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.
Another brilliant tome 🤣👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻