Falling Leaves
The Tour de France you have heard of, and maybe you are aware of the Tour Down Under, but do you know of the ‘Classics’? The TdF is a grand tour, one of three, meaning the race is over three weeks. The Tour Down Under, a one week tour. The ‘Classics’ are one day races. Easier you say. Not so. They suit a very different rider than the tours or the grand tours. To win a classic a rider will generally be more of an all rounder, capable of climbing, sprinting or making a break and riding solo for 30km or more.
Generally a classic is much longer than a stage of a tour. Of all the classics that are held each year throughout the world there are five that are known as the ‘monuments’: these have established such a reputation for fierceness that they have become the most desirable to win. Most riders, given the choice between an Olympic medal or a monument, would choose a monument.
The Giro di Lombardy, now known as the Il Lombardia, is, I believe, the second oldest bike race after the Tour de France. It used to be held at the end of October but was recently moved to the start of October: either way it is also known as the ‘race of the falling leaves’ with it being the only monument held in Autumn. After talking to one of the many Poms we bumped into on the day, I think it could also be known as the race of the falling rain: one bloke has been coming to watch it for 5yrs and it has rained every year.
The light drizzle that has continued since arriving back in Italy is considered pleasant weather compared to the fierce thunderstorms that hit the riders in the last hour of the race last year.
Up early, car packed and leaving Chamonix before there is light in the sky – no chance of seeing the top of Mont Blanc today. We will traverse 3 countries starting in France, crossing Switzerland and into Italy. I am a little nervous as to whether we will get there before they close the roads. The spot where I want to watch the race has only one road between the villages, which is the route the race will take. So once the road is closed I will be shut out.
I want to watch the riders on a climb and select the third last climb: the Colma di Sormano. This climb is 1.9km long, and has a section known as ‘the wall’ where the road literally rears up in front of the riders.
After a long drive through poor weather we pull into Sormano, and first things first I run into a café and confirm we are in the right place: no English from him and no Italian from me but we get there. He points to the road, makes a pedaling motion, I say Sormano and he lifts his hand and says ‘wall’ and then points up the hill. Yep, I’m in the right spot.
Now, get this. The website for this race has all the major climbs listed, about 5 or 6. But to get to the town of Sormano you drive up a hill that is several km’s long, hairpins all the way, and the town of Sormano is on a hill, and none of this is mentioned in the route information. So the race profile shows this hill only as 1.9km long, completely ignoring the 5-10km of hill to get to the start of the 1.9km section. Why is that, well, it was only about 5% - considered flat in this part of the world
As we wander through town, several hours before the race is due through, there are already people settling in to their chosen vantage point, and we see a couple of young blokes on the side of the road sinking a few drinks. I start asking them questions about when the road will close (about 1hr before), how soon after the race will it re-open (1hr after), where the nearest restaurant is (a few mins up the hill) and how far to ‘the wall’ (he points up the hill). The boys are standing behind a wall next to the road, when I walk around to get closer to talk to them I see it, and they laugh: at their feet a flask of several litres (a gallon I reckon) of red wine. The mugs they are drinking from will obviously be refilled many times. I mention that I’m from Australia, they laugh, pat me on the back and say ‘don’t trust us, we are just donkeys’.
Later when talking to a Pom who is also here to watch the race, and has been here many times I am given information that is a bit different. The road will close, at best, 5mins before the race, ‘this is Italy’, and will reopen immediately after the last rider passes – that is near the back of the bunch – not the actual last rider. AND, when I tell him that I was not planning to go over to the Ghisallo to watch the next climb he is incredulous ‘you must go – it is the Ghisallo’. The done thing is to watch the Sormano and then hurry over and watch the Ghisallo.
I understand his passion. There is a church at the Ghisallo, named for the patron saint of cycling. It is a shrine. It contains the largest collection of Giro leader jerseys and numerous other memorabilia. It was one of the first places Cadel visited after winning the Tour – and he donated one of his yellow jerseys. We will go to the Ghisallo. But this means we may not watch at the wall, but from lower down on the climb.
We take the risk of finding another parking spot and drive through town and further up the hill. Just after leaving town we hit the congestion of cars and bikes, so we drive back into town and along with everyone else, we walk up the hill. We are confused, the road goes right, and a little lane goes left into the woods. So we have to ask – yes, the race takes the little lane.
The road drops into the woods and then after about 100m the road kicks up. There is a timing mat on the road. This is the start of the climb. There are numbers written on the road every few metres: 857, 858, 859 …. I learn they indicate the altitude, each line & number another metre of altitude gained. Where we are standing every 3-4 metres the road goes up a metre in height, and this is not the steep bit, the wall. We are out of breath just walking slowly up this hill. There was a scattering of people in the town because this is where the crowd is. We stop at the first bend where the road kicks up even steeper to the left. We will be able to watch them up come up the first ramp and take the bend. The road is barely a car width wide.
There is some writing on the road so I walk up to check it out, and there are the boys. They are well lubricated by now and instead of polite packs on the back it is bear hugs all round.
Back at the corner we talk with some other Poms, like many others they are riding part of the route today and immediately after the race passes they will rush across to the Ghisallo: they have to ride 10km while the race has to cover 40km – and they hope to get there in time.
Finally the commissars and team cars start coming through, the police motor bikes and then below us the cheering and clapping start indicating the riders are within sight. I’m not much of a fan of the Aussie chant, but we had discussed that if we recognized an Aussie rider we would give the chant. For some reason, standing in the drizzling rain amongst Italians and a smattering of Poms it seems oddly appropriate.
As ever, Michael Rogers is leading the pack. The road is so steep it almost seems cruel to send a race up it. As the pack gets closer I recognize a few riders and then bellow out “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie” and the girls reply with “Oi, Oi, Oi”. Michael Rogers looks across at us in utter surprise and confusion as we continue the chant while he grinds past us and through the corner. Five hours of driving, an expensive lunch, standing in the rain, to watch the pack for only a few seconds. Everyone talks about it but you still need to witness it – just how fast they can ride up a hill. Following are a few riders, their faces etched in pain: and they are yet to hit the wall. Last year only 27 riders finished this race from a starting number of just under 200 of the best cyclists in the world. Our estimate is no more than 30-40 in the main bunch before the stragglers.
Each rider is cheered and clapped simply out of respect. As soon as what we think is the last rider has passed, the crowd as one starts walking down the hill, for many of us it is to start the dash across to the Ghisallo.
We make it. Umbrellas everywhere force us to climb a small wall on the side of the road to guarantee a view of the riders. After a short wait the convoy of cars and motor bikes herald the arrival of the race. We had heard from people with smart phones getting updates that Voeckler had a gap of about 2min on the bunch and he rides up through the cheering crowd with a grin on his face. I tell the girls he’s got no chance.
Then the bunch arrives, with yet again, Michael Rogers leading it up. And again we do the chant. But this hill is not as steep so they are travelling much quicker and they are gone before we have really warmed up. And that’s it. The race has passed. Everyone fills in the road as we walk to the church on the crest. But then the Police start going crazy and we realize there is another rider coming through.
After a short break to check out the church we are walking back along the road, the crowd mostly gone, when another rider crests the hill. There is blood on his legs and his knicks are ripped. Obviously a victim of one of the many crashes that occur during a rain affected race.
Rather than go straight to the hotel we want to go via Como as this is the first town in Italy the girls came to on their trip years ago with Pam’s parents. And to get there we can drive along the lake by going back to Sormano and then following the route the race took: turning left at the lake to Como rather than right to Lecco as the riders did.
We go up past Sormano and get to the fork: left onto the narrow lane or right to stay on the road: without too much thought I go left. Oh man! This is steep, and when I take the first corner where we were standing I am seriously worried I will not make it up in the car but instead start sliding off the road into the muddy verge and into the forest. This is what they rode and I am struggling to maintain momentum, feathering the clutch through the corners to prevent the car from stalling.
The Pom in the restaurant had warned me about the descent off La Colma, saying that many of the pro’s had crashed here even in the dry. It is not hard to see why. From about 1,100m we drop down a continual series of tight blind hairpins all the way to the lake, the road at times seemingly sitting on top of itself.
The day ends when we drive into Como, miraculously right at the hotel where the girls stayed a few years ago with their grandparents: and so we take dinner at the same café they had breakfast each day.
