Giro 2011, Stage 11 Finish at Castelfidardo

As soon as the Giro 2011 route was announced - and in a similar vein to the Tirreno-Adriatico, I'd be scouring Gazzetta dello Sport for news, any news, or even rumours for months beforehand - Kelda and I booked Ryanair flights to Ancona as usual, to stay in our caravan beside our guesthouse project in Sant'Angelo in Pontano. According to the map, the Giro was coming through our village! I could already see myself getting involved with our small 1400-person community, tying bunting between buildings, wrapping old bicycles in pink crêpe paper for display in shop windows, and making 'Forza Scarponi!' banners for local Lampre hero Michele.

Before

So, whilst in Barcelona for work a few weeks before our trip, I bought a copy of Ciclismo a Fondo with its Guia al Giro, and on reading I'm sure they've made a mistake: now the route is the one detailed below, and there's nothing out on the web to say why there's been a change. I know that certain Giro stages had been changed (even up until the day before in the case of the stage over the Monte Crostis in 2011, and in dubious circumstances for the Stelvio in 1984), but I'm still struggling to find an explanation as to why the route suddenly changed to this:

After

For us the big difference is that the route doesn't make the originally planned move inland towards the Sibillini Mountains and through our village, but instead tends to shadow the Adriatic coastline on its journey towards the arrivo at Castelfidardo. OK, disappointed, but it's still not that far for us to go - 40 minutes? - and see the stage finish; it would still be great day out, and the weather provided us with a gloriously hot, cloud-free day. Walking up the rise from the valley to the hill-top town centre, it was clear that this would be no easy finish: I'd say the last 3km are all uphill at around 6%, with the final 400-metre ramp to the line somewhere around 15%. We found a spot and got exactly what we were hoping for: a place at the barriers at 125m to go, opposite a bar with a toilet (never underestimate the importance of this when you have a bladder as I do), so as to provide the required relief after downing a deliciously chilled large bottle of Birra Moretti. It hadn't even had its price inflated especially for the Giro - another pleasant surprise.

The finishing area was packed with good-natured fans who'd welcome any news as to what was happening out on the road from people inside their nearby houses and bars, or those with connection to the 'net.

I'm hoping the short bit of video I took on our mobile phone captures what I believe it is that makes going to see a bike race so enthralling. Most British non-cycling friends admit to having no idea what all the fuss is about; those who, as almost accidental spectators by dint of proximity, got to see the Tour's visit in 1994 or 2007 have all said that they loved it despite not really understanding what was happening. They might know that in the Tour the leader wears the yellow jumper (thanks Ned), that Sean Yates is local to the Ashdown Forest, and that Mark Cavendish is gonna win right?, but all of them, like me, state that they also love everything that goes on around the race.

There have been occasions where I've stood on a mountainside in the Alps for hours after a seemingly endless trek up to my chosen vantage point, to be rewarded by the ephemeral passing of a blur of brightly coloured riders, yet this still has the power to give me goosebumps, for me to lose a bit of self control, bellowing all manner of stream-of-consciousness shouts of encouragement, competing with the din of like-minded fans, the passing cacophony of team and race organiser cars, motorbikes and low-flying helicopters. To spend this much time waiting could rightly be considered an utter waste of time for very little reward, but this is to ignore what bike racing is all about. It's not just the much-anticipated arrival of the race and riders, but also the whole build-up to the race passing by that I think is so attractive, and the role it plays in the communities touched by its presence. It's The Jubilee Street Party, Carnival Time and The Big Lunch, all rolled into one. The 'think-global-act-local' Zeitgeist is very much alive here, being played out for free on the public roads that pass in front of our doorways. Communities, associations and schools coming together and preparing for weeks on end, organising street parties, hanging bunting, preparing food for cooking on BBQs - to create a true celebration of their town or village, the things that makes it unique and them proud, and a chance to meet, eat, drink and chat with people one doesn't ordinarily see. I can't think of many other free events that have the power to draw such a disparate crowd of people together in such a positive way. That's what also makes cycle racing such an awesome spectacle.

There are more pictures, commentary and analysis of the Stage 11 finish available at the rather excellent Podium Cafe website - far better than anything I managed to grab as I tried to soak in the aforementioned atmosphere rather than focussing behind a camera.

Post Scriptum: writing an update to this post in 2012, the ensuing Contador 'tainted steak' scandal meant that the UCI banned the Spaniard and stripped him of his wins, and 'our' Scarponi is now listed in the record books as the winner of the 2011 Giro. And that's probably about as much enjoyment as he'll get from it, as do we: his name in a book and a bunch more UCI World Tour points, rather than being able to enjoy the well-deserved accolades out on the road during and in the immediate aftermath of the race. Peccato.

Exceedingly Good Writing

On the face of it Competitive Cyclist would appear to be just another one of many box-shifting big-brand evangelists with a pretty website, replete with all the 'right' logos to sell bikes. And a US one at that, which for an unrepentant Europhile makes me immediately assume that they really just don't understand racing in Europe, or anything that surrounds it. New kids on the block, surely, with a modus operandi of uninspiring lip service to the marketing departments of the various product manufacturers in their line up (for the most part, read 'copy-and-paste' from the latest press release). Next, simply pile the kit high and sell it, well, not that cheaply at all. And because it's online, you can't even get to fettle the stuff before you buy it. It's the price we pay for modernity, right?

So, after that uncharacteristic xenophobic sleight, I'm suitably embarrassed to admit that once I'd bothered to have a scratch beneath the glossy surface, I've been pleasantly delighted to find some really insightful English-language journalism on the CC pages, much better than I've ever seen on equivalent UK cycling retailer sites who might claim a stronger bond with the European scene, or at least some kind of residual kinship. Of course I'm aware that CC's writing is just part of a very persuasive marketing strategy to get me to buy into their brand, clever Roy Brooks prose to differentiate them from their rivals in very competitive market. If nothing else, I'm finding reading articles on their site an extremely enjoyable experience, which, surely is the whole point: keep me on there long enough, and who knows? I might buy something from them - and feel good about it too. It's refreshing to read something intelligent like this example, from the Willier Triestina frames page, which jibes nicely with my own opinion, and fears, on where bike companies are going within the industry, and by extrapolation, the sport itself:

The 21st Century has not been kind to the titans of Italian bicycle manufacturing. Brands that were iconic from the Gimondi era to Saronni, then from Saronni to Argentin, then from Argentin to Bartoli -- sadly, many have faded from consequence. The forces of globalization and the expectations of a new generation of cyclists (more keen on performance, less so on romance) have definitively re-set the pecking order. Prestige, desirability, and the very viability of countless Italian companies bear little resemblance to the market landscape of the 90's. No category of Italian goods has been spared: Choices are narrower than ever before for wheels, tires, bars stems, and most of all framesets.

This indictment implies that today, we - the public, the market - are no longer bothered about heritage, provenance, artistry or individuality, in a similar way that we abandoned local shops in favour of out-of-town hypermarkets and shopping malls because we were convinced that they were somehow better. Isn't it also this type of warped business logic that's responsible for the demise of 'unprofitable' classic European races like the Grand Prix des Nations, Midi Libre, and the near-loss of Paris-Nice, to name only a few? Given the trend, ultimately it's possible that the very essence of what cycling surely is, as embodied in races like these, will be diluted and lost, replaced by a dismal F1-style circus, where anonymous, indistinguishable riders, reduced to pedalling billboards in helmets and shades (there's a whole further post on that topic), will compete in cycling devoid of any sense of history and romance, of what those passionate about wine might term terroir. In its place, bite-sized consumer-friendly circuit events, requiring half-time cheer-leader style product-placement 'entertainment' to keep the fans supposedly engaged. Most of these will simply be the disinterested, yet grateful, recipients of 'corporate hospitality', for sure. Not a cheery thought. Contrex swallowed by Coke, Merlin Plage just done by Nike, Radioshack replacing Renault, Scott for Scapin. You get the picture.

It's not often that you'll finding quality writing on a site whose ultimate goal is to simply sell you stuff. I'm enthused how CC's writing succinctly sums up much of what Rohan Dubash and I have sadly witnessed and discussed over the last few years. We both love cycling, and sure, we're no doubt emotionally attached to the modern bikes we've decided to purchase, but we're certainly more that just nostalgic for the past. As the CC blog points out elsewhere, we're certainly 'unaddicted to sentimentality'. Rohan has nevertheless described the bike industry he works in today as being predominantly uninspiring and bland, devoid of emotion, with little to significantly differentiate between brands. Is this a failure of the manufacturers, removing the vital DNA from their products by, for example, outsourcing manufacture to the Far East, leaving marketing-types nothing to go on to except to enthuse over over a new logo, some fancy graphics or pointless design innovations - neigh, 'systems' - described with ridiculous TL and FLAs, with graphic applications to remind you as such? Once the very soul has been removed from a product - and that's the terroir argument again - it must be impossible to engender excitement and brand loyalty, because there's simply no credible backstory to be told. I particularly like this article about Franco bikes on CC's superbly written company blog, the Service Course, which goes some way to describing how I feel, and indeed, gives a ray of hope for the future:

Franco is a company you should get to know. Given the ever-growing and ever-darker dual shadows of Specialized and Trek, their business model is a logical next step within the bike industry. What Franco is doing has already been successfully done in fashion, in hotels, in restaurants and in other verticals: When the preponderance of product choices are both homogenous and broadly available, even if these choices are of reasonable quality and economic value, a certain segment of customers will make buying decisions based on emotional affinity instead.

So, just as we woke up and realised that there was a joy in returning to small, local, independent retailers, how we embraced the Slow Food movement and rediscovered the importance of where our food comes from and how it tastes, I sincerely hope that it's not too late for something similar to happen within cycling. Maybe the trend for retro clothing pioneered by Rapha, hand-built steel frames with reworked lugs, fork crowns and chrome and equipped with NOS components and the popularity of events like L'Eroica constitute a positive sign.

Turbo Training

I don't actually have a turbo trainer - certainly not in comparison to some of the models around today - but more what you might term 'rollers', manufactured by Tusk: the RollerTurbo, no longer in production. I bought them because the reviews spoke about "authentic road feel", so I felt that it might be a good substitute for getting out when the weather is cold and wet, and hopefully be a bit easier in use than other indoor trainers I had tried and abandoned in the past. I could never handle more than 20 minutes on the old mag-resistance Tacx unit bastard contraption.

So, what kind of training plan do you follow when you've come back after 18 months, having only ridden sporadically prior to that in any case? The web is filled with people describing the workouts they follow, which is all very well. Mostly these look like they've been devised by the athletes themselves, riders with a good base who basically want to alleviate the mind-crushing boredom associated with this static indoor training. With a degree of aerobic fitness I can really see the benefit of using this controlled environment to really push certain areas, something that'd be impossible or dangerous out on the road. But these guys are using plans to hone specific elements of their game, rather than gaining simple aerobic fitness. Is the latter possible? How long do you have to sit there sweating to the point of drowning to replicate a 3-hour endurance road ride? I'd be surprised if there wasn't also an element of machismo in there too, that by devising the most ridiculously demanding session imaginable will add credibility to one's 'hard-case' credentials. It's obvious that in most cases, turbo sessions are solitary affairs, not witnessed or verified by others. Easy to be a tough guy then. Reminds me of Monty Python's "Four Yorkshiremen" sketch.

What I'm attempting to do is awaken my lard-arsed middle-aged body into some kind of condition to be able to benefit from focussed rides out on the road come February and March that should be getting me ready for the RVV. I'll never be able to get out and do Ken's Ridge Ride Repeats unless I've got a decent base.

So, for want of any useful advice on-line, I've chosen to just get on with it an sit on the rollers for around an hour, simply holding a decent pace with my HR at around 160 bpm. To help with this, music used to be the preferred distraction of choice, but better these days is YouTube. Log in, choose some suitable motivational contributions, upwards of 10 minutes each or so if you can, and create a playlist. Watch six of them and you've have a reasonable workout. I'm not sure it's a good idea at this stage to go much higher than 160 bpm, which is just over 80% of my max - so I'm defo operating at what's described as 'Upper Aerobic' during these rides. In fact, there's probably a school of thought that'd describe this as too much to soon.

It's bloody easy on YouTube to latch onto the gazillions of predictable hommages to Lance - and he makes good motivational material for sure - but what if you want something a little different? I really like this one: first, it's Marco, so it's got the wonderfully excited "Scatta Pantani!!" from the late Adriano De Zan, and the music is fantastically appropriate, IMHO.




It's the Soulsavers doing a stunningly-good cover of an excellent Stones track "No Expectations" which ticks the nostalgia boxes, reminding me of riding around in the early to mid-eighties with Jamesy.  Then there's "Hurt" by Johnny Cash, often used in these cycling-related YouTube contributions, hinting no doubt at the pain and suffering competitive cycle demands, but also, if somewhat predictably, the tragic self-destruction of Pantani himself..

Change of Title Coming Up?

I left this blog completely alone after we completed our ride across France, but after no riding since then, and just scrabbling for and/or worrying about getting work, and then getting work and worrying about doing it, I've been seduced by Jamesy's suggestion and have decided to ride the Tour of Flanders cyclo sportive with him and a few mates (including the venerable Dave Hickman, and my little bro' Neil Halliday) next April. Not the full 260km mind, but the still-daunting 150km. It still looks like it goes over most of the major climbs in the 90 miles, so I'm pondering riding the C40, but it's the stuff of broken dreams. On the one hand, I'll be fit, won't I? I can picture it: comfortable in the front group, amongst a pride of friendly Flandrian Lions, riders that know what they're doing and welcome such a well-versed, urbane rider such as me, but in reality the thought of trashing it on the cobbles, falling off anonymously in amongst the 15000 also-ran 'fun' riders as we slip and slide our way up the bergs hours after the real heroes have taken the applause is something I can't abide. I rode my luck at Montlucon last summer don't forget.



So, A Travers La France now seems like an inappropriate title for the blog, as would A Travers Les Flandres (notwithstanding the fact a ride through Flanders should be called Dwars door Vlaanderen). An event-specific blog clearly has its uses, but I'd rather keep the A Travers La France content going in the same place, and turn it into a more general blog with an appropriate title on the the trials and tribulations around the sport I love, but never seem to embrace. Might have to file this whole thing under the old 'Twitching Curtains' name.

Day Seven: Caromb to Carry-le-Rouet, via Le Mont Ventoux, 175km

No sooner had I fallen into an exhausted sleep than it was time to get up again. It was going to be a long day for sure, so we'd arranged an early start ... although even a late start would still have felt too early for me. Bleary eyes, coffee, no real breakfast that I remember, so it'd be a putrid diet of energy bars and sickly-sweet, sticky carbo drink until lunch. Oh, for a full English this morning, the accused's last meal: take him down. I'd heard mutterings that the weather was going to be thundery and stormy after the previous day's canicule, and had gone to bed harbouring a secret hope that perhaps we wouldn't have to ride the mountain this morning. Weird, to come all this way, and have this desire not to ride what was the underlying reason for coming. Cycling really can be so hard and unforgiving at times though - you're supposed to welcome the pain like an old friend - making the whole experience a distinctly retrospective pleasure. It's virtually impossible to really enjoy the climb as it happens - certainly if you're not going well - but if you do the ride and get through it, you know you're gonna feel brilliant, flooded with mix of endorphins and pride. 'Better than sex', as Kingy has described it in the past (it does make me wonder if he's doing it - sex - right though). I know what he means because I know that feeling, but clearly sometimes I'm simply not ashamed enough to entertain the idea of not riding, instead to stand in civvies, self-pitying and full of lame excuses, to chat with the others as they clip in and ride off towards two hours of torture, poor lambs. There's also my very personal malaise of sometimes simply not seizing the moment too, especially when I can be centre-stage doing something easy like 'entertaining' and there's alcohol involved. We didn't even leave the bar in Les Deux Alpes in July 1998 when outside - just 200 short metres down the rain-sodden road - Pantani won in the cold and wet, an exploit that will always be remembered. Sure, inside was warm and dry, the atmosphere was excellent and the beers had been flowing since lunchtime, yet deep down there is an obvious regret. Of course I tell people 'I was there', but in reality I missed the opportunity to witness one of the Italian's - and cycling's - greatest moments up close, for real, instead of simply on a TV screen like everyone else.

I've always been afflicted by this strange attitude, almost as if not riding the climb, or not seeing the stage and regretting it makes just as interesting a story as if I'd actually done it.



The sky was red - red sky in the morning, sailor (or shepherd) take warning - and it was making me apprehensive. I knew this was going to be tough, but this time there was logistically no way of getting out of it. Bouyed by the conviction that I'd surely 'ridden myself in', to an extent, over the previous six days, I made an effort to snap out of it. The first time up the mountain in 1989 was purgatory because of my back, 2000 was better for no apparent reason, certainly not anything to do with training, so what would it be like this time out, with 20 years of bodily wear and tear? I'd had niggling neck and shoulder ache throughout the ride so far - until now I'd never really bothered with a helmet which I now thought was the possible cause, but being married brings certain responsibilities - but nothing unbearable like the back pain I'd had in the past. We set off, briskly, my heart and head not really in it yet: tired, finding the pace hard already, where Jamesy seemed to be storming off before we'd even hit Bédoin. I already felt disheartened that his actions implied that he didn't think it would be something special to ride up together on this 20th anniversary, and that he'd put his narrow ambition aside and wait, at least for once. I've always been the emotional, sentimental one in the relationship, the antithesis of his more stoical attitude which would often drive me to vocalise feelings I should really keep to myself. It has been a pillar of our friendship for years, and this trip would be no different. We're a real-life embodiment of 'The Odd Couple', except we aren't often playing for laughs. It'd be funny to watch our behaviour through a hidden, candid camera though, I'm sure. How I'd cringe.

Even the first few kilometres of the D974 before Saint-Estève, where I knew the gradient cranks up to 10% or more, seemed to be ridden on heavy, momentum-sapping tarmac. You'd look around you into the vineyards around Sainte-Colombe and Les Baux and feel that you weren't even on the climb proper yet, that this was just false-flat, and already you were struggling. OK, Jamesy was gone, but the good news was that my back was OK to this point. A positive sign. Dave was not far behind, Iain, Trev and Andy likewise, whilst Paul and Les had decided - sagely - that perhaps riding the climb again, having done it around 30 times between them, was just not worth it this time out. We'd agreed that the original route was also too ambitious. Instead of riding through Jean de Florette villages like Gourdes and Loumarin and the vicious climbs to get to them, we'd head west and take the flatter route back through Carpentras, Cavaillon, Eyguieres and cut down the west side of the Etang de Berre through Istres, bypass central Martigues and along the wonderful winding pine-scented Mediterranean coastal roads to Carry-le-Rouet. And so Paul and Les would set off later for the Med, whilst the rest of us took on Le Géant de Provence.


Jamesy pushing it on the steep lower slopes of the shaded forest section - the first 15km from the official start in Bédoin.


Mike follows Dave, as ever time-trialling his way to the top; Mike searching to finally ditch that bloody helmet.

Jamesy was gone, on his personal mission to get revenge on the mountain for the hours of training and sacrifice he'd put in to the detriment of his family. See - I don't really begrudge him his focus; it's no doubt rooted in envy. Dave and I seemed to be well matched for pace through the forest, whilst behind Trev, Iain and Andy followed at varying distances. Fortunately the bad weather failed to materialise, and the lower temperature was undoubtedly doing us a favour. I'd oscillate between feeling great, moving along quite swiftly, then suddenly paying the price for the enthusiasm and having to ease up. As a result we all came into Chalet Reynard at different times, and left for the summit accordingly. Once again, Jamesy dashed off - we wouldn't be repeating the camaraderie of 1989 - and it was here that Trev decided to get into running kit and do the final 7km on foot with Graham, while Iain, his damaged arm giving him grief, turned back for Caromb to rendez-vous with Paul and Les on their more leisurely - and gastronomic - ride to Carry-le-Rouet.


First food of the day for me at Chalet Reynard, or at least it felt like it. Left to right: Dave, Mike James, me, Andy. Iain and Trev still to arrive.

I found the upper exposed sections of the climb easier than I remembered, and approaching the summit - the Simpson Memorial - got terribly emotional. Life & death. My dad, and mum. Time passing by so quickly, and needing to achieve something worthwhile in your alloted stint here, in the sometimes-fragile carapace that is your body. My wife. Marco Pantani, che poverino, of course. I stumbled across Jamesy, also a bit puffy-eyed, who'd been feeling similar, but for his own reasons. He'd already 'summited', to use an American turn of phrase that I really dislike (so why use it here?), and had come back down ... to meet me perhaps? Dunno, but it would be nice to think so. We all rode to the top, fannied around for a while for photos, souvenirs, ice cream and staring at the vast expanse of cloud-covered Provence way below us.

Jamesy still pushing it, and looking good. He really should get a black Assos jersey to match the shorts and hat though, or maybe a first item of Rapha gear for the wardrobe ... I've heard the banks have started lending again.


We're well above the clouds at this altitude, on the final 7-kilometre limestone section that gives the 'Bald Mountain' its name. Me, focused, the emotion building.

Dave and Andy at the same point nearing the summit, just behind me.

Twenty years on from our first time. Thoughtfully there are steps up to the Simpson Memorial now, obviously to cater for ageing bikies like me and Mike.


Heroes. And just for one day.

1912 metres in the sky, at the summit of La Montagne Chauve, ready to go down in 20 minutes what we've just taken two hours to come up.

The descent was all too swift - worries about the structural integrity of the frame still lingering - and the remainder of the ride consisting of mostly flat and rolling roads at the head of some serious-looking thunder clouds. I have little memory of it, other than taking a wrong turning for the first time on the trip (had Steve and Graham finally got a little complacent?), a welcome lunch in L'Isle-sur-la-Sourge just at the right time, a promised beer-stop in Martigues never materialising - now that really was hard to take - and the final fast run-in to Carry. Predictably these last few kilometres saw Jamesy and me 'clip off the front of the group' and where, of course, he jumped me to take the final chequered flag of the trip, the bastard. It was all his idea after all, so in all fairness I suppose he had to take the honours.

Trev, changed and back on the bike, whilst Mike and I follow on the way south on the outskirts of L'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue.


I knew this would happen, but short of running him off the road still couldn't do anything to stop it.


By engaging in this act of gratuitous, casual racism redolant of 1970s British comedy sitcoms, we were hoping to get arrested and then repatriated courtesy of the French State, and so save on our Easyjet airfare. Mais non. Where are les flics when you need them, eh?

Yes indeed, France, travelled by bike, from Coast to Coast. A Travers La France.