Gran Fondo Campagnolo 2007

The name had everything I was looking for.  Duncan Thomson and I first saw it on a website during a miserable November evening and immediately we pictured espressos, big hills, blue skies, and classic cycling heritage.  We were looking for a big continental ride and we soon found out that there is not much bigger than the GFC.  Arguments about the relative difficulties of the Etape, Marmotte or GFC are academic.  They are all monster rides and with around 210km of road and 4500m of climbing the GFC is the equal of any European sportive.

Further research confirmed relaxed registration rules and a few days later...  oops... they had our credit card details and we were in as the Johnstone Wheelers CC team.  Five other friends from Glasgow and Edinburgh jumped aboard. 

This was the first cycling event we had properly trained for and provided a good focus through winter and spring.  We did the Club reliability rides and met for long spring trips to Fintry and the Leadhills.  These were added a certain bite when we realised that our biggest local hills are about one sixth the size of the monster 1700m, 40km Manghen Pass which is the centrepiece of the Gran Fondo.  Even the famed Bealach na Ba is only the equivalent of the top 8k or so of the Manghen.  We did the wee Bealach event in a morning in May but needed much more bike time.  How were we going to cope?  It simply seemed impossible to cycle enough miles and height to get us in shape.

Flights were mildly problematic.  Venice and Treviso are very close to the start but there were no direct flights from Scotland so we flew Edinburgh to Milan Bergamo with Jet2.com.  No I hadn't heard of them either but they had the right route and timetable for us.  Pre-booking the bikes proved impossible and check-in staff predictably blanched at the arrival of seven cyclists with seven huge bike boxes.  They didn't have room.. they would have to ask the pilot...  A massive charm offensive and credit cards worked their magic.  For a price greater than the passenger fare, our bikes were on board.

Milan-Bergamo to Feltre took four hours.  Somehow the Italian autostrada seemed more romantic and exciting than the M8.  The hotel laid on beer and sandwiches despite our 1 am arrival; this would not happen in Scotland.  The next day we visited the town centre to register.  A kids' Gran Fondo was run the day prior to our event.  Three-to-fifteen year olds were accompanied by their parents on a 20k ride in front of a huge crowd.  The bunch was lead out by an Lamborghini police car, Azzura of course, Crockett and Tubbs in designer shades, with lady motorcycle outriders.  All this and espressos, pizzas and Gazzetta dello Sport.  We were in continental cycle heaven.
 
We had a lovely big locked courtyard in which to put the bikes back together again. Grant and Graham rebuild a bike.

The bikes had all survived the trip intact and, the day before the event, we rode up a few kilometres of the last big climb, the Croce d'Aune.  (No I still can't pronounce it.)
 
The steepness of the hill is obvious in this photo. Visible riders are, l-r, Duncan Thomson, Martin Booth and Neil Clyde.
 
It was very hot and very steep and very sobering - the next time we would see this road would be after 200k of riding and over 4000m of ascent...
 
Twenty minutes later we turned onto a 10-15% section that seemed to climb to the sky.  No-one said anything but we turned back by mutual consent.

 
Duncan soaks up Italian culture.The Gazzetta is an Italian institution. As an early sponsor of Italy's biggest bike race the pink of the paper is seen in the maglia rosa of the Giro leader. We bought this copy from the group kitty. Of course none of us speak Italian but, after a pizza, an espresso and a few beers it was unputdownable. How could we not have our photo taken reading it?

 
With five doctors in the group we had armed ourselves with official-looking medical reports testifying to our extraordinary levels of fitness and health.  These were written as a bit of a joke.  Duncan and I had entered as Club members and, because this sometimes requires a medical certificate in Italy, we were not asked for any further proof of fitness, but others had their reports scrutinised by registration staff, some of whom even called over colleagues to check an English word or two. 
 
The organisation was excellent. I think these were all Campy employees having a big day out.
 

 
 
 
Scottish polis=Ford Focus, Italian polis=Lambo - to lead out a childrens' bike race!  Can you imagine the fight to go on traffic duty that morning?  Even the immensely cool, beautifully-dressed traffic cops were looking just a teeny bit smug in their leather racing seats. The roads were kept clear for the first few hours but eventually we had to cycle amongst traffic. This caused problems only on the unlit tunnels of the Rolle which were scary, but made worse because I forgot to remove my sunglasses.

The goodie bag had the ride jersey which I soon joined to a rather natty matching pair of bib shorts reckoning that it might be a rarity on the Georgetown Road.  We wandered through the large exhibitors hall but, for once, I was uninterested in the shiny bike porn.  I realised later that a) I was nervous and b) if I didn't have the right kit by then there was no point in getting more.
 
Directeur sportif (AM) and driver (DT). We had two estate cars and a people carrier for seven guys and bike boxes.

 
 
We arrived at the start early the next morning.  No-one had quite managed pasta but the hotel had laid on a vast breakfast befitting people about to burn 8-9000 calories.  The air was cool and the sky was clear, promising a beautiful day.  Several thousand starters were corralled along the main street and, as the numbers grew, we soaked in the atmosphere.  Smiling cyclists on beautiful bikes were everywhere, music pumped from the PA system and TV helicopters hovered overhead.  The commentator chanted and the crowd roared back.  What did he say?  I don't know but I loved it.  We had planned and trained for this for eight months.
 
Martin Booth checks his tyre pressures for the umpteenth time on the morning of the race. Neil looks on. The town was full but we found an excellent hotel just a 15-minute drive from the start.

The noise of five thousand people clipping in is an unmistakable sound.  We were off, and no-one wanted to be last.  The first two kilometres along cobbled streets was very bumpy.  Shaken-off water bottles, pumps and saddlebags littered the street.  The massive bunch steamed onto the closed motorway.  With faces wreathed in smiles and in matching saltire jerseys (nice one, Foska) we kept up a steady 35 kph as bigger, fitter Italian Clubs chain-ganged past us at warp speed.  We drafted them when possible and were sucked along for the first hour.
 

The route left the river valley onto the first climb to Castello Testino.  The pace dropped and we had our first taste of Dolomite climbing.  I realised that real European climbing is characterised by a complete disbelief that the road you are on actually connects with the one on the skyline.  This climb is 700m and took us onto a beautiful Dolomitic plateau with gentle rolling countryside but we quickly dropped again almost to the main river valley.

 
Grant Urquhart would be smiling less if his grasp of basic Italian and semiotics were as good as his interventional radiology skills.   This is the feed stop half-way up the Manghen and the support vehicles were very close behind at this point. My average speed up the Manghen was 9km/h. I was in bottom gear (34/27) for over an hour. Attempts to speed up were rewarded with warning sweats and breathlessness.

 
Now the Manghen started, the big bogeyman climb we had laughed at and worried about for months.  What was a big Dolomite pass like?  In early kilometres we passed vineyards and fields of sunflowers, then climbed above the farmland into woods.  At the feed stop we were unnerved to find that the broom-wagon had beaten us, we were certainly in the bottom 10% but we felt good and had worked together until then.  After this I clicked into bottom gear (34/27) and everyone had to find their own pace.
 
The pass is a whopper, it is not as well known as the big TDF climbs but is bigger than most.  Passing through the climate zones the trees had almost stopped towards the top.  I turned into the final bowl and was dismayed to see a procession of ant-like figures on the skyline.  For a second I hoped they were on another road, another Gran Fondo, how on earth would I get there?  Of course, the answer was more pedal churning, only a Bealach's worth to go.

 
 
 
Grant Tong on the lower Manghen. We were still passing through very pretty farmland and were moving as a bunch but would soon spread out and find our own pace.

 
 
 
The top was everything I'd hoped for.  A sign, a big welcome from faster teammates and absolute relief.  Ha!  We could climb the Manghen therefore we could do the rest.  We were as good as any other bunch of punters on this ride and the training had worked.
 
This photo from the top of the Manghen looks south down the road we've just climbed. The pass stretches a further 40k beyond my left ear. The roads were still closed to traffic and made the descent much safer. Unfortunately a few motorcyclists had dodged the barriers and were also enjoying car-free roads but drove too fast and dangerously past us.

Duncan Thomson shows his relief by the refuge at the top of the Manghen. We had standard road bikes with a bit of carbon and compact chainsets. We are at 2000m here but didn't feel the altitude and dropped very quickly back to the valley. With the bogey hill over we were going to really enjoy ourselves.  We gorged and fought over Nutella sarnies at the feed stop.  The descent was 15kms of heaven, gravity sucking us back through cool, thin air to the lush valley floor. 

 
 
Me at the top of the Manghen. For me the real challenge of the ride really ended here after a climb completely unlike anything I had done before. The threat of 1700m of ascent and 40k of road had hung over me since the start of the year. Difficult to train for this in Renfrewshire.
We were very comfortable in bib shorts and short-sleeve jerseys and didn't have major heat problems. Jackets were nice after cooling-off at the summits but we would have been fine if we hadn't stopped. This Fondo is notorious for horrible mountain weather but we were spared.

The route turned east and we worked together along the river facing a head wind.  One minute at the front then peel off, take it easy guys, big hills still to come.
 
We attracted others and soon had a little bunch of twenty riders heading on the slow rise along the valley floor to Passo Rolle.
 
Our very own Big Blue train on its way along the valley connecting the end of the Passo Manghen and the start of the Passo Rolle - slower than Lance and Disco but a lot more fun, I bet.

We left the river and, uh oh, up again.  The Rolle was prettier than the Manghen.  Mature pines provided shade and the perfect grassy banks started to attract the occasional resting cyclist.  As we left the tree line we were unnerved by a van which trailed each group of cyclists in turn.  The van came alongside us slowly and the man in the passenger seat gave us a very close, cool, steady look.  Rude bugger.  I glanced back, the seats were full of knackered, dejected cyclists.  Following behind was a lorry full of bikes.  It clicked, they were the guys who would pull our number if they thought we might embarrass the race by dying of heat stroke or exhaustion.  We sat up, smiled and waved cheerily.  Tired?  Us?  No way, pal!  The van pulled away.  The man never smiled, I think he hoped to see us later.

 
 
 
 
Martin Booth on the lower Rolle. The road passed through idyllic pine forests with tempting grassy banks. We were starting to pass a few cyclists resting on the side of the road by this time. We paced ourselves and only needed to stop at the feed stops. The broom wagon was usually lurking behind but occasionally unnerved us by arriving at feed stops in front of us.
 
The Manghen had been the pass of relief but the Rolle was the pass of beauty. We knew we could finish and enjoyed the views at the top. The road passed through Heidi cow pastures and then, in living Technicolor, the mountains of the Dolomites National Park appeared. These spires of rock and ice are an astounding backdrop to the summit of the pass. By car or helicopter they would be a stunning sight, to travel by bike made the view a hundred times sweeter.

 
 
 
Grant Tong waves as the fabulous spires of the Dolomite National Park come into view at the top of the Rolle. Grant Urquhart is on his left. The 2008 ride will avoid the Manghen but will approach the Rolle from the east and should include this view.
The roads were very good with very few potholes. We saw two nasty crashes. One early on, on the flat, probably from touching wheels. In the second, a rider had failed to take a corner at speed.  We heard no more about him so we must hope he survived OK.

 
 
My shoulders are starting to roll on the last couple of k's of the Rolle. The summit lies at the distant buildings and is at the base of a small ski area.
For a while I had worried that the route would have to go over the naked rock spires but I found that after reaching the far buildings it then swoops down to the right below the mountains.
The main hazards at this stage were fat brown cows which seemed to wander onto the road as if straight off the front of a chocolate box.
We resisted the temptation to rest for a few minutes at the side to take in the view. If we had then I doubt we would have restarted.
The broom wagon remained very close.

The scene at the summit of the Rolle. We stopped for a good ten minutes to refuel. Just out of shot is a huge vat of hot, sweet tea. We suspect this was fortified with plonk; it was a fantastic treat and was a welcome addition to our bottles which now had a mixture of about ten different energy drinks from the various feed stations. You can see riders in jackets getting ready for the descent which started just round the corner.

Now came the preparations for the descent of the Passo Rolle which, at 2000m, is only just lower than the Passo Manghen's 2042m.  Arm warmers, check.  Jacket, check.  Bottle topped up, check.  Chocks away... and onto the longest descent of my life - 45k of downhill anyone?  The Rolle descent hugs a river and uses several tunnels.  Earlier I'd seen some riders with small rear LED lights.  "Why bother?" I thought.  I soon found out why they bothered when we screamed (literally) into the first, unlit, tunnel at 55 kph.  The roads had long been opened to traffic now.  Heavy lorries thundered past.  We went from blinding sunlight to almost instant darkness, riding about one bike length from the guy in front.  Couldn't brake because there was another guy one bike length behind.  I aged about ten years but the speed was addictive.
 

 
 
Duncan starting the Rolle descent. I like this shot which shows the road snaking off into the distance. Like many of the riding shots it is a little fuzzy because, like most photos, I took it one-handed while pedalling. This was almost safe on slow ascents but tricky on descents and a no-no in a fast bunch ride. The small digital camera was kept in a triathlon top tube box where it was much more convenient than leaving it in the rear pocket.
 

The group split, I pushed our small group of three on, convinced that we had still had at least 50k to go and were in danger of missing the cutoff.  I hadn't realised that my GPS had lost 10k in the tunnels and canyons and we were actually OK for time.  We climbed the Croce d'Aune, the hill on which Tullio Campagnolo invented the quick release.  This was shorter, "only" 600m, but the steepest sections so far.  Photos of us at the top showed real tiredness in our faces but the end was in sight.  Just before Feltre the organisers put in an extra evil little 200m climb, maybe to seal the reputation as the hardest sportive.

 
 
 
 
 
Shot of Martin at the top of the Croce d'Aune with 200k and 4500m under his belt. The strain is starting to show now but, after the Manghen, none us were in any real doubt about finishing. Could we have gone faster? Maybe, but the aim was to finish.

Over five hours after the winners we sped downhill into Feltre.  God bless the carabinieri.  With the blast of a whistle and an outstretched hand the junctions were still kept open for us as we sprinted through the town.  I selfishly drafted my mates and stuffed them in the final sprint but waited at the end to ensure we crossed together.  208k and 4869m of ascent on my bike computer.  We had beers and, Hallelujah! - the Italian cafes could make endless tea as well. 

Gran Fondo finishers. Clockwise from Grant Urquhart with the bottle are Martin Booth, Alan Maclean, Grant Tong, and Duncan Thomson. The finish was kept open for at least 13 hours although the official cut off was 12 hours. Grant was presented with the bottle of fizz by the organisers who made a big fuss of him and he got a podium place while the national anthem was played. We don't know why!  The finish was 300m of steep uphill through the old town and there were still hundreds of spectators there when we finished.

I thought about what we had done, together and alone, to get there.  People with busy lives, all with patient wives and small children.  4000k of riding; February sleet in our faces up the Crow Road, winter overshoes, cold fingers in the Don Smith ride, grim commutes through Govan, sunrise on West Glen Road, beers after the wee Bealach, teasing and swearing and sweating on cold Scottish roads, aching for warm Italian sun.  Just for a bike ride.  What was more fun, the training or the event itself?  I know the answer, and if you've done one of these events you'll know too. 

Timing chips and good organisation ensured that results were posted almost instantaneously. The lead riders can make a living from these events as semi-pros but this is an amateur bike race and these pro wannabees are frowned upon. The regular winner, Raimondas Rumsas, gained some notoriety a few years ago when his wife was stopped with car full of "vitamins". Winners at top left. Us at bottom right.

This monument to Tullio Campagnolo is at the very top of the Croce d'Aune. He punctured on the hill during a race and the idea for the quick release came to him while removing wing nuts with freezing fingers. The quick release was the start of the Campy empire and led, of course, to the Gran Fondo which was first held in 1995.

The small print.
Splendid company from our great friends Martin Booth, Grant Urquhart, Neil Clyde, Grant Tong and Graham Curry.  Due to injury, Graham couldn't cycle the route but performed soigneur duties.  Neil was training for Edinburgh Marathon and declined the Gran Fondo, opting for the shorter Medio Fondo route which was still a whopper by any standards.  We only had a day before the event in Italy and returned the day after.  This was not long enough to really soak in the atmosphere. 
We took eleven and a half hours, the winner took just over six.  We spent over an hour at the feed stops, taking photos and looking after each other.  The aim was to finish and to enjoy the experience.  We all had compact chain sets with 27 or 25 rear sprockets and needed the lowest gears.  Matching Foska tops were nice for spotting each other.  We had arm-warmers and thin jackets or gilets for the high descents.  We took knee-warmers but left them in pockets.  Small saddle-bag with spare inner, pump and mini-tool.  We all started with double bottles and huge quantities of gels but could have taken less because the feed stations were very good.  My best piece of kit was a top tube box (designed for triathlon gels) where I kept a small camera easily available.  The organisation was excellent and the English language website worked Ok.  Route map here.  Photos are mine and Grant Urquhart's.  PM Duncan or me through "The Bunch" if you would like more details.

 
 
 
 
 
The man who started it all, Tullio C, and friend. If you go up the Croce d'Aune you'll find him waiting for you while forever inventing the quick release. We'll probably pay him a visit next year.

Postscript.
This was the last running of the GFC over the Manghen but they are planning a big ride to the east of this route in 2008.  I think that the Gran Fondo will still have to go over the Croce d"Aune because there is a memorial to Tullio Campagnolo at the top of the pass.  We drove up the pass to see his monument the following day.  The road seemed impossibly steep in a car, it was difficult to picture ourselves on the bikes again.  We posed by the statue, relaxed in T-shirts and shorts.  A couple of riders on touring bikes turned up, sweaty and triumphant.  For a moment I was going to speak to them but decided to leave them alone - we wouldn't have had much time for car drivers on our ride. 
 
The next day I was back at work; Dolomitic epics were a dream.