STELVIO

Like a monster growling from the subconscious - Stelvio carries subliminal fears. A steep unrelenting slab of stone that has crushed the hopes of many in the Giro d'Italia. It has a hallowed place in cycling as the highest point in the Giro - the Cima Coppi. 2870 metres above sea level it is the highest moutain pass in the eastern Alps.

We rode it today. But seemingly that was not enough for us. We found another road that took us deep into German speaking Italy, and then spit us onto a bastard road to the Umbrail Pass.

The day started well, we had breakfast, we kitted up early, we clicked in late enough to avoid second breakfast. I managed to make a couple of cheese and jam bread rolls as brekky and munched them as we rolled through the old town. We even recognised our server from last night's pasta meal, who had miraculously transformed into a butterfly in white and yellow. She was remarkable as she served us last night but in the morning I nearly fell off my bike, firstly that I recognised her, and second so did everybody else. Sadly the video footage was sequestered by the Carabinieri and I no longer posess the intellectual property.

The start of the climb for the Stelvio starts with a feather bed of 1 percent gradient with cheering crowds saluting the departing gladatori; bullshit we head out of the small town with a chorus of diesel and car horns and 6 percent uphill. Make a right turn and we are heading north and up, up, UP.

It is why we are here.

I am definitely riding within myself, I know we are going long and climbing. More climbing than I have ever done before. Its warm, even though I had a freezing night, as I said before. I am fueled, I am carrying extra fuel, I am here in northern Italy and the weather is amazing.

Heading up. Manic

Kransky. Pensive

The Italians have no word for bravura

Stelvio is magic. I sight the succession of hairpins and I get an immediate physical reaction and the hairs on my neck stand up , and I get goosebumps.  I am really here and I am doing this. How lucky am I?

Climbing and pedalling and hairpins count down from I think 34 from the Bormio side and I make the point to say "G'day How are ya?" to people that I pass and those that pass me - in a broad bogan accent.  Later as I get passed I say a soft ' Ciao' - the mountain demands respect.

So many motorbikes ridden by fat tubs of lard. Cars driven by tv watchers - the landscape appears in the windscreen, they turn a power steering wheel, change the temperature, press a button. I have zero respect for them or their cars.

To experience a mountain you have to ride it on a bike, the weather, the sounds (when not drowned out by desmo ducatisti) of eagles hunting, their prey chirping, and the leaves of the alpine plants striving for the sun in the very short summer, waving in the wind. Above this is my the sound of my locmotive breath, the whirr of the newly lubed chain as it rolls from 34 to 26 or 34 to 29. I stand I sit down in concert with the beautiful bike in a beautiful landscape. I am not a cycling god when going uphill, but I sure beat someone sitting on a couch pressing buttons on a remote control. These thoughts run through your head, and a million others, politics, twitter, FB, web and work email pop up and get rejected. It is more important to pick a line through the tunnels, avoid potholes, play nicely with cars and motos, avoid the gutters, where are your mates? Am I hungry yet? have a drink before you are thirsty, legs are good, avoid the achilles problem, think about family. Think about family a lot. Pedal.

Climb. Pedal. Convserve energy. Think. Pedal.

The landscape is enormous. It is a young landscape, recently thrust up by tectonic movements, mountains trap winds and clouds and rains and rain wear them down over short time frames. Snow, ice, melt, grinds and transports minerals onto the plains formed by deposition. All magnificent stuff to witness glacial valleys in action.

Kransky. Turn 21 heading to turn 20.

Today is an epic ride for us from flat WA. Our biggest Perth climb is 350 metres. Today we will come close to 9 times that.

Somehow we all make the ascent and arrive the opportunistic village at the Passo. Hot tea, cafe americano, and Kransky and I avail ourselves of the optional bratwurst sanger, mustard, ketchup, mayo, sauerkraut. Fuel.

This is our descent, and commitment to another 1500m of climbing.
We are committed, fueled and layered up for the ride.

Oh it is beautiful

We descend. Dodging fat bikers, fatter camping cars, 1980 merc convertible drivers, turn pedal brake repeat. Find the trees. This is the more beautiful side. 48 turns.

But each metre downhill has to be repaid.

Easy. We land in a place where very intelligent people ask "What country are we in?" and get the answer "Prad". A remnant of the Versailles Treaty, a huge chunk of land bought with the blood of Austro-Hungarian and Italian conscripts. Prad is german-speaking Italy, as averse to Italian-speaking Lugano in Schweiz.

As we descend we view the Dreisprachenspitz - the peak where three languages meet. I am sure I have been to similar spots in Western Australia, and there they are probably more complicated.

Meanwhile a fat arsed moto does this.

I am doing about 60kmh

We all need a banana split, which in german is pronounced as "banana split"

It's gorgeous, no photo, got censored by the Carabinieri in a country the intelligent people do not know we are in.

We ride on gravel, we view the waste recycling system of Sud-Tirol Italians, right next door to their water supply, the sewerage treatment plantand recreation zones. We start verrrrry gently riding uphill, then seriously, then we cross the Schweiz border and make Santa Maria and turn left.

Its horrible.

Want hurt? Turn left!

Climb at 11% into trees which is nice but we are all tired by the climbing we have done and the heat. My survival switch got turned on hours ago.

I prefer the left hand hairpins to the right hand hairpins. Probably something to do with coriolis. We climb at our own rate, in our worlds, surviving as we can, without going too deep. I have a few CBF moments and fantasise about spitting the dummy and throwing the bike away and getting a cab home and buying a bigger motorbike to transport my beergut around. Pedal.

We go above the tree line again, its colder, but I am still dripping sweat onto the bike drink and pedal and climb. I play with the garmin, I have reached the stage where I need distraction from where I am, how far to the turn? how far to the house? how many metres left of climbing? We are in a cage of our own making, a prison of our own desires and distractions are vital. Pedal over pedal and stand and sit and pedal. Everytime I look up the hill looms on both sides and suddenly they do not. It is only a mile to the turn.

SuperModel is there sitting in the wind next to the sign of the bastard passo we have ridden.

KK is up(down) ahead. OGF and BB are behind. Buble Boy foreshadowed todays ride with a concern regarding his alimentary tract. He has smashed Stelvio again and has ridden through the day and up the Umbrail Pass chasing OGF and makes it to the top again. He weeps. He gives voice to the depths he has driven himself to make it here. We are a gruppo, a squadro, a team. We have a couple of team mates who are not with us. Despite our own pain, we think of our mates. And families.

We layer up and roll down the hill. And down through the roads we passed hours before to a prearranged meet at Olivers Bar. The descent is quick but we are cautious of our own fatigue. Aperol Spritz's all round. Then a beer.

Then the trout farm.