137.75 km, 3,188 m.
We depart the glossy mahogany sledge beds of the capaciously-proportioned Park Hotel.
We’re still feeling fresh and chipper, but also stuffed with foreboding. Today is Zoncalon Day. Described as cycling’s sacred mountain, and often a stage in the Giro D’Italia. The pro cyclist Gilberto Simoni summarised thus: “It’s like a slow execution; the easiest part of the Zoncolan is harder than the most difficult at the Tour”. It’s a behemoth 1,182m of climbing, over 9km from Ovaro to Sutrio, with an average gradient of 11.9%. But before then, we have the Sella Ciampigotto (1,790m), a long (16.5km) but relatively gentle ~ 6.4% climb.
From the hotel, we cruise into the ancient city of Belluno and back over the river Piave. Heading NE, we climb gently, criss-crossing the river, as we pass through a series of beautifully named villages including the siblings Ospital-, Perragolo-, Piever-, Calazo-, Domegge-, Lazzo- and finally Laggio-di Cadore (I can’t find a translation for Cadore, but it’s clearly an important thing around here). At one point, the road is barricaded for competitive-looking youth MTB races. We weave through the warming-up contestants and wandering spectators. The support vehicles take a detour (I think?). The climb is pleasant, the vegetation changing markedly as we ascend the lush valley, hitting a few switchbacks to a rocky summit with alpine meadows. Just beyond the summit of the Selle Ciamignotto, I join the Steves at a mountain hut for Coca Colas, and hopefully inquire on a tiramisu. It’s a long shot, and they seem accommodating, but I have to make do with a slice of a cherry, almond and clove cake. It’s a bit dry – needed custard.
Others arrive and after a while we head collectively head off…just 2km along, to the lunch stop we’d kinda forgotten about. It’s a large refugio and we all pile in; inside, the fire is lit! (the locals think it’s chilly, but we’re from Yorkshire). A super-organised cook delivers bowls of pasta, more cola is drunk, then we head off back down the valley. After a few turns, I take the lead, it is butterscotch-sweet. The Pirelli tyres bite into the tarmac curves like liquorice laces. Pushing the weight through the outside pedal, I lean into each of the turns, grinning like an idiot. As the gradient eases, John pulls past, and I hop on the Myburgh Motor to the foot of the Zoncalon.
My Garmin grades steepness in colours: yellow, orange, red…and black. For the next 1000m of ascent, it is black. For any masochists/sadists, thinking of donating to our charity (Just Giving page.), this was The Most Brutal Climb I have Ever Done in My Life. (actually feeling a little sick just thinking about it now). The only way I can get up this giant is by weaving across the road. It allows me to 1. Stay upright. 2. Keep my cadence ‘up’ (50rpm!!!) and 3. My heart rate below 140bpm (I’m trying to take things easy with an eye on actually lasting the full 8 days of riding…).
In the world of cycling, weaving across the road up a climb (to reduce the effects of the gradient) is considered pretty bad form, kinda level with serving a ready meal to guests under the guise it’s your own cooking. That is how low I have gone. Whenever a car comes past, I have to ‘go straight’, and nearly come off a couple of times. At one point, Martin, our lovely support driver kindly pulls alongside to gently inquire if I’m ok. I’m out of puff, and perhaps becoming a little overly focused. Like a drama queen, I breathlessly yell at him to ‘GO, GO, GO! It’s not how I meant it to come out, and Martin speeds off up the hill like a scolded cat. For the rest of the climb (hours), I am filled with remorse. Martin I’m so sorry!
The climb is relentless, my fingers sneak to the levers even though my brain knows we’re out of gears. With so little momentum, any pinecones or small rocks could derail me and I focus like a premiership football goalie (this better be my families favorutite team Spurs’s Guglielmo Vicario), with very little else in my mind. To add to the experience (which I have paid for…), I am so nearly static, that I can’t even outpace the flies; they feast on my arms like freebie sweaty donner kebabs (shudder).
Zoncalon: Bonk-alon (in cycling, this means to run out of energy), Zonk-alon (to hit heavily), Honk-alon (as in “sweaty/not smelling great”), Konk-out-alon (to break down). Send your answer-alon’s on a postcard).
The weather closes in, thunder rumbles across the valley, a storm is on its way. A polystyrene-based helmet, and carbon fibre bike should be ok, but, like a sweaty donner kebab, I’m drenched in enough electrolytes to recreate a Frankenstein’s monster awakening. Nearer the top, relative respite is found in three straight, dank tunnels, then finally, the top is bagged, without an electrocution. A fleeting, dull photo to record the joy as sharp, heavy raindrops slap into my face. I tackle the decent like a Weasley (gingerly), taking the hairpins as though balancing a panna cotta on my top tube. Safely down, but a disappointing waste of a glorious decent.
The hotel Alla Font in Arta Terme (terme: “finished”, and I am so terme…) is comfortingly close to the bottom of the climb, and Iggy waves me into the shelter of the hotel garage. I will never repeat the Zoncalon.
