After enjoying some time in Northern Italy (see a couple of previous posts), we were eager to see what Tuscany had to offer.

My Christmas present last year was a book entitled ’Fifty Places to Bike Before You Die’, mostly description of jaw-dropping A-B routes all over the world. The section on Tuscany, however, was a bit different. Rather than a route with a defined start and finishing point, the book simply suggested ‘go anywhere’. And, in my limited experience, I would have to agree with the author’s opinion.

We were lucky enough to have a personal guide for our first adventure. Paolo met us on the outskirts of Florence. Mid 40’s, fit, he led us out of town on on of his regular training loops. And what a ride it was. 78 km, rolling Chianti hills, mile after mile of immaculately pruned grape vines alternating with olive groves, lovely stretches of untouched forest – it was everything I had hoped for, and more. The pace was easy, time to luxuriate in the vistas that each new corner would bring. 5-6% gradients were a tonic for the legs after the brutality of the Bondone climb we had done the previous week. We rode through small villages with cobblestoned piazzas and ancient churches. A bit busy for the 1^st few kilometres but after that the roads were very quiet. Not that it mattered all that much – despite the fact that Italian drivers read stop signs as ‘decelerate slightly’ & believe that car indicators are supplied purely for ornamental value, they are remarkably tolerant and courteous to cyclists.

We stopped, of course, for coffee. The coffee shop meets lycra ceremony that I participated in Tuscany is slightly different to its Australian counterpart. Sitting is not allowed – drinks are taken standing at the bar and a shot of espresso is the universal drink, normally ordered with a simple nod to the barista. We had no problems standing up to drink, but our orders (a hot chocolate for Geoff, a cup of tea for me), caused Paolo to raise his eyebrows ever so slightly. The barista was less ambiguous, serving us with a manner that left us in no doubt what his opinion was of our masculinity.

We had a week in Tuscany, so found time for a few more rides, including a shorter but equally pretty sojourn south east of Florence and a cruise around the walls of the medieval beauty that is Lucca. But it wasn’t just the opportunity to ride that brought us to the region. The best cyclists in the world descended on the area in order to challenge for the right to wear the rainbow jersey, and we were there to watch them.

There were no major races to watch on the Friday so we took the chance to head to the small town of Ponte e Ema, home to the shrine dedicated to Gino Bartali, one of Italy’s most legendary cyclists. Geoff’s uncle Luigi had heard on the news the previous night that Bartali was to be awarded (posthumously) an award by Israel for his work in protecting Jews during the 2^nd World War. We were lucky enough get a picture taken with the great Francesco Mosser, who was one of the honoured guests of the day.

The blue-ribbon event of the World Championships is the elite men’s road race.  This year’s course covered a punishing 272 km. It started in Lucca, wound through the countryside to the heart of Florence then headed to the northern suburbs for 10 laps of a 16.6 km circuit. A couple of days previously we had ridden the majority of this short loop (albeit at a very different pace to the pros). It included a climb to Fiesole which was similar in length & gradient to Welshpool (6km @ 5%), a moderately technical descent that led to a straight stretch down a valley before a sharp right led to a short (600 m) but steep (average 16%, peaking at 21%) climb through the walled Via Salviati. It hurt us doing it once – I can’t imagine what it was like on the 10^th lap, with 260 km in the legs.

Weather had been superb up until the day of the men’s road race. Dark clouds, however, covered the skies when we headed off from our villa. Paolo preferred to ride rather than come with us to watch the race : a direct quote from the man – ‘I prefer to make love instead of watching people making love’. Who else but an Italian could get away with a statement like that???

We (sorry, Geoff, who is actually organised in matters such as this), had managed to reserve seats in a grandstand in the town square at the top of the hill at Fiesole. Unfortunately, the Italians had ingeniously managed to sell us tickets to a structure that did not exist so we were forced to mix it with the rest of the mob on the ground.

The dark clouds soon emptied their contents. It poured down. Non-stop. My son was dispatched to the local supermarket to scour for anything that could keep us dry – not many blokes can say they have been to Florence and the only clothes they bought their wife there were plastic garbage bags!

The riders whizzed past quickly, most of them looking pretty non-plussed despite the atrocious conditions. The clues were there, however, as the lap tally mounted – each time they rode up the hill the peleton was smaller and smaller. A few proud riders, dropped from the main group but still determined to finish the race for their country, bravely battled on. The majority of the pros, however, including most of the pre-race favourites, retired to the comfort of their buses before the final few laps.

Ironically, we knew less about what was happening in the race than we would have if we had stayed in Australia and watched it live on an internet stream. It was very difficult to identify individual riders – race numbers are only worn on the rider’s back, almost impossible to pick out in a big pack in stormy conditions. Even working out the nationality of riders was a challenge – most jerseys now have sponsors’  names displayed more prominently than their country (Australia = Jayco, England = Sky…). The Italians were quite distinctive, I saw Cav hurting on one of the early laps & I think I saw Cadel at one stage too.  Simon Clarke was the outstanding Australian, of course. We had managed to pick him as the sole survivor by about lap seven or eight and we gave him a big cheer as he held it with the best (7^th place – what an outstanding effort!)

After the penultimate lap we headed down the hill in the hope (unrealised) of being near the finish line at the end. The crowds had thinned considerably by this stage, with most of the remainder huddled around TV’s by the side of the road. Everyone was soaked, but all seemed buoyant, there wasn’t any overt drunken yobbish behaviour, all in all a great crowd. It was, despite the weather, a really fun day.

 

 

Back to the real world now. The latest file on my strava log, when I get around to uploading it, will have the mind-numbingly boring title of ‘commute’. And the most memorable moment of that ride? Leaving the city via Victoria Ave to join the bike path beside Riverside Drive, to the sound of  ‘get off the #*$#Ing road & onto the path where you belong’ from a driver, who proceeded to accelerate off into the distance (all of 50 metres), where he proceeded to sit behind the long queue of cars banked up at the next set of lights. While I rode past.

Welcome back to Perth.

PS for those who can’t be bothered reading my drivel but can understand pictures (and I realise, unfortunately, that by definition this excludes virtually everyone who has survive long enough to read this), I have finally managed to insert some snaps into my previous post – https://southperthrouleurs.com.au/2013/09/24/uwct-championships-trento-italy-50-54s-race-report/