Driving through the Dolomites is far less challenging then pedaling them, but not nearly as rewarding.
Tire pressures are checked in the early morning hours.
The steeds.
The Maratona corral is a packed full of nervous energy.
Bikes and views abound at the Maratona.
The winding roads of the Dolomites are attacked by 9,000 riders every year at the Maratona.
Pizza and beer are a just reward for a day spent in the saddle.
It is almost impossible to capture Italy with a camera, no matter how hard you try.
I’m on my bike for the third day in the Dolomites. I’m doing a short ride up over and back on the Passo Campolongo. And by short I mean the minute I leave the hotel parking lot I start going up and don’t stop until I reach the top, 5.8 kilometers later.
Most consider the Campolongo to be a “less-than” Dolomite climb, but today it is just the right amount of difficult, without being discouraging. It is the perfect bit of switchback goodness to inspirational vista, so as to make you fully aware of what the Dolomites have to offer without completely scaring you shitless.
The other little bit of news I have rolling around in the back of my head is I’ll be riding the Maratona tomorrow.
The Maratona is to the Dolomites what the Apple Cider Century is to Southwestern Michigan. It is a ride for which, if you are anywhere near Northern Italy in July, or you have the wherewithall to get there, you have to attend.
It is thousands of riders, 9000 actually, spending the day shoulder-to-shoulder, wheel-to-wheel and pedalstroke-to-pedalstroke riding some of the most amazing roads in all the world.
And this is just the start of my extended stay in Italy.
I’ll try to tell you about spending almost a month riding in Italy without sounding like a douchebag, but I also have to tell it like it is. There’s no downplaying it, riding in Italy is amazing. I mean, just from a bike history standpoint, being in Italy is mindboggling.
This is the coutnry that brought us Marco “el pirata” Pantani and the Pinarello, Gianni Bugno and ball bearings, Gino Bartoli and the glass mirror, Fausto Coppi and even the first casino.
Italy is a land frozen in time.
Ok, not exactly frozen in time. They have embraced technology and some modern habits, but from the saddle you get the impression a good portion of the country is as it was ages ago. A time when things were built to last, neighbors talked to each other and the roads were built without consideration for large American automobiles.
Italians drink their Caffe in Cafes. They like their water frizzante and their maps made of paper instead of computerized.
The roads either going up or they are going down. The cars are tiny, the roads well-maintained and absolutely no one honks.
The Italians believe breakfast is coffee and a pastry, lunch is some kind of weird crustless, dry jabon sandwich and dinner is an affair to be savored in multiple course over an extended period of time.
They drink aperol spritzes on the square. Somehow the pizza melts in your mouth.
No one walks around with coffee or food, fountains deliver fresh spring water on almost every square, and the locals do their damndest to understand my horrible Italian.
The cyclist shout “Ciao” as they pass by, plenty of them riding vintage steel steeds and every road seems to lead to another amazing town, village, or cluster of building held in time.
There appear to be no strip malls, 7-11 stores, or Chuck E. Cheeses, only mom and pop all-in-one stores of convenience.
The train will take you anywhere, with surprising convenience and low-ish cost.
I’ve settled into a plodding climbing cadence on the Passo Sella, having gone up and over the Pordoi and heading for the Gardena and I can’t help but think about the fact that I will have only scratched the surface of Italy on my visit.
I will ride in the Dolomites and Chianti and even in Turin, but Italy is expansive and the riding is breathtaking.
I don’t mean to be gluttonous, but I will need more.
