Years of watching the professional pelotons wind their way through historic villages, ancient monuments and vistas that leave you with longing, there was always a desire to be a first hand witness to the spectacle of Europe’s Grand Tours. There are three, and though interest in the world of professional cycling can ebb like any personal pursuit, the core of the sport resonates: leveraging bicycles under your own power and at your own pace to see for yourself why the European continent hosts not one of these three-week long tours, but three of them, among copious other races.
Though it is a worthy personal challenge to identify regions of the world that spur your emotions and determine the best way to experience them, one can’t argue that taking your time riding improbable, narrow, winding roads along valleys and over passes past endless aesthetic vistas, through charming towns older than many countries is perhaps the best way to explore the old world.
The tours follow a different path every year, and though there are many frequented roads, part of the charm is seeing what “new” area the organizers cooked up for the participants and the spectators to learn about and to put on the list to visit some day; for those living close to these areas this route selection entices everyone to participate in whatever capacity they choose. The fact that the route chosen for the race is seldom restricted to roads and areas that are off limits to the hoi polloi makes it even more engaging. You and I can ride the same routes that the pros do during the races, even on the same day, just not at the same time because they are fast. Very fast, and they have an armada of satellite vehicles to make sure the cycling is fair, safe and celebrated.
This year, with the 15th stage of the Giro D’Italia featuring three mountain climbs out of the Aosta Valley - a mere hour away by car from a familiar Chamonix Valley - there was no excuse not to experience the race first hand.
The weather was slated to be a cool morning followed by unfettered sun and the heat of an early arrival of summer. We scored the last parking place next to the castle of Aymavilles to stage our ride, and before we knew it, we were following the pink arrows designating the route the professional peloton would be racing a few hours later. Riding up through vineyards and villas, fragrant acacias and rose bushes, snaking up to the summit of Verrogne created a theme that was to play out for the rest of the day: living a dream.
Easily distracted from the climbing challenges by views of Gran Paradiso, grape vines, castles…and the words of encouragement emblazoned on the asphalt
Sure, the morning was warm, but the light breeze picked up, the pace kept purposefully moderate and the steady gain of elevation kept the temperatures reasonable. The company was grand, a plethora of other cyclists with the same idea - riding the route ahead of the pros at whatever pace they preferred - and with the growing crowds of people setting up roadside to partake in the magic, the spirit of the day was festive and light. As we neared our first summit, a pleasant surprise was to be cheered on by the growing crowds of people you’ve never met, will likely never see again, and for no reason besides their giving support. Some cheered, some lended a subtle head nod, and some didn’t even notice because they were too preoccupied with the brunch they packed, the coffee [or prosecco] they were drinking, or the book they were reading.
As you petal uphill - as slow or fast as you wish, the snapshots of lives you see as you pass by were particularly pleasant. The group of men with the portable pressure tank to ensure their espresso was made just how they like it, even though they probably passed at least two cafés on the way to their spot. The dining table set with stemware to enjoy a midday glass of chilled white wine, and the spread of the finest meats and cheeses from throughout the land. The quiet solo man set up in the road side chair reading his novel whilst waiting for the tour to ride by, and perhaps best, the many people taking a siesta in the shade, snoozing away the heat of the day in anticipation of the arriving professionals.
Typical scene: cobbled streets, tap of eau de ville, checking the status of the peloton behind us…or the text messages from your better half. Hidden behind the bicycle: chilled bottles of wine in the chilly effluent.
At the summit of our first climb - the second climb for the peloton - was the village of Verrogne. Its cobbled streets led to its spout of eau de ville, whereupon stopping to refill our bottles, we spotted yet more evidence of the European way: chilling wine in the public water basin awaiting its owners to celebrate the day.
Not on an agenda, nor aiming for any personal bests, exploring the tiny town was compulsory. On this random Sunday, the lovely local Miss Sarah took a break from her weekday academic schedule to be an ambassador for us and hundreds of other visitors; she explained the artifacts of her historic home showing us the town mill and bakery and with her agricultural degree and weekday job put to work cultivating and returning ancient grains to the local hillsides, she and her colleagues were freely dispensing the bread made from those grains. With our water bottles full of the cold eau de ville, it was time for the reward of descent: a wonderfully fast plunge down the adjacent hillside from what we ascended, through farm fields and other small villages, more old timber frame homes with absurdly heavy stone roofs and cows with bells gently ringing on their necks. Hairpin after fast hairpin, nothing was faster on the road than us as we got closer and closer to castles dotting the valley below.
Hunger assuaged by ancient grain local bread from the 19th century village bakery, time for a hairpin-filled, hair raising descent back to the valley.
With traffic limited, the road was ours, shared only with the infrequent locals, and other cyclists partaking in the joy. By the time we hit the bottom of the valley, the bug splatter on our glasses, hair protruding from our helmets, and heat emanating from our brakes, it was clear that was another part of the dream…until it wasn’t. At some point during the descent, the carry-all had fallen from Simon’s bicycle.
“It only had a spare tube, a tire lever, no sweat.” I offered.
“It has my car key in it.” Simon responded.
“Where is your spare key?” I replied, feeling the weight return to the shoulders we left hours before on this journey.
“That’s the only key for my car.”
Being a 90min drive across an international border through a vehicle-only tunnel, no access to our horseless chariot meant the original, fun-filled day of riding in the Aosta hillsides and to be spectators in a Grand Tour just got more involved.
That meant we had to at least attempt a satchel recovery somewhere along the descent’s 12km. The temperature was now uncomfortably warm, the sun merciless, and the thought of repeating the climb on the cooking south face was an unsavory, but necessary evil: we knew the likelihood of finding the pouch was small, but we had the audacity of hope, and started to grind our way back up the 1100m ascent in the broiling Italian sun. 30 minutes in, our good fortune returned: A kind volunteer driving a mini truck offered us a ride in the bed up the hill just below the summit. After racing up the road in the back of the pickup, we disembarked and recommenced our search back up to the ancient grain bread at Verronge. Sarah was taking a break from her ambassador duties to sit in the cool air and warm sun on the town’s hillside, and Simon inquired with the growing crowd and security personnel on the off chance that someone turned in his pouch. No such luck.
After riding the brakes down the same descent scouring both sides of the road for our metal ticket home, we reached the valley bottom, hungry, thirsty, overheated, and laden with the anxiety of how we were going to get back to France from our Italian outing. It being Sunday, all the shops were closed, so there would be no quick can of coca cola or candy bar to bump our blood sugar for the final 22km, 1000m climb.
“The practical thing would be to stay down in the valley and figure out how to get home,” we reasoned.
“But we should finish the ride, do what we came here to do, and figure out the rest of this mess later,” we quickly agreed. “You and I need to see this thing through.”
Onward. And what a treat. Within 15 minutes of additional climbing, the caravan of publicity went streaming by us at haute vitesse. What a site to see large trucks, including a camion bedecked in loud pink livery and loud speakers blaring pop music along an otherwise bucolic and serene mountain road. Even though it was a rural, winding path, these people had a schedule to keep, and ‘reasonable’ speeds were adjusted to meet the occasion. The slowly pedaling cyclists edged to closer to the roadsides as the procession sped by.
“Turn that light on, these tunnels get dark, and some of those publicity trucks are going awfully fast.”
But we had only eaten a granola bar and a bit of bread after four hours of pedaling up and down, up and down through the heat, leaving us lethargic and slower on our last ascent than we were accustomed, and low on water given the elevated temperatures and concomitant sweat rate. We debated stopping to ask the growing number of spectators lining the road for a spot of sugar to hasten our pace but instead pressed on, winding through shaded avalanche tunnels and under the canopy of the towering conifers and larches to reach the village of Vieyes.
The trough and spigot of eau de ville in this cozy hamlet was a gift. As we rehydrated and cooled by this fountain of glacial melt from the Gran Paradiso high above us, a man ambled by and upon witnessing these two disheveled, salt-crusted cyclists, proffered in Italian with a wry grin, “there’s another spigot just up the road, it spouts beer.”
We easily found this second fountain. There were no hints of barley nor hops in its effluent.
Refreshed and rejuvenated from this European staple, onward and upward we climbed, but the caloric deficit from earlier in the day droned on. Another deus ex machina…the continued stream of support vehicles from all the professional teams started to fill the road after the publicity caravan passed the hour before. These vehicles were stocked with all the nutrients an athlete could ask for - they were professionals after all. After slowly passing us, the Israeli Premier Tech van looked at Simon, who shook his empty bottle with a frown, and there was to be no sympathy for these two, and the van continued around the next bend. Sad.
But wait, we pulled around that same corner to find the van had stopped in the middle of the road, their support team had hastily egressed and opened the vehicle to make an ad hoc feed zone, where they enthusiastically handed us bottles of the finest sweet athletic nectar replete with attached gu packets. It was as if Simon and I were riders on their team, and they were there for us, fueling our depleted reserves with electrolytes and bottomless encouragement.
His flavors were fior de latte, and nocciola. The nocciola was better, but taste is subjective
Prior to our spontaneous professional feed support, the topic of conversation focused on what topping we would put on our Italian pizza once all of the tomfoolery had ended successfully. Given the temperatures, Simon facetiously mentioned Hawaiian, toppings that we agreed should never, ever be put on a pizza, even in jest. My response of Nduja prompted the pavlovian reflex of salty, fatty, spicy Italian sausage anyone would order knowing how good that regional delicacy is. Coincidentally, shortly after our professional feed zone was completed, some rather rambunctious college aged ragazzo happened to be hosting a road-side sausage barbecue where every passing cyclist was invited, and attended whether they wanted to or not - how long you stayed depended on how fast you were pedaling. Thankfully they offered a plate of takeout, which Simon grabbed and and shared as we continued upward into the melee. That salty, greasy sausage was amazing, and this day kept getting better with every kilometer that passed.
The final part of the climb bore witness to the spectacle of the finish, and the scene was unforgettable. Cogne is a small town nestled in canyons under the Gran Paradiso, a most fitting name for a stunning part of the Italian Alps. With a history extending back to the 15th century for its surrounding iron ore mines, the stone roofs, narrow cobbled streets and cozy cafes give an aura of ancient charm. So the contrast of its history with the contemporary itinerant technology of multiple 10 meter televisions live-streaming the stage as the riders raced closer, sound stages and precision cameras in anticipation of a photo finish was abrupt. Quite something to look upon said televisions to watch professionals swiftly ascend the roads you just finished sweating your way up a couple hours earlier.
A quick tour through the village and finish further up the road revealed the continued theme: thousands of people gathered to share the excitement of the grand tour of Italy. Leaving a pandemic, a war, a bear market and the rest of their worries behind to celebrate this part of what makes Italy - and all of Europe great. The stunning setting on the edge of a national park, nestled in warm summer air while snow-capped peaks tower above, releasing their turbid glacial melt into the river rushing through a town oozing with midivil allure.
The police cars here may not be reliable or high performance, but they are stylish.
It’s a surreal experience to walk through centre ville rubbing shoulders with the carabinieri, and military volunteers present to keep an aura of order in advance of the professional cyclists charging uphill only a few minutes away. This at the same time as being surrounded by hundreds of other spandex-clad cyclists also taking part in the thrill of the climb before the main event. But mixed in too were the families pushing strollers with toddlers happy to have a pink balloon and an ice cream cone, unbeknownst tourists taking a detour from the surrounding hiking trails to see what the fuss is about, and the sun-loving, bronzed elders dating back to the local iron mines that shuttered in the 70’s, gazing on from their ferrous balconies, their emotions ambivalent, muted, or just waiting for the hullabaloo to depart to bring back the peace and quiet they’ve become accustomed to for the last 50 years.
A quick ride up to the official finish was compulsory, where even greater crowds gathered for a potential glimpse of a close finish, and glory. The substantial - yet entirely itinerant - infrastructure was in place to broadcast the goings on from this corner of Italy, and to feed the hungry press and support groups, to keep the pedestrians out of harms way, and out of the way of the incoming tempest of the peloton, their motorcycle and polizia escorts, their support cars, neutral support vehicles and sag wagons.
The runner up, grinding through centre ville, moments before being assaulted by a misbehaving dog.
We stopped into the local cafe for the coffee we promised ourselves seven hours earlier, and where we learned that coffee must never contain milk after noon. Putting such a white substance in your espresso shot at such an hour could insult the locals, so straight espresso was the order of the day. 22km up a dead end mountain road, there is still a high class espresso machine and beautiful, black haired Italian baristas to pull a delicious shot for you for 1.10€. After seeing the crowds pack into the last km, we descended back to the small village for a more intimate climate with no barricades to keep us from the surging cyclists heading up the hill. We had enough time to stroll about the old village, to first wash down our coffee with a refreshing Czech pilsner fresh off the tap, then two scoops of gelato the Italians are famous for.
Yes, while we leisurely strolled about town, gelato or beer in hand we knew that men were torturing themselves climbing up the very road we pedaled just an hour or two before. They at a pace that was far higher, their comfort far lower, and their objectives of the day far different. It’s easy to lose sight of the fact that a person’s career can be defined, refined, immortalized or crushed in the moments, and on the same roads we were pacing and cycling just a short time prior. The glory of winning a grand tour stage on a mountain top finish is not easily forgotten by anyone - fans, coaches, teammates, rival teams, sponsors, or the press, and so this feeds the spirit of the day. It is a quiet and lurking emanation that many men have planned for years to be the first to fly by you on these cobbled streets on this day in May, to show off their preparation, hard work and talent, whether you were there or not. But you were, and you were about to watch.
The gradually intensifying drone of not one but two helicopters equipped with cameras signaled the arrival of the main event. Motorcycle after motorcycle streamed up the narrow streets to alert both inebriated and sober spectators alike that the business end of the Giro was at hand. And so we all lined up along the edge of the road to watch the days’s victor swiftly charging up the hill, followed by the straggling single riders who couldn’t keep his wheel. Each followed by directors sportif of the respective teams seated casually - or anxiously - in rather expensive station wagons festooned with hundreds of thousands of dollars of bicycles, ready on a moments’ notice to replace failing machinery should the unfortunate circumstance arise.
In nearly every other sport, the professionals are kept a safe distance away from spectators. Cycling is different, and when your friend gently grasps your shoulder because you’re leaning two far out and could hit one of the peloton as they ride by, you understand you can’t safely be any closer, and so the connection to the sport and its practitioners becomes even tighter. There are the unfortunate times where onlookers get too close, or are obnoxious consumers of the race, but those times are far more rare than the experiences of the rest of us, being an arms’ length away from sweating, pulsing professionals in the heat of their passion.
Police, escort, cyclist, car, repeat, until the peloton pushed up through, heralding the end of the racing for the day. And so everyone cast a glimpse around, some in awe of the brevity the comparatively small squadron of professional cyclists provided in proportion to the spectators jubilantly assembled in anticipation of their arrival. And yet, all were fulfilled.
Even Italians like to say “hi” to their mothers when given a sliver of publicity.
But wait, given our chosen location - a few kilometers downhill from the true finish - the stars of the show paid us all an encore. Yes! There was no room at the end of this mountain valley for the team busses, and no hotels to house the cyclists and their staff. All the pros had to turn around just like us and descend the 20km back down into the Valley. Those domestiques and non-leaders jersey holders who wouldn’t be standing proudly on the podium to spray Prosecco over the crowd and be rewarded for their efforts started streaming back down the same road they just climbed, greeting us all to another view, this one far less consequential as they were no longer being tested by the ticking clock.
The woman whose uncontrolled canine nearly assaulted a rider on his ascent was greeted by the same rider, who first reprimanded her for her lack of discipline with her inbred, domesticated wolf, then promptly gave her a hug and insisted on a photo with her. Here were the professional stars of the show, some taking their time to work their way through us bystanders and give their fans a chance to see them up close, some stopping at length to catch up with their friends and embrace their significant others who established their remote fan club road side, while still others briskly zipping through the hoards, alerting us to step aside blowing the whistles firmly gripped in their lips as they hastily chased the comforts of their team buses.
The rest of the peloton cruising to the finish behind the light-footed escape group.
The steady stream of professional cyclists continued, they pulling on jackets for the descent, reminding us all of their paltry body fat protecting them from the descent’s chill, while we mere mortals kept our jersey’s unzipped in the still hot summer air. We’re faster than all the descending cars, and upon looking over our shoulders, there he was, one of the biggest stars of the peloton. And so for a moment we were going for a nice, casual ride with Mr. VanderPoel. His being a cool down after attacking on a 170km grand tour stage, us cruising down after a pedestrian pedal in the hills.
And in the midst of the blistering descent, you stop psychologically for a moment and think about the lens through which these professionals see the present scene. They, like us, are human. They, like us, went for a ride in the picturesque hills of the Aosta Valley on a pleasant May Sunday and they, like us need to get back “home” to eat dinner, check in with friends, reflect on the day, spend time with family and get ready for work in the morning. The difference is their job is to continue cycling, to understand their roll in the next stage and the next, and to plot how they will support their team, or how they will be supported to win, to place well, to lend their strength to other members and to press on to the Giro’s finale in Verona. Their ride was not the care-free stroll through country that gave us caesars and imperial aqueducts, nor was it their time to slow or stop to gawk at the 1000 year old castles that dotted their periphery or taste the ancient grains filling the road side bread at the summit of the penultimate climb. Their ride was a job.
How many hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of bicycles are on roofs of team cars?
We weaved through corners and tunnels back down to town, passing cars and escort motorcycles, then being passed when the gradient flattened or reversed, a descent that was simultaneously invigorating and terrifying. The thrill and trepidation of speeding through a dark avalanche tunnel at 70kmph in a medley of cars, trucks, motorcycles, professional and amateur cyclists created a cacophony of noise reverberating off the concrete walls. The blind trust that the pavement below is consistently safe and everyone around you will stay true was credulous, yet necessary; all of us in a moving amorphous blob down a serpentine road through the larch and pine to the castle-strewn and vineyard-bedecked valley below.
But the fun wasn’t over yet, whilst sipping our pils and licking our gelato in the cool streets of Conge above, we forgot for a moment that we had no means to return ourselves nor our bicycles and gear the 60km back to Chamonix. We were awash in the thrill of the day, and blithely naive to the concept that the inconveniences will simply work their way out when the time comes. Upon returning to the disabled vehicle, what ensued was a classic scene of selfless locals graciously lending a hand to strangers in need. With the arrival late, if at all of the official locksmith and his proper tools, neighbors above our parked car came with all the ad hoc tools to break into our own vehicle, to help us piece our trek back to the other side of the alps. They certainly had better, more leisurely things to do with their Sunday afternoon than help a pair sweaty, stranded cyclists who fell victim to their own lack of planning and some bad luck, but there they were.
After gaining car access, next was figuring out rides to transport ourselves and our gear back - we could enter our vehicle to retain our belongings, but with no key to start the car, there was no ride. Within 2 minutes of writing “Chamonix” on a recycled piece of cardboard and standing roadside while the stream of cars exited the mountain valley, the kindest of gentleman stopped with a van and graciously offered to bring us all the way back home, but only after a stop to drop off some Giro paraphernalia to his young daughters. We shoehorned ourselves and our bicycles into his van, and after leaving his filles with their maglias rosas, he proposed we stop for pizza, and by ‘stop,' that meant walking 20m from his already parked car down the street of his native old village to the local pizzeria, which, much to our good fortune, was still happily open even at 20:30 on a sabbath evening in the country which still hosts the papal throne.
We pedaled furiously for 10k, Mr. Vanderpoel just sat on his top tube. He still gapped us. He then ate a pizza. So did we…eventually.
The company, pizza, beer [even in Italy, it is beer with pizza, always beer, never wine], and dessert were exquisite, and though hunger is the most critical ingredient of any dish, hunger was not required to make this dinner taste so good. A sign of a great restaurant is when the people who work there are eating at the adjacent table, which they were, and which we happily delayed asking for the check to let them enjoy the same wood-fired pizza we happily consumed. The mushrooms on my pizza deliciously revealed the butter they were sautéed in, the molten cheese and crisp, thin crust bore signatures of the oven purposefully visible in the back of the house, and the chilis hanging along door frames were destined for the next batch of chili oil we were dipping our crusts into. Gustatory bliss.
After all slices were consumed, dessert was obligatory, promptly delivered, and dutifully devoured. The time came to move along, whereupon our wonderful new friend and chauffeur shared the stories of the day with the pizzeria’s proprietor behind the counter. His good friend and excellent maestro of the pizza oven Enzo disappeared behind the counter and returned with a frozen bottle of limonciello.
“To help you forget your lost keys” he says in Italian with a jovial smile as he poured out three shots for us.
“What about a fourth shot for you?” we asked. As he rubbed his stomach and squinted his eyes in a moment of contentment, he responded “I didn’t ride up mountains today, none for me.”
The rest of the ride home was a blur, the sepia-hued lights of Italian street lamps, the long straight Mont Blanc tunnel and the quick descent to town whilst recounting our shared love of cycling, Europe and other things that connected us, seamlessly switching between French and English as the kilometers ticked by.
Perhaps the most ornate and best restored in the region, Amyvilles’ stately palace dates to 1250, and there are numerous other castles to capture your attention along the Valley.
And so thinking back through the day’s many scenes, certain themes resonate. At face value, it was a simple day riding through European hillsides and villages, seeing locals, witnessing a grand tour stage and the inconvenience of some bad luck. But it was more. A culmination of seeing such things for years from an ocean away, unaware of the feeling of being there for the real thing, but also the greater context of the Giro itself. Over the course of the day, along the 70km representing just half of the full professional stage, one could see a brilliant cross section of different people. Some were devoted followers of the Giro, some were cyclists happy to ride a stage and see the same things the professionals do but at a more casual pace, still others who don’t care for cycling but realize the importance of the event in their country and region, celebrate accordingly, and position themselves roadside for hours to catch a glimpse of the spectacle.
One can see the different angles of positivity the Tours bring. With the helicopters and dozens of motorcycle-mounted cameras giving live feeds of cyclists’ every strategic and non-strategic move as they wind through the country’s various regions, each stage - and there are 21 of them - is at least four hours of advertisement showing off part of what makes their country great. For those watching - on the road, or on the other end of the camera footage - the tours are a very fertile place to cultivate a love of both the sport and area where it’s practiced. After seeing some of the footage, it’s difficult to ignore the reaction of “I want to go there.”
Another theme that resonates is situational. After over two years of a pandemic that brought border closures, travel restrictions, lockdowns and an overarching theme of forced isolation, though the virus is still prevalent, this tour and this day echoed a sense of latent connection. Humans are social creatures and emerging from the isolation, there seemed a great feeling of connecting with others - from the recreational cyclists casually riding the road together before the pros, to the roadside diners and drinkers, professionals and their supporting teams, we were all part of something together, and at least for one day we all had something in common, exuberantly sharing smiles, laughs, experiences, food and beverage with thousands of strangers.
Other thoughts percolating since that sabbath are what pictures you don’t take and what time we took to stand back and absorb the scene and be present, instead of framing a capture and squinting behind a lens or a screen. It wasn’t just the cyclists who were professionals in the crowd that day. Large lenses attached to big cameras were slung over the shoulders of many photographers lobbying their way onto the terraces and elbowing through the mob to get the iconic views that fill magazines and fuel the imagination of children and grownups alike. It is always tempting to try to preserve the memory for yourself and frame how to best relate the experience to your friends and colleagues and this is good, but better to observe in real time. To step back and take it all in so the memory lives on in your mind, and not on an external device.
And so there it was, a dream fulfilled, the anticipation of witnessing a grand tour lived up to the hype, and expectations were exceeded. Oddly, all but a few names in the peloton were unfamiliar, and although they were the center of attention throughout the day, as it turns out, it was not just their presence and exertion that made things so memorable, but the myriad of constellations surrounding their efforts that burned brightest. The thousands of spectators, support staff, recreational fans, infrastructure and scenery of the day were unforgettable, sharpened by the connection we all shared. ‘Amore infinito’ is the slogan for the Giro, or ‘infinite love.’ That is a bold, but at least somewhat accurate claim, as the entire experience created an enduring fondness to that tour and its French and Spanish sisters. This correspondent is already looking forward to the next stage, the next tour, more miles in the saddle and for the next experience to make such a day full in value.