoyed perfect weather so far, no one was complaining about a few raindrops on a day when we were all ready for a rest.

Rest, of course, does not mean lounging about the hotel reading a book—not with this crowd. After breakfast, I set out with a small group hiking to Grosio, where we explored the remains of a medieval castle and then searched (in vain) for traces of the Iron and Bronze Age-era carvings on an adjacent rock outcropping in the Parco Incisioni Rupestri di Grosio. There are some 5,000 carvings on this boulder and we could not find a single one. Not surprising, then, that they were not discovered until the 1960s.

As the rain began to pelt us, I was reminded that I had neglected to pack an umbrella for this trip. We headed for town and took shelter in a café.

Returning to the site of the carvings, we found the adjacent museum now staffed by an amiable young man who spoke English fluently. He grew up in the area and assured us that he had not been able to spot the carvings either, until he learned where to look. Afternoon light is preferable.

The best vantage points are on the rock itself; to get close, you shed your shoes and scramble over the boulder in your socks (or bare feet). [This sort of experience would be inconceivable back in the litigious US of A.] In the flat light, visibility was somewhat enhanced now that the rock was wet: warriors, dancing figures, animals, a rake (early testament to the importance of agriculture). Once you know where, and how, to look.

Passo dello Stelvio

In signing up for this tour, I was at last fulfilling a dream to cycle in Europe. When I realized that I might have a chance to climb the legendary Stelvio Pass, I was thrilled. Now, I sincerely hoped that I had not burned out my legs on the Mortirolo loop.

It would be straightforward for us to approach the summit from Bormio; while I am sure that would be beautiful, the classic approach is from Prato allo Stelvio. The logistics would be a burden, but our host made it happen. He dispatched a few strong riders to tackle the climb yesterday, reducing the size of our group to fit into two vehicles laden with bicycles today.

We drove through Bormio and up to the summit of the Umbrail Pass. There, we bundled up and descended to the valley, passing through the town of Santa Maria (Switzerland) and looping back into Italy to start the famous climb from Prato allo Stelvio.

Ever the laggard going uphill, my plan was to descend as rapidly as possible to get ahead of the group before we started to ascend. We were warned to expect one unpaved section of road (a mile of packed gravel) on the way down. I was especially cautious there; one rider caught and passed me, but nonetheless I was the first to reach the valley. [Not having seen me descend until now, my fellow riders were surprised. "You were en pointe, the whole way down!" Nice way to put it. I smiled.]

At the border, the Italians waved us through, and I booked it all the way to Prato—where I promptly headed in the wrong direction. Having stopped for a bio break, I was separated from the rest of the pack and never saw the last sign toward the pass. (Evidently it was easy to miss, being somewhat obscured by a tree.) I approached a couple of guys in a parking lot, and they happily sent me in the right direction.

More than any other climb on this trip, I wanted to complete this one. I started going up; my legs felt surprisingly strong! I began to believe that I could do it. I have certainly done more climbing in a day than this would require, but not over such a short distance.

There are 48 switchbacks on the way to the top, and each turn is numbered. I rounded switchback number 48 after about 4 miles. Warmed by the effort, I had already peeled off my outer layer. Up to that point, the average grade was 6%; almost eleven miles remained, with an average grade of 7.9%.

The road is carefully maintained, smooth pavement swept clear of gravel and rocks. I quickly found a source of acceleration in taking the right line through each hairpin—every little bit of energy helps. About two thirds of the way up, the Berghotel Franzenshöhe serves the best apple strudel imaginable—my single portion filled a dinner-sized plate and sustained me over the rest of the climb.

Many cyclists passed me along the way, but as I drew nearer to the summit, it was my turn to pass. Endurance, I have. I am sure the diminishing concentration of oxygen slowed me further, but I reached 8,300 feet before I noticed. Painted marks on the road counted down the distance remaining: 6k ... 5k ... At hairpin number 1, I lingered in a state of awe.

There is quite a festival at the top of the Stelvio Pass: food, souvenirs, proud and exhausted cyclists, and plenty of tourists.

I traveled 38 miles by bike, climbing 6,040 feet along the way—virtually all of that climbing was packed into the last 15 miles. I am stunned to say this: It felt great! Which means, of course, that I should have ridden at a faster pace.

Next time ...