My wild Eroica. Better: #mywilderoica
My third, and last, Eroica. Highlights? A My Wild Love bicycle, my Gilles Berthoud saddle and no tomorrow
Back to Italy and always the same feeling: Man, here we live as we should never die. Really. You can notice it: you land in Bologna, go out from the airport and all the taxis are there, parked, the engines turned on and the drivers talking and smoking, without giving a shit. And the bar: you ask for Cappuccino, Cornetto and a napkin, just to clean the beards. Then you get: a foamy cappuccino, a sweet cornetto and, surprise, not a simple, helpful, paper tissue as you were used to handle, but a shitty pattern of plastic paper that will scrub lips and nose (yes, I know, I always mess up drinking cappuccino). That’s the uncomfortable feeling that walks me to Donato’s car, together with Sara and Lele, reaching Gaiole in Chianti, just in time to withdraw the race pack of L’Eroica.
Yes, L’Eroica, the ride that feeds his participants with dust, pain, ribollita and red wine. Because tomorrow should never be planned, there is just now, and yesterday. Yesterday is part of the plan: vintage bicycles hardly mixed with gravel roads, because tomorrow you need no joints or muscles. Tomorrow doesn’t exist.
I will ride through the 115 km Chianti Classico Track with a My Wild Love frame: an original 80s Columbus tubes diamond but refurbished with psychedelic colors by two crazy designers based in Amsterdam. Thanks to Paul and Dario these frames come back to life: not in the cheesy and cocky way of Bianchi and Colnago — who are trying to ride the market reproducing old and pricey models.
No way, My Wild Love have taken out from an old workshop perfect steel instrument giving them the personality of a powerful design. I’m really proud to ride that beauty for L’Eroica, assembled with a shiny Campagnolo Nuovo Record and a smooth Gilles Berthoud Soulor, I didn’t try the saddle yet but it looks absolutely rad. I’m ready to #rockandfuckingroll into #mywilderoica.
The day starts pretty early, I’m there together with a very multi-skilled team: Cristina, from Copenhagen with a strong family tradition, riding a rented Colnago; Donato, the power of passion from Bologna on a golden Olmo; Lele, histrionic Romagnolo pushing his fresh painted Ghisallo (good luck); Pier the artist, Hors Categorie champion flying on his brilliant Viner; and myself, overweight workman from F’hain on my psychedelic My Wild Love. We dropped Diego in the process, working commits will keep his Bianchi and him away from Tuscany this year.
When we take off is already quite late, classic logistical problems for the organization: 8:30 and we leave Gaiole heading to the first effort of the day, apart from the bacon and eggs breakfast: il Castello di Brolio. The climb is smooth, fresh, enjoyable. I overtake a lot of riders to catch back the escapees (Lele and Donato) running already full gas. Some kilometers on asphalt, half a dozen on white roads and the first asperity is cracked, obviously somebody was on front (Lele, Donato and Pier) and somebody else was almost dying (Cris), but everything is ok, there is not any tomorrow here.
Problems start with downhills, almost 10 kms on gravel road always hands on the brakes. We are still sharing the road with the guys of the 75 kms track, and the further Mangia e Bevi are a bit too crowded for me. The five of us are riding in a bunch, at least we are try, even if it’s not that easy. So, while I’m stretching my tongue with a smart English guy riding an impressive single speed, Lele and Cristina are jumping on the back of Luciano Berruti passing over his age and his heavy bike. Donato and Pier? They are in front pushing as wild horses not caring of landscapes or people. We merge the group just before a sharp tarmac climb, everybody is standing and climbing while my gear decides to sparkle my ride. Result: I’m bouncing on the street while everybody is laughing. Nothing’s broken, that’s just my first Eroica crash to remember.
The first refreshment stop seems to arrive after a couple decades, and it’s also really terrible: no food, shitty and expensive (da fuck!) coffee. 3 Minutes stop back to ride, then after less than 7 kms here is the second stop, this time with a real checkpoint. Some proper food (Finocchiona, Rigatino, Pecorino, Pan co’ Santi) and a couple of chats: “It’s mental how tough was ‘till now. Isn’t it?” — “Tough? And you didn’t see anything yet” — “‘Dam’ it!”. We are a bit nervous, and we have some reason to be. The hell is looking at us: Sante Dame is his name with almost 10 kms of wild climbings with grade peaks of 26%. Have you ever heard about Sante Marie? Well, that one is even worse! We are all there, all together: riders, rides, pains and nightmares. All together walking and pushing our bicycles. All together except from Pier: “I cannot walk guys, otherwise I would crush your spirit. You will never see me with a foot on the floor, I have responsibilities in here.” Gasbag!
Cristina and I are dreaming of some natural tarmac. Nothing, it will never arrive. Never. Well, we see it at a certain point, and it’s the one we ride on through the climb to Panzano. It never finishes, but when it does, something exciting is waiting for us: Ribollita. The king of L’Eroica meals.
My body feels some warm relief now, and we have just 20 kms to go. Oh wait. What? How can it be? My ELEMNT says we did just 80 kms and I don’t need one of my beloved Excel files for this easy calculation. We are missing 15 kilometers here. Donato is asking around. He’s pissed, definitely pissed. Here is the sad answer: it seems that we had skipped a checkpoint. As usual, lack of communication from L’Eroica organization. Well, nothing to do care about now, we have just to go back to our rides and head back to Gaiole. This time Pier doesn’t wait for anybody, probably he smelled some new KOM, and Donato tries to follow him. Derrière du Peloton, Lele, Cristina and me. We climb the painful Volpaia and go down to his steep descent. A couple of curves and here you go, again, Luciano Berruti. My breaks are exhausted and they start screaming and crying. Nothing to do then, there is only a thing that can cover that sound: my voice. That’s why I’m starting singing my favourite hit: Just one drink— Jack White. Cristina cannot handle it anymore: “You are like rusty nails into my ears” she says while she speeds up. Another couple of white roads and here is the main street of Gaiole in Chianti. #mywilderoica ended.
High fives, pictures, hugs, some other pictures.
And a couple of beers. Because here in Italy you should not think about tomorrow. Ever.
