someone watching me, right now, from the bottom of Latvia, you might find in me a certain similarity to the Mantegna's Christ. The vitality is more or less the same. Only the painting of Christ does not wear a kind of gown to fiorelloni, lisa and tattered, and I have next to no one weep for me: there is Skipper, yes, but it is svaccato on the floor, panting, enjoying the cool marble tiles. Another difference: I have a feeling that I will take more than three days to rise again. I did not even have the strength to turn around on its side; head feels about to burst at any moment, arms and legs as if they were heavy with lead. And I have a vague awareness that it is early afternoon, because I threw the eye to the clock, just now, but for me, after two sleepless nights to labor costs in the saddle, it could be any time of day or night. My biorhythms has raised the white flag. By nature, I have a horror of inaction, but at this moment is all I can afford, while waiting for the good Morfeo welcome me in his arms, at least for a while '. I have a feeling it wont be long ... Cuneo
I reach around half past seven on Friday evening, in spite of the true spirit of the athlete, I go with the car right in Piazza Galimberti, with the firm intention of leaving the Opel, briefly, in a total ban on parking with a pass of the four arrows on. There is a bustle that I did not expect: generally, a glacier walk is worthy of respect something that nobody cares, except monopolize the heart and soul of those who take part. But the secret is soon out: the crowd is not here for the start of the Super Randonnée, is attracted to dinner tables and loud music. Bread and circuses. The fact that, in the same square, is to gather a troop of cyclists and bright multi-color is a pure coincidence. I load on the two bags to be left behind under the awning of the organization, where withdrawal, while the number of race: 151. I must admit that this year, the father of Super Rando, aka the dreaded Ivan the Terrible the reservoir of the Western Alps, has shown unexpected generosity towards his subjects on two wheels. It 's true, it imposes a route of 440 km, with flights from Cuneo and climb the Colle della Lombarda, the Col de la Bonette, the Col de Vars, Col Izoard, the Col Lamb, the Colle di Sampeyre, the Colle di Fauniera also told of the Dead and the Madonna del Colletto as dessert, with the requirement for return within 44 hours from Cuneo away, however, his goodness, even with your capital "S", enabling us to prepare two bags to be sent a at the checkpoint and restoration of Vars les Claux Sampeyre and the other where we do not receive, on paper, no nutritional support, but we can take a shower and sleep a few hours in a gym. In addition, the Terrible has seen fit to honor us on the Internet site of the event, a concise collection of tips dedicated to your luggage. As far as I am, usually allergic to the advice, this time I decided to make an exception, as Ivan does have more good hikes in the curriculum that hair fanned out in various parts of the body, and its essential horse battle, boasts a 100% success rate in short, has always crossed the finish line, more or less alive and capable of consent. So it pains me to admit it, but something they should know.
I almost surprised myself at the thought of the meticulous care with which I filled my two bags. Indeed, one step back: an event unheard of, I even developed a driving times table, knowing that, on a path gender and two sleepless nights, any prediction is that leaves time. As we start this evening at 21, I thought I could reach Vars Les Claux first point of rest, tomorrow, Saturday, between 9 and 10, there already will find something to eat, and then in the bag that goal I intended to put a complete change of clothes, shirt, tank top and shorts, a little 'bag of food to be transferred to the bike and take away two cans of Red Bull and a dose of mouthwash, because I hate having dirty teeth and gustaccio in the mouth. A
Sampeyre I get there, always with a pinch of salt, around 20-21 tomorrow night. I intend to stay there three or four hours and, if possible, to wash a bit ', then I send a change of clothes complete with ¾ pants, shirt, tank top, vest, long gloves, will share it with the cold of the night in the mountains, and spare batteries for any problems with the lights. Moreover, since there is no relief in Sampeyre food, I prepared half a pantry with all sorts of foodstuff: soft cheese and fat, bread, a can of peaches in syrup, a liter of juice, four cans of Red Bull and two of Burn, jam, salt bags, bars, cakes and chocolate, Nutella, nuts. Not that I intend to brush it all: the fact is that now I know and I know that at that point, I will cope food desires most absurd and unpredictable, and will satisfy a necessary condition for the continuation of my stroke. There are also cutlery, toothbrush, toothpaste, towels, soap and towel for the shower. The result is that my bag is bigger and heavier all ...
After receiving the race number, a moment of panic. "That's the number that you attach to the helmet ...". One moment, what helmet? It is not compulsory to wear a helmet, in fact I do not have it. "How - replies the girl behind the counter - is required for the Highway Code." No, not at all ... Scartabelli well on the sheets of the Regulation, fortunately for me, such a ridiculous rule is discussed in the past but nothing has been decided. One of the many aspects of the Super Rando that I love is exactly that, no one claims the right to force me to protect my foreman. In fact leave, as usual, with the hair in the wind. Or better, showing off the glorious black bandana Bear, the group organizing the trail tostissimo "Stone Gate". Hurry
the paperwork, I move into the square nearby, where Opel will rest until Sunday, and carefully prepared the bike and myself. Ridley fixed on the lights and the purse front wheels swollen here and there and shake the various bolts, a move which more than others, to calm down a bit '; me on the same system of the various bands rifrangenti e lo zainetto. Ho deciso di viaggiare il più possibile leggera, visto anche il fatto che il meteo dovrebbe essere fausto; nello zaino trasporto un copertoncino di ricambio, il telo termico, la giacca Goretex, un paio di guanti invernali ed un gilet, più alcune barrette, qualche bustina di zucchero, qualche soldo, documenti e la farmacia di rito: antiinfiammatori, Muscoril, Aspirina, Imodium, una pastiglia di caffeina ed un po' di pastiglie di guaranà. Nel borsello da bici, tre tranci di focaccia bianca, ridotti in monodosi che ho amorevolmente confezionato in alluminio; nelle borracce, due litri di purissimo caffé con miele. Nel caso non si fosse percepito, so già che la mia resistenza al sonno è quasi nulla; I do my best to remedy this grave defect.
back to Piazza Galimberti and are already in a sweat, but the thing I do not mind anything, I love myself with all the hot weather of the summers of the plains of Piedmont. This year, then, the hot weather has made her wait too long ... And last, unfortunately, as usual, too little. But the various weather sites around the Internet this week, I discussed with manic obsessive-compulsive disorder, are more or less agreed to promise hot weather and freezing Himalayan nearly straight for two and a half days of Super Randonnée .
The time to exchange words with some of the cyclists ready to start: the inevitable and relentless Franco, and Marco Graziano, who last weekend, just to accept, have another syrupy Rand 600 km around the White, the rookie of the night cycle, Mik, I really thought that I really do not find at the start, Roberto, now scatenatissimo over long distances, which has had a cycling career short and swift, and many other faces more or less known. I see the unmistakable figure of the Terrible: a little later, his deep voice booming calls us imperiously in front of the stage, for the latest updates. One above all: the unexpected, but inevitable change in the route, with the cutting of the climb to the Col Izoard from Briançon. Apparently, this very morning, a landslide have fallen on the road on the stretch of Speakers desert: the road was closed by decision of the French authorities. The mass on two wheels is still fresh and lively enough to launch protests and exclamations of regret, but there's really nothing you can do about it? Tell the fastest on ahead to remove the barrier, equipped with shovels and picks? Combine cycling aspect of the test is also a section of rock climbing with a bike on his shoulders? Hope in the proverbial efficiency Cantoniera beyond the Alps? Nothing to do. Tap resign at the end of the descent of Vars, Guillestre, we will keep going to Chateau Queyras and the Hill of the Lamb, rather than move towards Briançon. Of course, so the mainsail loses about 1,300 m in altitude and 53 km, however, to myself, I'm not so sure dovermene regret. The climb all'Izoard from Briançon, with the exception of the last ten miles, has absolutely nothing impressive, in addition, thirty kilometers to the busy main road, slightly uphill, between Briançon and Guillestre are horrible, agonizing, endless.
The maximum time will be reduced accordingly, from 44 to 40 hours: we must return to Cuneo by Sunday to 13. And this is not good news. As a result, even the gates will be scaled down times intermediate to the various control points, but I get lost quickly in the hail of numbers and times that the Terrible imposing its sad people from the stage. It has a look that's missing is the mustache, the military uniform and insignia on the sleeves ... It almost seems that you are pleased, the fetentissimo, whipping with his cruel words as tips of the cat o 'nine tails. Even if that little man I know well that there is not as bad as would have us believe ... I could destroy in minutes the aura of merciless cruelty that is Terrible patiently sewn in years and years of honorable dislike nasty!
distracted me throwing the eye here and there on my fellow adventurers, waiting patiently. No traces of lustrous and rippling muscles, looks grim and knives between their teeth, or almost no smell of oil massages, no hyper bike are polished and rompers iperaderenti chasing the aerodynamic profile as possible. We seem cheerful and ramshackle armata Brancaleone. Who has the backpack on his shoulders, who bags on bikes, who both, plus a few extra pounds built, but you know, those are the reserves of energy for the long haul. Even in the lighting system for bikes, has run unleashed imagination: someone has the latest generation of lamps, disco lights or stage, others are content with more or less improvised lanterns, cables, wires, batteries, small batteries and bulky, growths on the lights on the handlebars or helmet. And the best show you will see when it's dark.
After the solemn speech Presidential-style New Year's Day, the troops swarm in the direction and you have neatly for the start: some applause, some photos, all ready, but no, false alarm, start again, do not start from here but on the other side of the square. Good thing, because here it was a step down! The first stamp on the travel card comes from none other than Mayor of Cuneo. I greet the beautiful Piazza Galimberti with the long shadows of the evening, including the encouragement of the crowd that, yes, it hath been gathered for us: come back, perhaps, of many hours and many, many rides. The first
km run slow, with the protection of motorcycle escorts who accompany us by Cuneo and Borgo San Dalmazzo. It will be tedious and pericolosetto the first part, those thirty-five km up to Vinadio: I wonder why we can not pass, as true stray, along the old road that runs across the valley from the Stura. The road to Colle della Maddalena is chaotic: cars, trucks, campers, especially nervous drivers who know nothing of the Super Rando and prove anything but patient with us. It's all right, so to speak, until the troop stays together: sin which, needless to say, I immediately roll back ... With the prospect of four hundred miles to grind, I'm not going to wear out its already here, sull'orrido slight slope. It keeps me good company Roberto, who has promised taking as a reference to save the forces on the first climb: in my opinion, are already happy if the promise ...
We can not wait, neither I nor Robi, that damn initial section is completed, if it was that we be able to get out alive. Feel the noise of the engine approaching from behind and you never know if those who are driving will take care to dodge them, and that anxiety. If your destiny is in this race that I passed away, let me at least some ringed uphill and a bit 'of glory ... On the other hand, the temperature is adorable, and already the entrance of Valle Stura, we are still above 20 ° C, and are now almost ten o'clock at night, night almost made it. You can still feel a vague glimmer over the outline of the mountains, on the right: there should be the west ... One of the few certainties. The
"drittone" uphill passing the junction of Festiona, the sign of the restaurant, chapel and shop for milk and cheese; Demonte, finally. Here is the physiological and hurl the eye between the columns of the arcades in search of the pastry shop window Lamb: closed, it is obvious ... But the trays of pastries and cakes are all there on display, the urge to take a brick, break through the glass and stealing. There is still life in the country at this time. From here to Vinadio is still long, but a bit 'nicer, there is some curva e si passa ad Aisone, ovviamente con il semaforo rosso, in spregio alla fila di auto e camper in paziente attesa. Uno dei camperisti ci rende il favore appena oltre l'abitato: un sorpasso criminale, schivando per un pelo sia le bici che il camion in arrivo in senso contrario... Ma sei in vacanza, dov'è che devi andare così di corsa, pezzo di idiota? Qui ci vorrebbe Ivano: sarebbe capace di inseguire il malcapitato turista frettoloso fino a sfinimento, approfittare della prima sosta caffè del furbacchine, tirarlo giù dalla cabina e gonfiarlo di legnate!
A Vinadio, per un pelo non saltiamo il punto di controllo. Rallento, mi guardo intorno, nulla... Me l'aspettavo sulla piazzetta, invece no, è poco più forward to the bar. Stamp fast: the bartender does not appear enthusiastic about the role that has fallen ... We share, Roberto always patiently in the queue, and we meet many colleagues who come back: the control, they just have not seen it!
The latest thrill for me is to turn left at the fork to the Col de Lombarda. Do you have a bell'alzare arm to signal the maneuver at night is hard, coming from a vehicle behind you, you can see the outstretched hand. And here on the road to Valle Stura there is a lot 'of movement of trucks, even at night. Fila smoothly, thankfully, the first ascent begins. 34 x 27 and lots of patience. A swarm through the quiet village: on the doorstep, a native watching us puzzled, in tank top, shorts, slippers and towel for dishes on the shoulder. Certainly must be thinking it's time to stop drinking ...
sip my coffee while on the first hairpin, I try to understand how are the legs. What an effort to push the bike, corpaccione, backpack. What annoyed the field of vision so limited by the lights of the front handlebars and battery. Here the valley is still deep and recessed, offers a view of a glimpse of heaven. What little we see, however, is encouraging, stars and more stars. Proceed with great caution, a bit 'to save his strength, a bit' to see exactly where I put the wheels. Piecemeal, many of my colleagues go further: Robi urge to go, if it has, but prefers to remain for a while after '.
The noise of the stream, in places, is almost deafening. In the dark, eyes are of little use; predominate ways that are not used to hearing. By day, the sound of water is almost a side dish of the night, to your head, there is no escape. And the way you do not see it is only by the harshness of the ride, which I can guess more or less where we stand, even if, suddenly, my sense of direction already precarious suffers a severe blow: where I thought be addressed with his face towards the hill, I see the lights coming from the valley floor ... And 'as if you were riding in a vacuum, without knowing dove sia la meta; è una sensazione inquietante, anche se l'ho già vissuta più volte.
Finalmente, i primi tornanti ci portano un po' più su, sull'altro lato della valle, da cui ci è concesso di godere un po' più di cielo. Notte limpida e perfetta. L'aria si fa più fresca man mano che saliamo; un refolo di vento, di tanto in tanto, ci rinfresca le idee. E le lucciole ci illuminano il cammino. Sotto e sopra di noi, la lunga scia delle lucine delle altre bici, lente e silenziose. Bevo come una spugna; la prima delle due borracce di caffé e miele è quasi andata. Si suda, nonostante la quota e l'ora tarda, tornante dopo tornante. La prima metà della salita se ne va in chiacchiere e fatica che avevo già put in budget, knowing me. Once the road clears, the cold of the night on the bare arms is heard. Above, in front of us, a row of lights: it is possible that the Shrine of St. Anne? But no, it should be seen only over the next two turns ... The memory I have with the light of day serves me correctly. And 'the sanctuary, on the other hand, in the valley, there is no other building can be so imponentre and illuminated. Let the cows dozing in the middle of the lawn and the mighty water of the river, to take the junction, the last 8 km to the Hill. Always slowly. Beyond the switchbacks, the forest thins out and eventually disappear, almost suddenly, the view now ranging over the whole valley and the clear sky, White, a cascade of stars. Too bad the batteries of artificial light bothers his eyes and gives almost the headache of a sudden, however, more than one peak to our left, appears a slice of moon, very bright. Interrupting the chatter of Robert and another colleague to let them out with a rush surprise. We expected this evening, the moon is not full, but still very useful. The valley is slowly invaded by a pale blue light, the fingers are numb, ears ditto. I let my teammates take a little 'advantage, while disagreeing with the last ramp in the middle of the pools that reflect the sparkle of something. Behind me I can not wait any more and I think the first, who knows where they will be already, at this time. The Sanctuary is just more of a bud light in the distance. Have passed a few cars along the climb: I am almost sure that it is unfair to some assistance randonneur ... Cabbages her, anyway.
At the top I find a group of cyclists who have preceded me a little. Dressing for the down jacket, long gloves and a good supply of courage. It starts to brake pulled, in the light of the moon and every other source available to me. Roberto overtakes me and disappears immediately, do not see him anymore. Gian courage, come on, a little spring 'these brakes. The track seems to be in good condition, the cold is biting, but not excessive, we are in any case, well above zero. The trouble is that the darkness even more confusing, if possible, my sense of direction and balance, it seems to me to travel without support on the ground. More than ever I have here a practical demonstration of the realism of the metaphor of Ivan: my curves, according to him, are square ... From 2000 onwards Island is a bit 'better, but only because the road is wide. But sleep does not take long to knock on my door, sudden and insistent. A few miles down and already I close my eyes, without appeal. I try to stop a few minutes against the wall of a building: sitting on the ground, his head leaning against the wall, lead to a deep sleep and lightning. I wake up with a jump when I hear the rustle of a bike: then there was someone behind me ancora... Potrei aver dormito un minuto, cinque, dieci, chissà. Mi rialzo infreddolita, torno in sella: da lì a Isola, a fondovalle, una lunghissima battaglia contro le palpebre che vogliono chiudersi. Hai voglia a bere caffé, non serve a nulla; vero, gli occhi sono aperti, ma spesso non vedono; negli ultimi tornanti, più volte mi tocca fermarmi sull'esterno della curva, scendere per un attimo dalla bici, riordinare le idee e ripartire. I chilometri indicati sulle paline a bordo strada non scorrono mai; la luce della luna in questo imbuto non arriva più. Finalmente, Isola: la speranza è che la pianura mi svegli un po', visto che dovrò per forza pedalare. Ma poche decine di metri bastano a farmi capire che non sarà so. Still sleepy, head heavy, unstoppable desire to stop, give up, throw me down and sleep.
A light that is not my coming behind me is a foreign rider, speaks a little 'in French, but I feel that this is not his mother tongue. In any case, it is the only one where we can try to be clear: the trouble is that I more or less understand it, but I have serious problems in responding. Apparently, he had some altercation with Morpheus, in addition, it has found the climb to the very long and busy Lombard. Not a good sign, I think to myself, and we expected much worse ... I stop in the mall on the right, where there is a fountain, to take off my clothes the descent, the colleague continues and moves away, but in the end it's better that way, I hate groped a dialogue in which I do not understand anything and I can not make myself understood. Then continues, slowly, my journey into the darkness. Any house, shop mechanic, battered car, even more bleak in the dark. Shortly before St Etienne, he began a short slope, reach another cyclist hesitant between the main road and the bike path. I suggested that keep going and so I do: the stranger replied, but soon I risorpassa and pull straight. At the first corner, I cast again in the towel: sleep makes me reeling ... I get off the saddle, I sit on the floor with his head resting on the guard rail: a moment of sleep, I just attacking the cold. I get up, leave again for the umpteenth time, but at the next bend, I dinuovo stops. There is nothing to be done or I resign myself to put a little 'sleep in your pocket, or I do not move here again. I wear the jacket, I lie on the comfortable slope of rock. I have no idea what time it is when I fall asleep ... When I awoke, the sky's the very first soft colors of dawn. Call to delay: chewed something, allotment. Quick descent to St Etienne: The little village is deserted. Now I think I have a posting abysmal compared to my traveling companions, but not the time to throw in the towel. Who knows ...
The attack of the climb, I find a cyclist who are walking, cycling for hand. A fault is not repairable, poor him, I hope someone can arrange to pick up ... The sky slowly becomes more clear, but is not yet time to turn off the front. I focus on the ride, the miles to the summit here, anything that prevents me from thinking about sleep, but it's hard ... The legs are made of lead. From the junction of St Dalmas at the top are missing more than twenty kilometers, after all, now I know this climb as my pockets and I do not need numbers to know how much I'll still work hard. Promises beautiful sunrise. The waterfall at the base of the two curves crosses the tarmac who knows a bit 'of water with fresh ideas ... I redial With infinite trouble shooting forward. I scan the horizon, now that it is now clear, looking for some like me dot moving along the road, but I do not see anything. Desert. The houses of Le Praz are still closed, real estate, you can already see the top, up there, bare and majestic, but so far away. There is to be confident, yet strange, I can not let me down. Maybe because I expected, defeat, or perhaps because it is not yet said its last word. Or, more realistic assumptions, because my thoughts sailing into the mire of sleep, are vague and inconsistent. And the legs shall not by choice but out of habit. Better that way. I am sure that when I get direct sunlight on him, it will get better. Maybe.
Bousieyas, the last bastion of civilization means to me, always be "near the top." Although there are thirteen kilometers of road in the middle of meadows and the sheep. Overcome with fatigue that brings me to the ramp above the rooftops and come out on what for me is the roof of the world ... Up there, just ahead of me, two figures pedalanti: one is undoubtedly the French cyclist, or pseudo, who has accompanied me in the flat stretch before St Etienne. A shot of courage, therefore, are not alone ... We can not hide here, where the road goes up the wide turns and cut slopes bare. There is not even the idea of \u200b\u200ba tree, only bushes, grass, water. I can follow the movement of the two dots and put on the pedals, unintentionally, a bit 'of the heat. A of the two, the pseudo-French cyclist, is the first arena of the ruins of Camp de Fourches, the other seems to have noticed me and does not intend to give up the bone. He does not know that I am not a rivalry game, but the company: he is fine with me mantegna distance, because I know that, however, nearby there are some.
The trouble is that, past the cabins, sleep attacks me again, in betrayal. For my efforts to focus the mind on one thought and the eyes on a line, there is nothing to do, lurch, stagger. I get off the saddle, I sit on the floor, leaning against the wall. Few minutes, maybe even one, it is really impossible to tell how long you sleep in these moments, even if in front endless flow of images to the eyes convulsively. Sleep usually stops for chills, or with a start to the impression of falling. On foot, on horseback, another kilometer and I know that the fugitive is in my own precarious, because he has not departed much. Still sleepy, even a break irreverent in the presence of His Majesty the cyclists, the Bonette, once again, again, meter by meter. There is already a bit 'of coming and going of cars. Around the top, it is mandatory or not according to the travel card, do not take into account even for a moment. The hill wearing a jacket and gloves and division, while the cyclist fugitive is still intent on dressing and eating. No problem, I will reach.
The descent was cold and frightening: long, will be a nightmare for the sorry state of sleep in which I find myself. The sun illuminates a corner of the road already, but it is too little because my biorhythm is able to understand that it is done, it is night and day patient if he has not slept. Desperate effort of concentration to follow the road and, of course, technical descent even more incoherent than usual. I divide the sections of the route in mind, here is this is done, this one as well, by not missing much ... But, when a vehicle crossing is not so easy to hit the space between him and the wall, or between him and the abyss anche se magari ci sono due metri.
Mi raggiunge il ciclista che avevo abbandonato sulla cima. E' giovane, occhio e croce parecchio più di me, e mi chiede se io sia Giancarla... Che dire, sarò un po' povera di spirito, ma non posso negare la sottile soddisfazione che provo quando incontro un lettore del mio blog! Osservo che il collega scende con un paio di pedali normali, senza aggancio: mi viene spontaneo pensare al dolore che ormai tormenta i miei piedi in modo assiduo... "Per le velocità che farò in questa corsa, va benissimo così", mi risponde. E provvedo subito a tatuarmi queste parole sulla fronte, per non dimenticarle. D'ora in poi, al diavolo i pedali a sgancio rapido ed il male lancinante ed i piedi gonfi.
halfway down the lake is already a destination for a small gathering of fishermen. A little further, I can already see the valley and I am heartened: get there, though, after too many kms and just another break for sleep. The hair, the two volunteers from the checkpoint Jausiers are already sbaraccare. One of them, among other things, is the father of the Terrible, but, rimbecillita as they are, I do not even notice. The disappointment stealing upon me all at once. It 'very late ... It is nine, meaning that it took twelve hours, twelve hours from Cuneo to here. Less than one hundred fifty miles, just over three thousand meters in altitude. Not that I'm a flash, usually, but this is a debacle ... Tired, demoralized and sleepy, I rimetto in marcia. "Troverò ancora qualcuno a Vars?". Sì, mi rassicurano, ma senza convinzione. Ora sì che è un bel guaio. Che fare? Continuo, oppure risalgo passando dalla Maddalena e vado a Cuneo, e chi s'è visto s'è visto? Tanto non ce la posso fare, non ha alcun senso. Con poco più di tremila km di bici nelle gambe quest'anno, dov'è che vuoi andare? E poi c'è la stanchezza accumulata con tutte le mattane, per lo più podistiche... Solo nelle ultime due settimane, la 100 km Torino Saint Vincent su asfalto ed i 110 km del Trail di Cro Magnon su per i bricchi. Ok, non lo ammetterai mai, però lo stai provando sulla tua pelle, Gian, che tutto questo ha lasciato il segno.
Anche nel tratto nearly flat to La Condamine, I sleep. And I'm tired, weak, do not go forward. What to do, continue or quit? I eat a bit 'of cake, after the village, the bridge. Arrival at the crossroads. Right, Mary Magdalene and withdrawal? Or left, Vars and move on? But no, by Gian. So do not spring. E 'be timid, you'll regret it, you know. I decide to groped the Vars. And if indeed the rest of the Claux should already be gone ... Okay, peace, then I'll come back and will return to Italy from La Maddalena. But not without trying.
Looking for spiritual comfort, in spite of the cost of calls abroad, telephone Matthew. Meanwhile, the slightest hint of a rise of the first few kilometers beyond the junction sembra fare già effetto. E il sole, finalmente diretto sulla testa, oltre le due gallerie, mi ringalluzzisce un po'. Sulla destra, è fermo un grosso camper, bianco pezzato di nero, con il disegno del mantello di una mucca: "Bellissimo", esclamo, suscitando orgoglio e soddisfazione nel pingue proprietario. Sotto un cielo azzurro che più non si può, al vero attacco della salita, dopo Saint Paul, sento finalmente il sangue che torna a scorrere nelle vene, nelle arterie, insomma là dove serve. Davanti a me, una distesa di prati verdissimi e, soprattutto, una scia di puntini che procede lungo la strada. Vuoi vedere che... Pesto e pedalo, in barba alla prudenza, che vorrebbe il risparmio delle energie prima di tutto, con un sorriso that spreads from ear to ear. I see the way yard by yard, but every meter I mentioned earlier in the memory. Within a couple of colleagues in the last section, steep five kilometers: the power of suggestion, it seems to me to fly ... It is not contempt against them by the tail riacchiappare is a dream that seemed to have run away. The last waterfall on the roadside, the last long straight, and finally the hill. A group of motorcyclists salutes and applauds: I close the zipper of jackets, pulled up his sleeves and go, without even setting foot on the ground, I forget for a moment that I'm terrified of the descent and I sling in Vars, past the lake, as well the Refuge Napoleon, headlong into the midst of hideous tower blocks. Immense is the joy when, in the mall that has traditionally been intended for the refreshment of Randonnée Cup, I see a row of chairs and many bikers lounging in the sun. So are not yet out of the race ... Ok, Gian perfect, but now calm and cool. Do not do crap, do not let yourself be consumed with haste and excitement. Pappa first of all, cheese, bread, jam, honey, sugar, dried fruit, all in strict random order. So, it seems that here they take it all easy. Then, change of clothes: Get the bag that I had shipped here and take advantage of public toilets, unisex, to change my shirt, tank top and shorts, as best give me a clean towel and renew with the layer of pasta di Fissan sul soprassella. Infine, trasferisco nel borsello della bici una buona dose di barrette e due merendine, scolo una Red Bull, vuoto l'altra nella borraccia. Rinfrescata e pure rinfrancata, torno in sella e proseguo la discesa verso Guillestre. La rotta qui è nervosa, passa tra i paesi, talvolta risale e ridiscende; non lascia troppo spazio al sonno. E, quando le palpebre mostrano dinuovo voglia di chiudersi, son già quasi in fondo, tuffata nel caldo pesante del fondovalle. Ritrovo alla rotonda un gruppo di colleghi, con cui poi condivido parte del noioso trasferimento verso Chateau Queyras: bellissima, questa valle con le sue gole, ma lunga, noiosa e logorante per la leggera pendenza in salita. Stento, infatti, a seguire il passo dei miei mates, but neither, on the other hand, want to risk wrapping her legs. Pass the time writing posts here and there. The river is raging and noisy. I discover that my colleague traveling with me is a veteran of long distance, 1001 miles, Paris Brest Paris and so on and so forth ... That is why, on the short but tricky slope before the junction for the Izoard, let him go. Puff puff and struggle to pick up the pace.
At the intersection, a red sign confirms the ominous news: Col Izoard is closed due to landslides. Randonneur a hard and pure should at least early on to see the crime with his own eyes, luckily I'm not ... It shot straight without delay. Meeting my pals to magnificence un bar a Chateau Ville Vieille: mi invitano ad aggregarmi, ma di pause io proprio non voglio sentir parlare. Pedalo come una furia verso il bivio per il Colle dell'Agnello. Un occhio preoccupato al cielo: grossi e minacciosi nuvoloni si stanno addensando proprio nella direzione del colle. E ciò non è bello, affatto. Ma non ho molta scelta, purtroppo.
Attacco la salita con molta cautela. I primi cinque o sei km non sono poi così duri, sulla carta: ma il caldo è feroce, l'asfalto è nero, la strada larga e con un certo viavai di auto. So che soffro sempre, qui. Pian piano, senza esagerare: mi godo la vista della Demoiselle Coiffée, che anche oggi affascina un buon gruppo di turisti armati di macchina fotografica. Curva -turn, I look forward to the first of the three villages that meet along the way to the hill, Molines en Queyras. Just before the junction on the left, my eye fell today for the first time on the bell tower of the church to the cemetery: a square stone, is surmounted by a wooden structure that supports the gears of the bell and a pyramidal roof , simple lines, very beautiful. And how many times I'll be gone from here? A
Molines I do not stop, even if I wanted to wash my face, stretch the contents of the bottles with fresh water and eat something. Still above the long straight with a splendid view over the valley of Saint-Veran and the circle of mountains around the hill: the clouds are increasingly dark and threatening. I really do not know the scamper, water ... And now I have the fear, knowing down on Italian soil. If it rains, I get up there I can just walk ... Patience, there is nothing I can do to avoid disaster. And I need a break at the second village, the first of many fountains, down from the saddle and I give myself a few minutes of respite. Face and hands in the water, I eat two paninetti with chocolate, dipping into the water to be able to knock them down. Cassette beautiful, unpretentious, colorful gardens and lawns to no end: this is a place where a house would appreciate, other than those latrines from Sestriere resort type ...
A little 'refreshed, allotment for the last long uphill miles, twelve, a rough guess, from here, or slightly more. I reached one of the laggards and gentlemen, what it claims to be here because of me ... It will be true that for he is the first rando, but I see it fresh, rested and cheerful as a veteran! Before us, the rider pedals with walking. At the small bar on the left, a little there 'nothing out of place in the beautiful valley of this, we still have the sun on the head, but already in the distance you hear the first murmurs of thunder. The hill is still far away, but already you see up there, right in the thick clouds. Going strong for me, is not really possible, the slope, toward the end of salita, si fa più aspra. Mi sforzo di chiacchierare senza pensarci troppo: in fondo, ogni pedalata all'asciutto mi avvicina lassù senza danno... I colpi di tuono si susseguono e rinforzano; e dire che, nei tratti in cui la strada volge verso il fondovalle, si scorge un bel cielo azzurro. Meno cinque, meno quattro, tornanti e rampe finali; all'ultimo rifugio, quando mancano circa due km, le prime gocce raminghe, tra gli escursionisti armati di ombrelli e giacche impermeabili che si ritirano in buon ordine verso le auto. Meno uno e sono ancora asciutta; il colle ormai è lì... Viaggiamo in tre, di buon passo, fino all'ultimissimo tornante, fino al vento che ci investe in vetta. Il cielo è plumbeo, la strada nera, sporca, bagnata: want to see that happen a fluke? It seems that here the time has already been downloaded ... In the throes of a tremendous swing of fear and euphoria, I dress down and sketch. Sketch, so to speak, because some have already pulled brakes. The Ridley has the advantage of a powerful braking, but the defect - which is only flaw for me - allow me to grasp the levers only "from below", as indeed they could normally do for a normal rider. Behold that position, with his backside in the air and the unbalanced weight of the trunk forward, downward, accentuating the horrible feeling of my torpedo into the void, then if we add the strong gradient of the road from the Italian side, until Chianale, the disaster is Guaranteed. In the first few corners, I accompanied the neophyte of the mainsail, "I wanted to see if you are really so wayside as you say ...". Excellent opportunity for you to see for yourself! I went down, it must be said, at a walking pace. Cade a few drops, the light is before the night even though we are just in the afternoon. However, it is clear that the worst here, has already passed. I feel very unstable, "like autumn leaves on the trees" like I was hanging on a vehicle of which I have no control ... Already fingers full of cramps in fury to shake the poor talent. After just over two kilometers of descent, when the road looks out on the long series of switchbacks, you panic. Get down pianissimo, to the point almost fall down the side, I can not take the first turn, so that I have to stop and turn the bike by lifting it. I do feel alone as they are ridiculous, but what can I do? And then ramps, ramps still, the thought fixed the brake cables, I see them already frayed, at the breaking point, I see them breaking and I see myself starting as a torpedo towards the hairpin, into space. Or maybe throw me to the ground to avoid the jump and scratch away the skin from the road ... A long, unending torment. At the point where the slope reaches 16%, I decided that for me too. Off the bike and walk that walk the ramp, I take this opportunity to call Matt, sounding this time much more encouraging previous phone call, although right now I'm in, here, in difficulties. Never mind: at worst, I still walk up to Chianale. But it is not necessary, I can, albeit with difficulty, to get back in the saddle. I pass hordes of cyclists, the race or not, but this is normal now. Also on Chianale, the sky is dark, but I trust the weather forecast, tonight announced that improvement. Now, all I want is to reach Sampeyre: you should take a shower and some sleep '. The lake, Pontechianale, Casteldelfino on the long descent, the cold bites my hands and bare legs. I do not know whether the rain to wet, or water wheels that roll up ground, but still far Sampeyre How long ... Thunder in the distance, torn leaves scattered on the road, the long straight in front picnic area, camping. Finally, Sampeyre and, as promised, the arrows that indicate the gym. Climb on top of the country, up ramps that cut the legs: cruelty free ... On the harder, get down and walk, to hell with pride. Arrival at the hotel and find a warm welcome as I would have never imagined both by volunteers of cyclists present. It 'an injection of confidence and joy, to see so many people here that if you take it easy. Maybe there's time for me ... With deep joy, I find myself in front of the Terrible, in affectionate and sincere as I know: his praise for my hard head is the strongest of incentives ... There is also Robert, already on the way to restart, and the legendary jacket. A bit 'dazed and confused, I eat a pasta dish, sitting on the edge of the step. Then, slowly, I give myself a shower. Of course, this contrasts with the aura of difficulty that some people blame the professional cyclists to this wonderful journey ... But for me the very hot water and soap on the skin means the rebirth, I would be here to enjoy the hot jet for hours. I return, this time wearing pants ¾; I put dirty clothes in the bag that I will be returned to Cuneo. And I make here, a fatal error: I decide to postpone the transfer of food from bag to bag the bike, after a nap. Why will also be a quarter past seven in the evening, but I literally helmet from sleep. Wins a mattress and a blanket and lead in their sleep, deep and refreshing. I know that by doing so, I lose the last daylight hours of the day, that would be good for cycling, but I also know that I have no hope of being able to completely overcome another sleepless night. Risk of having to resign then maybe sleeping high up in altitude, cold and rough. I still have time, so better to be cautious and wise, for once, and stop here for a while '. I
awakens the buzz of a group of cyclists at the start: a look all'ora, sono solo le otto e quaranta; meravigliosa sensazione di potersi girare dall'altra parte e riprendere il sonno.
La sveglia suona alle undici. Mi ridesto un po' intontita: la palestra è buia, solo un alone delle luci di emergenza; c'è solo più una persona, oltre a me, che russa beata sulla branda accanto. Subito dopo, lo squillo di un messaggio. E chi può mai essere a quest'ora? Stento a credere ai miei occhi: è Lorenzo, il mitico 53x1. "Ciao Gianca, dove sei? Ti aspettiamo sui primi tornanti del Sampeyre". Ma come... Sul Sampeyre? Ma che ci fa qui? Bando alle elucubrazioni. Schizzo giù dal mio giaciglio, mi fiondo ancora una volta in bagno; poi vado al recupero della bici ed alla ricerca the supply of groceries in the bag ... That no longer exists. Oh man ... What happened to my bag? It's probably already on their way to wedge ... Volunteers are already in the process of demobilization, must leave the gym at midnight. Maybe I could ask them, maybe you have loaded on a vehicle which is still in the vicinity ... But I do not dare disturb them further: have already been too kind and helpful. 'S understandable that they want to go, too. I play a requiem for my Camembert, my bread, jam, honey, fruit juice, cans of Red Bull, yogurt. When the going gets tough, moreover, the tough get going: I still have three or four bars and a gel, can you will suffice.
Greetings all, I prepare the luminaria. The loud music of a motorcycle rally, being right here in town, accompanied by my departure and say that, with this noise, I slept like a log ... Shortly before eleven and a half, I am faced with the Colle di Sampeyre. Caution, in the past and look. The whole street is a hole, a crack, the storm has swept gravel and sand on the asphalt, it is not easy to climb dodging stones. But I would not really want to put an inner tube to change now ...
I climb slowly in a quiet more and more unreal. The lights go out in the country down low, around me, silence, water droplets falling leaf in foglia, rivoli che si sentono scorrere, occhi piccoli e gialli di gatti o di chissà che, mi fissano per un attimo e scompaiono. Squittii e versi di uccelli, latrati di cani lontani chissà quanto, un firmamento di stelle sopra la testa, là dove le piante lasciano un po' di spazio. D'improvviso, oltre una curva, una lucina e due fanali di auto che si accendono: eccolo, è lui, Lorenzo, in compagnia di una ragazza che, mea culpa, ancora non conosco, ma che scoprirò essere una ciclista di tutto rispetto. Non riesco a credere che si siano sciroppati tutta questa strada solo per me... E domani Lorenzo parteciperà ad una corsa in bici! Sono contentissima di vederli, anche se mi fermo solo per pochi istanti; la loro presenza è an extra incentive to put it all really. It is shortly ... And Lucia and Lorenzo are the last two people I meet from here to hill, and then for a good part of the descent. Take my gear in the most absolute solitude. A slight breeze stirs the leaves, which seem to light the front of silver from time to time, when I pass with the wheels on a stone, a curse-the quiet tears. From the black forest, I hear the bells of the cows to pasture, crackles and whistles of any kind, and sometimes nothing, absolutely nothing. Occasionally, a few corners, the lights come out farther and farther in the valley. Are not always sure of where I am, the night alters the distance and feel. But when I get the fountain on the right, then that is nothing but a piece of rubber hose, I'm sure that it is almost done. Soon, the forest gives way to the last kilometer with view to the stars and the barely visible silhouette, beautiful, and the peaks of Mount Viso next door, the moon is high, so that, as a tribute to Hill, both turn out the lights The front and the handlebar, and I get to the only dim blue light, to the famous square in the face of its Monviso. It 's so beautiful it would be worthwhile to spread the sleeping bag and sleep here ... But I do not have the sleeping bag. I get dressed and I start going downhill I have not even long gloves, which have remained in the bag, fortunately, the temperature is not so rigida. I primi quattro km verso il Colle della Cavallina scorrono lenti: al buio, ho la sensazione che la pendenza sia ancora più forte e che la bici sia ancor più difficile da governare; mi aggrappo, come sempre, alla mia unica ancora di salvezza, le leve dei freni. Vedo di sfuggita le luci disperse sui pendii più in basso; sento, anche qui, i campanacci delle vacche, che però non riesco ad individuare. Ho paura della discesa, di questo tratto in cui attorno non c'è nulla; dal colle in giù, se non altro, ci sarà il bosco...
Mi pareva di ricordare, anzi direi ne sono certa, che qui alla Cavallina, al rifugio, ci fosse un punto di controllo. Ma così, occhio e croce, mi par di capire che siano everyone to bed. I try to approach with caution at the front door: all dark, closed and bolted. Ohibò, and bring all that I do? I have no camera or camera phone, I do not see how I could try it without room for doubt of being passed over here. Bah, patience, it does not matter, I can not sit still up here to tinker: moreover, it is cold ... I resume the descent towards Stroppo, an endless ordeal of holes, cracks, sand and sleep. It is not a road, this is a mule ... Hairpin bends, I await the arrival of the first houses at least, but sleep does not accept replies. I see shadows crossing the road, the bike skids here and there. I stop a few minutes on a square, leaned her head against a pile of logs, allotment, grind some more 'street. Suddenly, I see a tight rope in the street, at the height of my face, between two trees, frightened, nail and almost fall ... The tight rope slowly resumes its appearance, is the edge of the road, somehow, hath been moved and raised in my mind. Knock down the bike and a backpack, as a kind of pillow, I lie, I fall asleep.
return to the world of the living with the rustle of a wheel that I pass by, along the road. It must be the fellow that I left again into the arms of Morpheus, in Sampeyre. I get up myself, I rock, division, struggling against heavy Stroppo eyelids up to the junction with the road in the valley of the Val Maira.
that remains is the last true rock. The 22 km climb to Colle di Fauniera, Ponte Marmora: on paper, the easier side, but at this point there is nothing that can be easily defined. Piano, Gian, pianissimo, a mile behind the other. If necessary, go up on foot, but you have to get up there by force. Trovarai a friend waiting for arrived: mica want to disappoint him?
The sky is just beginning to change color. I climb without light, the last rays of the moon, in the company of the noise of the river, now on his right, now to the left. Until the first country, I know, you go up a little. One km after the other, with confidence and quiet: and they are already Vernetti, the site of the checkpoint. I wonder if I'll find someone here? You bet. To my surprise, the Inn Ceaglio is in full swing, the owner, her husband and young offspring are committed to turning out dishes and coffee just for us cyclists. Dear, moreover, is available: really worth to come back here, perhaps during the day, for the wonderful hospitality given to us tonight. "It's not that I'm excited to stay up all night, since we are already open 18 hours a day - sentence the lady - but we work mostly with cyclists, so if there is to do it, do it". I think the attitude other business placed on the path of Fausto Coppi Marathon, making a blizzard against the passage of the race, and I console myself with the thought that after some intelligent person and is available in these parts!
Leaving the inn with a goodbye and I resume my walk with coffee in a double body. Cautiously, with an eye to signs that indicate the missing km to the summit. There are many, Gian, but little by little you can do it. The sun rises while walking through the quasi apparently flat to Toulouse, and then the long series of switchbacks through the woods. The same sequence of short but steep, an insult to the hocks, four or five, one after another within a few miles. The first, I get off the bike and mutiny: the few seconds that I lose, going on foot, are nothing compared to the energies savings. The muscles have become too tried. I'll be back in the saddle, continued to rise slowly, between the cones, curve after curve, at a good pace, while all around the tops of catch fire in the pink light of a beautiful day. I look down, but there is no trace of my colleagues left to fill up on soup and rest at the inn. For a curve, just look over the low stone parapet, the show is to raise the wind: The Monte Viso, crystal clear, bright pink color of the background of a sky just as clear. Wonderful this image, wonderful to be here, despite the efforts that both ormai non si sente più. Ancora strappi, li affronto tutti in bici tranne l'ultimo, che supero ancora a piedi, perché è proprio spietato, E poi, fuori dal bosco, le prime malghe, la strettoia, la vallata che si apre sui prati. Le marmotte che tornano a fischiare; fiori ed acqua dappertutto; l'ultima malga, dove si compra dell'ottimo formaggio. Se non fosse troppo presto... Mancano ancora cinque km e le gambe girano come se fossi fresca e riposata. Piano, Gian, non esagerare, non farti prendere dalla foga. Le cime spuntano una dopo l'altra, la bellissima Rocca La Meja su tutte, è uno spettacolo impagabile, riempe il cuore di una gioia incontenibile. E poi so che, ormai, metro dopo metro, è fatta, so che arriverò Cuneo and I can tighten the top finisher in his hands for which I had lost hope ...
one of the last curves addition, here is a dark figures on a Vespa. "Look, who's here," she cried, but I knew I'd met. And 'George, who has a syrupy unheard of to come up here early rising, from Virle, riding the scooter. It led, he says, two bananas and a bottle of Coca Cola turned him out without him even finish the sentence, "No, you can not, is prohibited assistance, disqualify me ...". I put the heat in my refusal, that the poor, the terror goes away. I find him on top, the Fauniera, with great difficulty after traveling the last km climb, which Asphalt has now only a dim memory. I can not stop to admire how beautiful everything around here, I would like potermelo take away, this place, all the way home ... On the hill, getting ready for the passage of the marathon, the volunteers are mounting the rest of the gazebo. A kind and caring lady, who turns out to be the mother of Emma Mana, the boss of the organization of the race, he offers me a coffee with sugar in spite of all prohibitions, then, I end up giving in to the siren song of George and good untap even Coca Cola.
Against his will, the poor guy decides to take me down, bad choice for a bike that does not have the speed, or so I understand, but the brakes. If you think you get off at my speed, even at my slow pace, is likely to merge more ... In fact, quite rightly, decided to go ahead and stop from time to time. It must be said that, for me, the descent of the Valley of the weapon is less critical than others, apart from the first four or five kilometers, so use an eternity to go, but eternity is a bit 'less eternal usual. Moreover, it is the caution that in the first few corners, save me close encounter with the hood of a car suddenly appear. The spectacle of
Vallone is also priceless. The snow, which until a few weeks ago, occupied the road, it's gone. It falls at a good pace, passing the hut, then the curves in the middle pasture and the cows that I look puzzled, the villages, one after another. At one point, George stopped at the roadside with the map open in the nose, declared: "You still have thirty-five km. Yes, and a Virgin collar in the middle ... A
Demonte, undress me and take the side road that leads across the Stura. The air is crystal clear and sparkling, I'm revved up, excited, happy. The stock engine with me until the first flight over Festiona: then leaves me in order to avoid melting the engine. Greetings, Thank you, sketch away, mad with joy: the lashes of the Madonna del Colletto will not feel even more. "You're the first in the marathon," tease me Some travelers who expect the passage of the race: "No - I ponder to myself - are not the first in the marathon, but I've done worse ...". The hill is above my head, hidden by dense vegetation, the ramps are cruel, but can do nothing against the enthusiasm that animates my hocks. After pedaling pedaling, standing or sitting, now I no longer thought of having to conserve his strength. In the space of time it seems to me a moment, came out last corner: the top, the restaurant, applause and congratulations, the stamp on the travel card, a bottle of sparkling water. It 's done, Gian. It 's done really. Allotment down, softly, as if walking on eggshells, and I have recommended to pay attention the "invisible holes" ... In fact it is so, the track has real depressions, deep, but by far not be identified, if not for the signs drawn with colored cans: you go your way and suddenly you feel the earth fail under the wheels ... It 's a feeling that makes me very afraid, but now I can afford to pull the brakes and how much I think. It 's done is done damn, and what does it matter if you use two centuries to reach Valdieri. From then on, the road is manned at every intersection, I have the impression that the imminent arrival of the first athletes in the short course race. But I also take advantage of the surveillance: under a bright sun warmed the plains, I reach Borgo San Dalmazzo. A colleague gives me to follow in its wake, but not make it, just was not my head I want to enjoy the last km in peace. Traveling from village to Cuneo for secondary roads, which I could never, ever find alone: \u200b\u200bin fact, at an intersection, it is only thanks to the diligence of a guard, who shot straight rather than turn left. He calls me by name, that volunteer toh, another player ... Happy, I start to gallop. The signs announcing the race minus five, minus four, minus three. Too bad only for the passage through the avenue of Cuneo, closed to cars and chaotic, with people walking, but it does not matter, there is a moment after the square, the arch of arrival that is not for me even if you walk under the gazebo last inspection. 390 km, approximately 10,000 m of ascent, 37h 40 'including breaks. The last stamp, the red shirt, beautiful, "Finisher", the tension dissolves. And the journey home, car, before you sleep has the upper hand. Immense satisfaction and a huge thanks to those who made it possible: yes, yes, its him ... The Terrible!
