Other than the odd comment made in the group of riders, all was quite bar the chinking sound of gears changeing, brakes being used and tyres swishing on the tarmac. It was chill; and in short sleeves and shorts I was dressed inadequately for this hour and temperature, but more than adequately for what would come.
As we approached the town more and more cyclists were appearing, as we entered the town it went from the sublime to the ridiculous. Row upon row of cyclists, 5 abreast in an array of team colours, bikes and helmest. Little Italiens waving flags directing participants to their start.
There were 5 start groups. Each with between 2,500 - 3,500 riders in. The starts are colour-coded and this matches the start nr on the front of your bike so you can easily be directed. We were orange, and at the back. If I got a good time this year, I may get moved forward into another group. When the start goes your time starts when you pass over the time-registering carpet.
We arrived at about 5.45 and waited.
and waited and waited and waited. Spirits were high, an Italien sat on the road next to me was stuffing the sports pages of Aftonbladet up his shirtsleeves for warmth.
6.45 movement up ahead, a rush of noise and excitement, the sound of shoes clicking into pedals, I looked around at the rest of our group. "Good luck all, have a great ride" .... and we were off ....
The way out of Cesenatico which is a town name it feels like I misspell everytime I write it - is flat.
Cyclists bomb out of the start with the soul intention of making it to the first hill as soon as possible. Of course when just about everyone does this it loses its desired effect. It's hard for me to remember the way when I've never taken this route before. I just remember that flock after flock after flock of cyclists motored past me, and my only thought was: "Ride your own race!"
In one of the small towns we passed through the road became narrow, and on a very small innocuous hill there were so many cyclists that the pace slowed down too much to cycle. So riders started to get off and walk. This happened twice in the opening 30kms ... and imagine my surprise when I look to my right and just two cyclists from me is Big Georg from Visby/Gotland! Talk about it's a small world sometimes.
Cyclists started mounted again ... we're off, time to get going ... the hills ahead in figures are as follows
The onslaugt of hills ahead felt like it would never end. At some point I did think about just doing the four, but honestly, what's the point? 9 hills, 200kms, I knew the math, I knew I could get round. Barbotto was and IS a monster, but it was do-able. Pugliano felt worse, a hill that I had the chance to ride earlier in the week on our visit to San Leo but decided against it. I didn't want to wear myself down before the race.
Gorolo felt twice as long as it was. Probably due to the fact that fatigue had started to set in. I was amazed to see a recumbant cyclist fight his way up 17% of hell, it helped me focus and once again realise that in life, there's always someone that's up against it, a lot worse off than I.
Once up Gorolo though it was just 30kms to the finish. I tapped on to a group of Germans that were holding a good pace I could follow and let them know I wasn't just there for the ride, and took my turn at the front. Making sure to press it a little bit harder than I should have, just to let them know, I'm doing my part.
10 kms left, I could sense the elation in me now, I knew that once I'd made it over Gorolo that I'd get to the finish but I wasn't allowed to reflect on that too much at the time. Now though, after a helter-skelter week of triumphs and tribulations, I'd be leaving Italy with more battle-scars than I arrived with. I'd also be leaving with one Nove Colli medal and the fact that I overcame the fear of riding downhill serpetine bends at speed.
I hope to go back next year
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| Photographers out on the course take pictures that can be bought later over the internet |
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