Three thousand hopes and imaginations sit across top tubes waiting. Early start. That quiet pre ride contemplation photocopied on 400%. Facing the reality presented by nature’s grey ceiling. Looking out of this window overlooking the piazza filling with cyclists, across a valley up to mountains through low cloud there is an echo of colour. A rainbow makes a brief veiled appearance promising something other than the given this misty early morning. Freewheels clack into the square in their small groups of twos and threes. Voices are muted, warm greetings and conversations mask a knowing feeling. Hours ago the town celebrated in this space. Gone now the music and food and culture of architecture and history, the spectacle of races past. Replaced in the here and now with front line duty. Race present. This will be a hard day in the clouds for these big numbers.
Here for this, The Sportful Dolomiti Race – 20th Edition, now in daylight, I remember these streets. These ancient buildings and ruins hosted me once before. Thirty one years ago, and now I am here again. Familiar surroundings changed little by time but significantly by memory and experience. Snapped into the present with the jolt of a clutch just ahead of a cheer and a tidal swell of a thousand different colours headed in one direction, we pull away in front to a first vantage point out of town, pigeon Italian and English do their best to bond. Talk of the irrelevant, of cars and food and weather, unimportant, but here, in this car seat crucial to punctuate a day and cosset stranger’s feelings of awkwardness. Do away with any imbalance, worry, resentment, beholden sense. Cars and food and weather do just that. Brilliant cars and food and weather.
Stop, sit on a wall and wait. They come. A forceful conga driving up this hill through these hamlets. The front line taking no prisoners, the momentum continuing for row after row, attack only easing up after minutes of advancement, the first climb stripping out the field toward the back. The tail of the beast straggling out, more ragged with style diverse. We wind back ahead through the ranks, never out of second gear, narrow village road and a broken up wave, clumsy across all flanks, all chances of a rhythm gone. It’s the ride of the individual now, a thousand races going on as far as the eye can see.
Spray plumes off rear tyres that whizz past pointed down. Fast, endless numbers of colours. Groups and loners. Heroes and wish they weren’t here’s. Fast all. Making the most of gravity before physics turns the tables for Passo Manghen back on the agenda once more this year, just over the jagged horizon. Again down turns into up, slows and turns and turns again, into the trees once more. Beautiful lines of evergreens staggered to left and right, like sharpened pencils lining the route each layer forgiving to the height of the next. Every one the same, giving glimpse through it’s lower legs to another row and another row behind that before darkness drops the curtain. Their highest reign tall just below the cloud up above the leaders of this race now on.
Break the cloud line without realising. Suddenly the stunning vistas give way to an atmosphere change, a wall of cold silence abrupt in it’s deployment, the grey mist we have stolen into by chance envelopes sound completely, removing perspective and scale. Unnerves for the upcoming decent but also brings a confidence of quiet and a false feeling of protection through a still atmosphere. Switchback and valley below still very much there, edgily out of consciousness. Safe they collect at a feed station on an inland bend. There is snow up here. Not the picturesque powder at this level, more the piled and dirty, not yet melted stuff nobody wants. The not snow anymore unpopular type of snow, still an indicator of the changing seasons of one day in this race.
Stop to take in the beauty. Stare out across the top of this blanket with it’s pencil tip trees piercing through. Surreal and still, broken periodically by brief sounds of car and bike. Unrecognisable conversation flits passed to be re-sealed round the corner by the soundproofed grey. The odd car growls passed as if suddenly ignited and then immediately silenced. We head down again, catching up with some, never re-visiting others.
Down through village after village of quiet streets with closed bakeries and butchers shops and out of date looking hairdressers, passed onlookers in their chairs, presumably onlooking most days. To the onlookers, this, we, the entertainment today. In contrast to just minutes earlier, we roll along the flat land of a valley between peaks. Behind and in front impressive snow capped monsters, guardians of the wildflowers and streams guiding us east. Summer is almost ready to roll down here. Birds and bees, colours, life. Sun kissed warmth opens in front as arm warmers are clumsily shoved into small pockets all around us. Two seasons in one half hour. For the first time today the black/ orange uniform of the Sportful Dolomiti jersey rides together.
2000m up. Passo Rolle. Drunk jolly cowbells have seemingly endless energy for the simple pleasure of shouting nonsense at strangers on bikes. The road widens as that feeling you’re reaching the top dawns, flattened out turns and snow caps ever closer all around, the ubiquitous car park and viewing area sit opposite the outpost of human comfort zone trinkets. Postcard stands and plastic crap to say you were here, but really to make you feel more normal and safe about standing atop a mountain.
Brutal looking snow peaks opposite and up remain long after the calm pastures return as if to warn people that not everywhere is their kingdom of playtime. Nature has allowed this tarmac and gift shop, but don’t take the piss. Familiar accents roll past, talk of previous years and their sunshine and short sleeves. Foreign voices a rarity today, veteran racers not so. This race is respected and loved locally. Not so wider known? Odd that. Not so much a hidden gem as a quiet contender perhaps.
Sudden realisation that we are approaching Tullio’s memorial. I recognise these bends. Last time up here it was about pulling Kodak Tri-X back to 200 to cope with the sun. I imagine I’ll illustrate this moment with a former memory. How different the Croce d’Aune today. Lean out of the car and into the wind, look back through long glass at faces hours into this battle. Pictures taken. Moments stolen from these cold fingers on bars. Catch glances, eyes stare right through. Wet through. Almost done. Point downward one last time. Ams hurriedly covered, the flap of shells being zipped up on the go. Gabbas on the prepared. All are brave. Overcoming. Long in coming and proud of achievement It’s done at this stage. Down, along, in, stop, drink, eat, piss, medal, embrace, rest. Pride. Wait a year. Repeat.
©Augustus Farmer 2015