Month: June 2022

Today was a hot, tough, awesome day – 40oC, lots of climbing and some great descending.

After a night spent barking like a seal for fish (good moaning alveoli), I think I’d better get an early start on the peloton and head out into the cool crisp mountain air. There’s about 1000m of climbing up to the Col de la Cayolle, I’m huffing ‘n a puffing, and can hear a marmot’s whistling laugh. Later on, another marmot is lying in the road snoozing, or possibly making a joke about my ascent rate.

One of the group, Ian, catches me up half-way providing enjoyable Bolton dialogue and gentle pacing for the rest of the climb. The col monument is buzzing with swaggering leathery bikers, their bikes and a drone they are using to record their leathery conquest. While they swept gracefully past me on the ascent, they are distinctly less fluid when detached from their bikes.

More of us arrive at the summit and we slurp sliced watermelon and re-fuel. The descent is blissful with tight switch-backs at first then carving, ski-like turns. #poogarmin tells me there’s a 150m of climbing ahead. It’s an odd profile, steeply up and down, but a smirk and relief when I realise this portrays the inability of the device to factor in tunnels.

Mr Trek Emonda and I fly through a series of stunning one-way tunnels cut through the purple coloured rocks along the valley side. The views of the valley falling away to my left are jaw-dropping.

The last dregs of the descent are eked out to a lunch stop in Entervaux. We sit in the shade, but the heat is building; this could be the hottest day of the trip.

I hop onto the back of the JuJoBra train (and jokingly take the lead) for a gentle post-lunch ride to the foot of the next climb, a 700m haul from Puget-Theniers.

The climb is a struggle; the Garmin has topped 40oC (later reaching 42oC) and I’m coughing my lungs up. But it’s the last day, the penultimate ascent, and I’m going to get stuck in. Others are struggling a little too…

Cool as a cucumber, literally: he’s parked in the shade with an ice box of drinks, Martin is waiting at the top. Not sure quite what he thinks of us. Why are we putting ourselves through this pain and suffering? We could be melting our bodies into the sun loungers of Nice. But it’s lovely to see him, he is perfectly timed as ever, and has all the supplies we need.

Briefly chilled, we sweep back out into the sunshine and power east along the baking back of the hill, passing through exquisite hideaway villages of Les Crottes and Touton and Tourette du-Chateux, then finally, down to the valley floor.

View to south from near Touton

The Final Countdown is a kitsch favourite song one of my daughters plays well on her kazoo. I inwardly giggle that has it popped into my head on the final climb of the trip. Brains; what are they like? With some light swearing, we start the climb, we’re all clearly a bit fatigued, even the train drivers. It is a rare day indeed when a mere 400m ascent is broken with a stop for an iced coke, but we all readily pull over. Some discarding shoes and socks to cool further. Taking inspiration from the 1980s Timotei ad, Brandon and I plunge our pink, boiled heads into the water trough (think the Timotei woman was probs more photogenic here).

Of course we make the final summit. It’s a source of inspiration, no matter the pain and torment, summits are always reached. My lurgied lungs are sulking, and I cough like a mad dog as we storm down the hill. A bit giddy, we naughtily race through the Nice traffic, switching lanes and setting horns tooting. Van driver Graham is waiting outside the hotel. We pull up and let out a few ‘whoops’ of excitement (it might be only me that does this).

We’ve ridden over 1000km, and up nearly 15,000m of ascent. Nearly nine miles straight up (to my metric-adverse colleagues who kept wibbling about feet: over 50 years now…).

A few remaining things to do. We dismantle and pack the bikes, shower and salve our saddle sores, then get ready to parade our Farmers Tans to the beautiful chic, Niçoise.

Thank you to the awesome @YorkCycleworks for lending me the handsome Mr Emonda SL6. Not a sausage of a mechanical over the entire trip, the cornering of a weasel, and a thousand watt-smile generator. It’s am awesome bike.

Finally, I cannot turn the lights out on this post series without thanking all of you lovely folks for donating your hard-earned cash to Bolton Lads and Girls Club. At time of typing, we’re already at £3,185. With rider donations coming shortly, I think we’ll hit the target 🙂 Hopefully, my blog shows how cycling is a great medium for allowing the mind to relax, wander and flourish. The BLGC provides young people with activities and support when and where they need it so they can flourish too. If you’re still feeling incumbered with extra cash, then here’s the link: https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/blgcitalianclassics 

On day 7, we cycled through an abandoned hamlet: Careles. From the history, I read that about a hundred years ago, a shepherding family moved into the buildings there. The buildings and location provided everything they needed; but, the wooden slated roof tiles leaked persistently in the rain. Over their first winter there, it rained a lot, and food, bedding and clothing were damaged. One of the shepherds, Pierre, was especially discontent. He called a meeting for the community to discuss what they might do. Pierre, his brothers and families argued into the evening. No-one had an answer. As tempers flared, a travelling stranger arrived seeking shelter for the night. He listened to the sheepherders discussions, and offered to supply corrugated iron to re-clad the rooves. It was expensive but everyone agreed the investment to be worth it.

The following spring, a lorry slowly made its way up the valley, swaggering under the weight of the new iron sheets. The villagers set to work, pulling away the old wooden tiles and nailing the iron onto the roofs. It was hard work, but they worked diligently, and within a few days the little cottages appeared watertight. But it was also a dry year, and no rain fell until mid September. When it arrived, it was no light shower but a brewing and angry storm. At first the rain fell onto the corrugated sheeting like sand on a snare drum. Pierre and the others glanced up at their handiwork and smiled. But then the wind whistled louder down the valley it brought heavier rain. The weighty drops hit the sheeting like bullets. Bang. Bang. Bang. The wind began to scream across the corrugated curves, and the rain turned to hail. With eye-splitting cracks, each icy pellet rapped down hard onto the roofs. Pierre cupped his hands over his ears but he could not escape the noise. Bang. Bang. Bang. For hours, the unbearable smashing continued, hitting the shepherds ears like a Gatling gun. Gradually their eyes began to glaze over…

With a jolt, Pierre screeched back his chair from the table and swiftly rose. He strode to the door, and stepped into the storm. Reaching up to the roof, he started to claw and tear the sheeting with his bare hands. The others quickly followed, and gradually the whole community were outside, with unfocused eyes, feverishly pulling and ripping at the corrugated iron. Torrential rain drenched the shepherds, plastering their hair to their faces, while curled ribbons of iron cut into their flesh, lacerating their hands, arms and faces. The shepherds did not flinch, feasting manically on a desperate urge to strip the corrugated iron sheeting. Eventually, one by one, they fell exhausted into the muddy ground, the blood from their bodies draining into the rivulets of storm water flowing down the valley.

Morning opened to clear skies, and gradually a lorry became visible trundling up from the valley.

Now coughing like a banshee. Lovely Dr Mike has given me some antibiotics for a chest infection and today I’m taking it easy. ‘Easy’ is 1500m ascent to the Col de la Bonette. We’re all wearing out pink tour tops for a planned summit group photo. Pink to replicate the maglia rosa worn by the lead rider in the Tour of Italy.

Knowing that Brandon and others will start late, specifically to enjoy picking the rest of us off like safari game, I think I’d better get going. It’s a pleasant 16oC, I pass the popular vegetable market stalls in Saint-Étienne-de-Tinée and turn the bike up towards the head of the valley.

Despite the best plans, creams, ointments and salves, my derriere is not happy. She’s close to leaving the party, and I have to coax her into staying. We compromise with some ‘stand-up’ pedalling now and again; usually an activity reserved for cyclists feeling fit and ready to ‘jump’ a lead on the peloton. I laugh to myself, and try not to cough a lung up.

The alpine flora is stunning, and I cannot help myself taking photos of most of the flowers. Something I do every alpine trip, never doing anything with the pictures, but feeling an urge to capture them somehow (maybe I’m more like Safari Brandon than I realise).

(one day I’ll insert a montage of all the flower photos I took…)

After yesterday’s efforts, I’m finding the climb tough, it’s a long way to ascend in a ‘oner’. I look around drinking in the incredible scenery, and realising that this is the penultimate day of the trip. How each day has dragged then flown.

As I press my left pedal, I hear a squeak. Oh no, a mechanical? I momentarily stop pedalling, the squeak stops too, recurring as I pedal further. I re-test several times. Finally, I locate the noise. There is a bird nearby, a pedal-tit(?). Does it do this deliberately? Laughing at all the puzzled cyclists? There is something ‘active’ about this valley. To my left, I swear a marmot is laughing at me (from a safe distance).

Pulling around the next corner, a hamlet (Carsles?)of abandoned cottages swing into view. They sit quietly hugging the hillside, their unglazed, empty windows staring back at me. The road weaves between them, and I have an eerie feeling something bad happened here…

Pedalling continues, I’m not getting in the grupetto, but I am hugely annoyed when Samantha lets me know she has reached the top, 300m above me. Samantha is my Garmin virtual partner. She runs on an algorithm written by Garmin and is designed to be an adversary to help spur you to ride faster. It doesn’t sound great to say this (I’m a little ashamed), but until this weekend, I’ve enjoyed giving Samantha a good kicking. Now she gives me a digital raspberry tune from the Garmin. Samantha and I are not friends. Tonight I will delete her very existence. And laugh.

On long ascents like this, there is the comfort that you do always finally arrive at the top, and true to form, the Col de la Bonette is (eventually) conquered! There is no café, just a dusty track and a large stone on a plinth. A small queue of polite cyclists and leather-clad motorbikes are queuing for photographs. The view is a little obstructed by the motorbikes, who I think perhaps avoid walking anywhere. They pull right up the monument, negating the need for any unnecessary walking (do they ride like this to the toilet too?).

The descent, apart from a couple of ruckles, is dreamy, creamy smooth, and even sweeter knowing there are no further hills today. We reassemble in a shady picnic table, gilets and jackets donned against the chill of the descent, are stowed.

For only the second time in the trip, we come into peloton formation, and charge, as a pink pedalling snake, down into Balconette, for a late lunch and relaxation at the hotel.

After a feverish night, I have woken to find a dead badger in my chest, Bonnie Tyler living in my throat, and Keith Richards in the mirror. Covid test is negative so no excuses. As the only female in the trip it is important to remind all the males just how stubborn and foolish females can be (I think they might already know…), and we’ve had a rest day, so no complaining. In fact I think people are keen to get back on their bikes, if not necessarily back on their saddles…

Today’s route takes us north from the coast and 24km up over the, (average gradient 5%) Col de Turini at 68km. A second, similar climb over La Colmiane pass, a popular French ski resort follows at 104km. And a final push to Le Rabuons hostel in Saint-Étienne-de-Tinée. A not insignificant day, but at least the distance should have us all finished before it’s dark this time.

A bit sorrowful to leave the cool sea breeze, but we head north, our hills in the distance peeking through the town.

Once clear of the traffic, we settle into steady uphill rhythms. The morning heat is building, and I dodge into the shade whenever possible. It is a very long climb, ~1500m, and I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself. I settle into the oven-ready pain cave trying to distract myself with the sublime scenery.

While on Italian climbs, it’s not uncommon for an affable local to pull alongside. Always male, and with the appearance of the 1980s character from Magnum PI. He’s invariably wearing a gilet to fend off the inclement 28oC morning temperatures, but with a good rug of protruding chest hair. A friendly “Ciao”, then further lacy, curling Italian follows “dove vai oggi?”. My Yorkshire ‘Chow’ is all that is needed. He will immediately detect the twang, effortlessly switching to bouncy English and ask me where I’m from. Currently, I am from Manchester, this is a place in northern England they’re likely to have heard of, so offers no difficulties with further explanation. We can then confirm that yes it is too hot for me in Italy, and that yes I do indeed like rain. We part on friendly terms, with a “Buon viaggio” from him and a ‘Chow” back from me (I have no idea what he said).

At the Col de Turini summit there is, naturally, a café. And even better: we are now in France, I’m hoping for delicate French comestibles. There is Tarte Myrtille, a right result!!!!!

The pass is famous for its twisting hairpin bends. The road is dry (I am a sensible chicken descender in the wet), and people are itching to press their bikes into the corners like gliding down like Marble Run At the valley floor, there is no respite, we are straight up into the second climb.

Long climbs: If you’re not a pro, with your Director Sportif yelling in your ear to go faster (or else…), then a big part of successfully climbing hills is to find a pace that’s going to get you there aerobically, and distracting your mind from giving up. For keen naturalists, staring into the verge for botanical relief can be quite effective. Trying to pluck from my brain, the names of alpine flowers I should know. A second approach, and not always avoidable, is a repetitious mantra. Usually banal earworm lyric, on day 5, I was unable to rid myself of Cher ‘Turn[ing] back Time’ for the best part of 20km, and just the first four lines too.

Other distractions include messing about with Garmin settings (something I would be doing if my #poogarmin powermeter pedals had chosen to ‘pair’ on this trip); trying to improve pedalling action; stretching back/shoulders/neck, naming animals alphabetically, and obviously, enjoying the simply stunning alpine scenery.

Today, distractions are not working. Melvin Bragg joins the pain cave party (and it’s 30 oC), bringing his nasal twang. The climb to the summit is horrible. I think about disabling my Share Location, and going to sleep under a tree…

We ride through towns mostly destroyed by some epic event, biblical flood, or avalanche. The residents are slowly rebuilding, diggers painstakingly moving each of the millions of ~2m diameter stones that have surged through the towns, one at a time.

I make the second summit, and a kindly Martin supplies cool Fanta. The decent is a respite, but before long, I am back in the pain cave, hauling up an endless climb to the hostel. The dead badger is getting a bit fetid. Bonnie, Melvin, Keith and I all concur it is the hardest cycle we can remember. I go for another (negative) covid test, a shower, then collasp on the bed for some gentle swearing (I will tidy this blog up later…).

As I’m still repeating…(sorry) we’re raising money for Bolton Lads & Girls Club (BLGC) a provider of targeted Youth Support services. As always, we pay for everything ourselves so you know that every penny you donate goes directly to BLGC.  Our Just giving page is here: https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/blgcitalianclassics 

Your support will spur me into even greater patisserie-fuelled endeavours. Thank You 🙂

No riding today, so perhaps time for a quick plug for my lovely, friendly Local Bike Shop: York Cycleworks. The team there keep my bike serviced, reliable and on the road. They also spotted some stress cracks on my 2021 (and admittedly well-used) Trek Domane frame, readily arranging an under-warranty replacement (and possibly saving a catastrophic frame failure- gulp!).

While Trek have honoured their warranty, communications and delivery have been more hiccupy. With a global pandemic, bike components are a problem even for pro teams, so when my replacement bike (ordered in Nov. 2021) failed to arrive in time for this trip, it was hugely disappointing, but not exactly unexpected.

YCWs immediately pulled out all the stops to lend me a brand new gorgeous Trek Emonda SL6. It descends hills like a rodelbahn, and I am having a complete ball!

While we all can manage a variable degree of bike maintenance, everyone in this sport depends their LBS at some point or other. There are still many things the internet cannot provide, and friendly local help and advice is irreplaceable.

Whoah! Today will be the furthest many in our group (including me) have ever ridden: the certainly dauting, but classic, Milan to Sanremo. Again, pinched from Wikipedia: “La Classicissima” (the Spring Classic) is an annual road cycling race between Milan and Sanremo, in Northwest Italy. With a distance of 298 km (~185.2 miles) it is the longest professional one-day race in modern cycling.” Earlier this year, Matej Mohoric won the race with a gutsy descent from Poggio, the last summit, to win in ~6.5 hours.

Today, I’m just hoping to make it to Sanremo on the bike. I turn down a ‘kind’ offer to ride the 20mph JuJoBra train, instead crawling out of bed at 5:30am to meet Mike and Craig outside the hotel for 6am. Hotel staff have left us each a pack-up breakfast. I force some of it down, stuffing an apricot-jammed croissant into my back jersey pocket for later. We negotiate the car park exit system, then head off. It is not pleasant cycling, the traffic is noisy, extremely cosy on the overtaking space, and the road rutted and bumpy; queues of commuting traffic build in the opposite lane. The #poogarmins are again in disagreement of the route, and the cause of several pow-woos and roundabout re-circlings.

My affable ride buddies and I are well-matched, and we take turns on the front for the first 40 miles, pulling in to a roadside café for a quick coke, then pressing on for lunch at 72 miles.

As we get up the leave the cafe, the JuJoBra train passes us. Pulling 20 mph, a following mist of sweat and testosterone, they do not stop for 5 hours. A shiver of horror and grateful thanks I’m not on the train, instead sharing the riding with Monster Mike and Caped Crusader Craig, they are doing amazing jobs on the front, and I think we’re all having fun(?).

The road turns gently upwards, the traffic eases and cooling greenery quietly moves in alongside us as we weave up the Liguria valley to Passo del Turchino. Martin, our guardian angel, meets us at the top, with cool drinks and bananas.

Then, perhaps the best bit of the day, the descent to the coast. With Martin (a trained racing driver) ahead on the road, upcoming cars keep their line more and I, with wingman Craig, enjoy the thrill of a swooping descent. The Mediterranean glitters on the horizon and as we get closer the smell of the sea mingled with diesel and street food is surprisingly evocative of good times.

It’s all too inviting, we can’t not stop on the beach for food and a break. Everything is so colourful, warm, and relaxing.

The coastal road jiggles along past a seemingly endless flow of peach and apricot houees, flats and bars, with green shuttered windows and ornate wrought iron balconies. Shop fronts sell gelato and beach balls. After another couple of hours on the bike, we cut back onto the beach front for slices of cold pizza, coke and coffees. The air is close, and within minutes, rumbles of thunder build to a downpour. We take shelter inside the café, along with a crowd of teenagers on a school trip. Learning about…beaches?

The Robobutt: Over half way now, combined with the previous three days of saddle time, things are getting a bit bruised. Frankly, I feel I could give the Ford Robobutt testing seat “Over three days, a soaked dummy bottom sits and fidgets 7,500 times” a run for its money. Surely there are some valuable saddle design statistics to be collected here? Later at the hotel, we will talk of saddle-sore creams, and tricks. Some are enrobing their derrieres in luxurious, expensive bottom balms, others swear by cheap-as-chips buckets of nappy cream and one is employing a, literally, fresh air and kilt approach.

The apricot-jammed croissant is similarly sweaty and pummeled, but it tastes ok – could use the salt. Beginning to suspect this might be the real food of the pros. ‘Pro’ cycling bars and gels are barely swallow-able on these long rides.

With the air cucumber-fresh after the storm, we head out onto the wet road and pick up the pace again,  catching Tony B and, and Mike refuelling at the support car.

Rush hour has arrived and the roads swell with cars, scooters, vans and lorries. At a junction, a double- articulated lorry carrying new cars sweeps between Mike and I with just inches to spare.

Driving in Italy

1. All Italian drivers are firm and clear in their belief that they are driving vehicles akin to the Harry Potter night bus. Gap smaller than your car/scooter/van/lorry? No worries: press on! Miracles of space creation happen right in front of me.

2. Drivers accelerate and stop at full vehicle capacity. They appear from side roads like a (reverse) game of whack-a-mole (guessing you’re not supposed to hit them). At one point, a speeding car coming in from the right causes us to slew into oncoming traffic. We yell (and I’m afraid we were not very polite). The relaxed driver protests his innocence, arms flung wide. “what is your problem? I have stopped at the line!” Well he has.

3. Pedestrians cross the road like Shaun of the Dead zombies. They look neither left nor right, sometimes their doorway is only a couple of feet from the main road, and step out with the confidence of the immortal. Scooters and bikes dodge round, cars slam brakes. No-one bothers with indicators; horns are the common communicator here. A cacophony of tooting hovers over each junction and roundabout. Ambulance sirens are a not infrequent background accompaniment…

Turning up to the Cipressa climb, we leave the traffic, and it feels, much of our legs, and wobble up to the summit. Guardian Martin was waiting again, with grapes and water, and possibly slight disbelief that we are still going!

I take the lead to speed down, with a sneaky intention of rounding up the final ~294km distance to 300km with a cheeky 6km past the hotel and back. The others do not catch me, mistakenly turning up another big climb, and were not seen again until after I’d finished my starter at dinner. More #poogarmin victims…

OK, so we’re clearly not pros, or spring chickens, but we are human, and the ride took ~11 hours on the bike. Matej Mohoric had the whole race in the can in just over half that time. Yeah it’s what they train for (and they’re young), but by gum it’s still impressive. I wonder if it hurt as much (more?).

Tomorrow is a rest day. There is much talk about lying prostrate on the sunbeds in front of the hotel.

Buttock divots: During the night, just as my mum plumps cushions, the buttock divots from over eleven hours of riding plumped back out. But this morning, I was not the only one wincing and ‘oohing’ with their saddle reacquaintance. Today is a planned gentle recovery day, but it’s still 30 miles; tomorrow the longest day yet. We head out sedately, lead by the border collie enthusiasm and energy of John who spent yesterday as support driving the van. He is mercifully up the ~50m climb. But them puts the hammer down.

Taking the skin off the rice pudding: This phrase means to exercise to loosen the muscles up on the day before a race. Not damage them to impair performance, just ‘pique their interest’. Seems John, and Ju and Brandon, are all up for rice pudding, and we storm towards Milan. The traffic builds, and the driving is atrocious. It is everyone for themselves: vans (most definitely), cars, cyclists and pedestrians. Bumpers are for bumping round here. We stop start at countless traffic lights, and as we near the centre, we rumble over red stone paving. Probably installed by the Romans, and in pre-tarmac days considered luxuriously smooth, the surface is like riding over turtles. My divots are firmly reinstated.

Paris, New York, London, Milan. Fashion capitals. But Milan is not very pretty close-up (and after the Roman’s made such a good start with the paving…). Mostly concrete mid-rise, it’s chunky and sprawling.

Dodging the tram lines down the middle of the paved red slabs, we break out into Piazza del Duomo (“Cathedral Square”), the main piazza of Milan. The cathedral is breathtaking, making York Minster look like a shed. We gather for a group photo (photographer John to be photoshopped on later):

After yesterday’s sugary overload, there is a near group-wide and rapacious desire for pizza. Savoury, salty, cheesy; olive and anchovy piquant; and we are quickly seated at a pizzeria and our order speedily taken. In the midday heat, accompanying beers are drained like therapeutic Ambrosia:

…once opened using shoe cleats- who knew?!

We race the last few miles to the hotel, in a leafier part of Milan. Everyone is enjoying the downtime, fettling with bikes, washing out cycling clothing and leaving it to dry in just minutes of the Milanese sunshine.

I’ve said this already, but tomorrow I’ll be riding the furthest I’ve every ridden on a bicycle. We’re riding Milan to San Remo, 292km. Will I make it? Will I press on to round it to 300?!

As I’ve said…(sorry) we’re raising money for Bolton Lads & Girls Club (BLGC) a provider of targeted Youth Support services. As always, we pay for everything ourselves so you know that every penny you donate goes directly to BLGC.  Our Just giving page is here: https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/blgcitalianclassics 

Your support will plump my divots. Thank You 🙂

Today we rode a classic: Il Lombardia. From Wikipedia: “The Giro di Lombardia, officially Il Lombardia, is a cycling race in Lombardy, Italy. It is traditionally the last of the five ‘Monuments’ of the season, considered to be one of the most prestigious one-day events in cycling, and one of the last events on the UCI World Tour calendar.”

An early, sickening crash as we pull through Bergamo. Everyone’s wincing and concerned. Is this the end of the trip for someone? One of our group has clipped a bollard with his handlebar and gone ‘over the bars’. Fortunately, it turns out he is made of rubber, and the stainless steel bollard looks ok too. One group cycling etiquette is to point obstacles ahead to riders behind. In Yorkshire, this is mostly used for potholes. A yell of ‘Middle!’ is a hole in the middle of the road, and the two columns of riders will swell around to avoid it. This morning, we were perhaps a bit giddy and joking. It only takes a second’s loss of concentration. We continue, chided, but thankful.

The tortoise and the hares. This will be the furthest I’ve ridden on a bike, and with a wee spot of climbing too. The night before, Captain Slow swapped legs with me, and I decide to save what’s left of them by capping my effort to max heart rate ~140bpm. Annoyingly, the lads disappear up the hill. But, it transpired that my days as Parent helper, practising drills on the Clifton Cycling Club hairpin has turned me into Demon Descender! (credit and thanks to Stephen Reed). In my mind, I am soaring down the descent like a lordly eagle (well, ok probably a duck, or pigeon maybe) and overtake the group. At the foot of the next climb, I transform back into Captain Slow, and the lads sweep past me again. This sets the pattern for the rest of the day.

The long steep ascents are a mental challenge. I have turned into a hot, sweaty popsicle for flies. To distract me, I scan the bountiful wayside botany; yellow, pinks and blues, with butterflies and darting lizards. As we climb higher, the chirruping of crickets and birds replaces the noise of the town, and the jagged mountains rise up into the distance. It is beautiful.

At the top of the third climb, I join the leaders group (with the exception of Ian – he left the hotel pre-breakfast and wasn’t seen by the group all day). We fuel up on sticky coke and ice creams. Boy is it hot!

The fourth climb to Torre De Busi, is tough. Near the top, I catch up with Tony L, and stick my head in a trough of water. Neil joins us, and we fly down to the valley, picking up Brandon, Ju and others. We are out of food, low on drink and everyone is very much looking for the support car. Due to roadworks, the car was unable to follow us over the climb, but we shortly meet outside a restaurant. The restaurant has just shut, so we stand around the car downing fizzy coke, bananas and melted lollies. I squeeze a bag of melted cherryade lolly into my mouth like a blood transfusion (if only!), then we head on.

The lads stop for ‘proper food’ at a pizzeria round the corner. I’m not keen on heavy food, and decide to push on. A storm is brewing…

The sky darkens to an angry purple and the wind fetches up, noisily smashing the leaves of the trees together. Debris gets into my eyes making descents difficult. Car alarms are wailing and people running for cover as I feel heavy raindrops splash onto my back. It would be easy to start believing that Mountain Gods exist.

Today, they spared us. Despite the evidence of heavy rain further on the route, miraculously we avoid a drenching.

I pedal on, catching up with Mike and Mike outside The Cafe from Heaven. Not its real name, but given the insides, what it should be called. It is crammed with every type of patisserie imaginable.

Mike is chomping a ‘pastry that the cyclists like’, it is stuffed with raisins and custard. Will it help me cycle further? Probably if I could get it down my neck. Hard to admit, but after a lot of sports drink and sweet sports bars, I’ve (temporarily!) lost my lust for cake. Oh no!

Brandon, Ju, Iggy and Tony L join us and we press on. The route has an escape option, you can cut out the 20 miler loop to Lake Como. It is a mental battle to turn right (and not everyone does), and I know it’s going to be a struggle, but I point the bike right. The descent to Lake Como is slippery and wet from the recent rain. Leaves and twigs, debris from the recent storm, line the road edges in clumps. I feel my back wheel slip on a hairpin and continue more gingerly. Ju’s back brake is not working, and his front brake sounds like a mating rhinoceros. When we arrive at the lakeside, pretty much everyone is aware we’ve arrived.

We don’t even stop for gelato!!! To be fair, we’re going to be late to the hotel as it is. We turn away from the lake, then shortly, begin the murderous final climb. All 700m of it, as two, ~9% slopes. It is horrible. At the top, there is a monument and ots of bronze busts of male cyclists on pedestals, and an inscription that I can’t read but guess is something about their bravery:

With still 15 miles to go, and a chill in the air, we squish sore bottoms onto our saddles and fly down the hill towards our Hotel Locanda dell’Oca Bianca in Como. I’m a bit broken, but I still have reserves. Speeding up for the last couple of miles and taking the steep hotel ramp as a sprint. How long does anyone go before they really can’t cycle any more?

We arrive at 9:30pm, and a bowl of cheesy risotto certainly hits the spot at dinner. Others are still to make it back and it’s getting dark. Tony and Kerry stagger in at 11:30pm. They look a bit cooked, but at least we saved them some supper.

Brandon ‘The Machine’ described it as “The hardest ride I’ve ever done“. Kerry was moire succinct with “F**King hard and f**king long”. Ju ‘Beast on a Bike’ nicely summarised:

“Not for the feint hearted, maybe best not to know what you’re letting yourself in for, but when your new Garmin tells you you’re on climb 1 of 14 it’s hard not to feel a little dread, especially when most of over 10 miles of climb 2 is between 9-13% gradient! However crack on we must and gradually we began to count the miles down fuelled by Magnums and mistakenly lemon tea! Bellagio was a beautiful if brief pit stop which soon after is the piece de resistance a near 6 mile climb designed to finish you off, I cried a little at this point and wished to be home. However the descent eventually arrived but at the point I could no longer see I stopped at McDonald’s and had a life saving coke! Then not far to go but finished well and truly on an empty tank, bravissimo!

Tomorrow is a gentle pootle into Milan for authentic Italian pizza, then bike fettling at the next hotel.

Our group assembles, post-Manchester airport’s currently infamous security checks, in Grainstore for breakfast. Old friends and new acquaintances, over breakfast we roll through the usual cyclist quips of failed weight loss and thwarted training plans. But later, as we move to the gate, the sleek toned calf muscles give it away: everyone has been training hard for this trip.

Today’s ride, a routine ~60 miler, starts from the hot tarmac carpark at Milan airport. The bikes are stacked next to the support van, and just need unpacking and reassembling. After a few minutes, a growing sea of bubble wrap gentle laps around our ankles. It is silent, I think there’s an urgency not to be last (and possibly a slight race to be first to assemble). Laps of the carpark follow as bike set-ups are tested, saddles adjusted, and tyres inflated. The circling swarm of riders builds, then we are off!

It is becoming a tradition, and this trip is no exception: No-one knows how to get out of the airport. In tribute to Top Gun’s Maverick, we buzz past Terminal 1 a couple of times before a shambolic ~2 miles of Strava airport spaghetti.

Once out on the road, it’s a happy, happy start to the ride. Pandemic postponed, I’m sure I’m not the only one who can’t quite believe we’ve actually made it. The airport roads and roundabouts end as we turn off onto a gravel track alongside a canal. Kids are playing in the water, the sun is shining, and the air stuffed with the heavy scent of jasmine. Everything is Great.

Twenty miles later, we’re still on the gravel, and possibly less enthusiastic…The terrain is hard work, and our Garmin GPS devices are in conflict on the route. Strained diplomacy leads to the decision to break at a café for coke and ice creams.

Good humour restored, we continue, building speed as Julian, John and Brandon start up the ‘Jujobra train’ – basically they ride hard and fast. As it is more efficient to ‘hold a wheel’, I try to hang on as long as I can. With 17 miles to go, I’m spat out the back, but at least now able to restore my heart rate to an aerobic level. I join up with Steve T. and we take turns pulling along the dulling A road to Bergamo. The hotel, and spectacular mountain scenery are a welcome sight, but it’s 7:30pm and I am shattered. This was supposed to be a gentle breeze before tomorrow’s attempt at the biggest ride of my life so far, 218 km to Como. Daunted, but smiling.

We’re raising money for Bolton Lads & Girls Club (BLGC) a provider of targeted Youth Support services. As always, we pay for everything ourselves so you know that every penny you donate goes directly to BLGC.  Our Just giving page is here: https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/blgcitalianclassics 

You support makes me smile more up the hills. Thank You 🙂

We’re raising money for Bolton Lads & Girls Club (BLGC) a provider of targeted Youth Support services which has been providing this service now since 1889 across x4 facilities in the area, and whilst it may appear from the outside to be “just a Youth Club”, it really is so much more. No one foresaw COVID or the desperately sad war with Ukraine and could have known the adverse effects these happenings would have on all walks of society, impacts on our finances yes, but impact on our mental health, and especially amongst young people.  Through this time, BLGC adapted to the conditions and whilst the club doors remained closed, the on-line offering continued. We cyclists are together taking on this challenge to raise money to support this wonderful and effective charity, ok and have a bit of fun…and Italian patisserie!

we are embarking on a Challenge ride to Italy where we will take on x2 of cycling classic monuments (Il Lombadia and Milan San Remo) as well as some of the biggest mountains in the area (Col de Bonnet) and for 8 days put ourselves in “the hurt locker” in the hope that it will encourage you to support the ride, by supporting the club .  As always, we pay for everything ourselves so you know that every penny you donate goes directly to BLGC.  Our Just giving page is here – https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/blgcitalianclassics