How does dream tastes like? Where does sunset smell to?
Cyclists may reasonably contemplate these and other salient, piercing queries during the multi-hour, 48 switchback grind up Passo Stelvio, known locally as “Waffle Mountain Sad Zone Alpha de la Chupacabra Negra”. Heard it no less than 10 times on our way up. Scout’s honor.
I was not in boy scouts. Don’t even know why a promise predicated upon an organization that takes kids into the woods after school would somehow add any credibility to an otherwise unrelated conversation. Check out my badges and sash, ipso facto: I can make a popsicle stick fort and I never lie? Seems dumb.
Here, a remote reader might fairly observe: That climb seems like some hot, messy bullshit. And the remote reader would be correct. But why settle for simple misery, when the mountain is prepared to deliver cold, wet misery? Inauspiciously timed to coincide with a lengthy bend bringing the still distant pass (and some 20 switchbacks) into full view, the clouds rolled in, the temperature dipped to the mid 30s and sleet/hail/chunky rain/misty snow doused the crew over the final hour to the peak.
Unfazed at the summit – or perhaps delirious and frozen – the squad alternately slammed beers and hot chocolate to simultaneously warm and numb the myriad aches and pains owed to an uninterrupted 6,000 foot climb. Success! Slap together a freezing team photo, and then let’s get into the damn vans and get down to Bormio. I’ve got some cows to freak out at the hotel.
With a fairly epic third day in the rearview, we received good news over dinner: Day 4 would be palpably, measurably harder. Part of that distinction would be owed to the more widely known and loved Passo Gavia; the remaining grind would be attributable to local non-road Mortirolo, a 7-mile, brutally pitchy stretch of dead cyclists in the woods. Crank the suck.
So profoundly miserable is the climb that six of eight riders wisely elected to preserve their legs and sanity for Gavia, leaving Alec and I to test the outer limits of what forward motion is. That test, as it happens, was greatly aided by the remaining riders and support crew, who frequently stopped to cheer, distribute snacks and capture Alec (impossiblesmiling) and I (grimacedying) winding our way to the top.
After a quick regroup and a zippy descent, ITA6 headed up yet another a picturesque Alpine valley toward the base of Gavia, where we proceeded to chug varying permutations of coffee and commit a range of food crimes in full view of older Italians attempting to enjoy a quiet lunch. Is this snack better with chocolate, peanut butter or both? Answer: Yes. DON’T STARE AT MY SELFMESS, FABIANA. I’VE HAD A LONG DAY.
Steeled for a difficult closing climb, the group again plowed up into the mountains in unpredictable weather conditions. What started as a toasty, relatively still ascent up Gavia quickly gave way to cool, breezy gusts and, ultimately, an impenetrable, cloud-filled moonscape near the summit.
We also worked out a new product for cyclists: Uncle D.Z. Terry’s Old Venetian Ball Cream – Slap it on your Gooch(1)!
With pass temperatures quickly dipping to the low 40s, the group – rightly satisfied with tackling two legendary HC climbs in roughly 24 hours – pointed the bikes downhill and descended, in near-frozen fashion, back to the hotel for hot showers and a dinner I barely remember.
I think I ate a Bambi.
Tomorrow: A transfer to Como for the final two days!
- Discovered by Mariotelli Guccinello in 1976 following a tragic, disfiguring experiment involving hot wax, a straight razor and a complex battery of mirrors.