NC4K – Day 1

Rovereto – 0km completed

The moment was here – 8 months after sitting in a hotel lobby in London impatiently hitting refresh hoping that when the entry button showed I’d be lucky enough to get a place, it was time to load up my gear for real. Nervous doesn’t come close to how I felt tightening down the straps on my bags. Every action and decision from this point, good or bad, would have a direct impact on how far I could get on this ride. The benefit of having two TCR attempts behind me was that I had a really good understanding of what was ahead, and the mindset and choices that would help me reach the end. The downside, of course, was that this was my third try at finishing a monster 4,000km ride. On paper, this should be more in my wheelhouse than those before. But in less than 2 hours time the phrase “on paper” would lose all meaning. Needless to say, breakfast conversation, whilst sociable, was a lot more limited – with frequent trips by each of us back to our rigs to add or adjust something. And it was now a lot more than just Benjamin, Christopher and myself. Eight or more other riders were finishing their last fettling, and loading up on as much food as they could get down. As we began to filter out from the B&B, the atmosphere just in our small group was already tremendous. But despite the enthusiastic smiles and jokes, nothing could fully mask an edginess to the collective energy.

Arriving at 7:30 put us quite close to the back of the funnel of riders stood waiting between the office buildings. Which was absolutely ideal for me. I had every intention of letting the bunch charge off, whilst I could hopefully settle into a small bunch somewhere near the back. In theory, 350 of us would be trying to thread along the narrow path through the other walkers and cyclists. Since most of the riders here would be tearing past me anyway it made sense to just get rolling behind them from the off. By this point Justin had now also joined us. The organizers were slowly making through the ranks of riders and checking we all had the basics – lights, helmets etc. Above us the obligatory drones hovered gathering the essential start line footage – the first and last time all of us would be together in one compact group. To our side probably the oddest rig of the entire event – a chap from Penrith on a full cargo bike, unassisted as required (I believe) by the rules, although the logistcal challenge of battery power across 3 weeks of 200km per day would probably outweigh any speed benefit anyway. We remarked on the weight of his rig – although his response did make a kind of peverse sense. He argued that tthe huge waterproof holdall in the cargo bay probably weighed no more than the combined luggage of 2 of our bikes. And apparently his wife was happy to join him on long events, but only if she got to ride an unladen bike. His solution was as admirable as it was crazy. I wondered just how far into the adventure he’d get, but this did not sound like his first rodeo.

The banter subsided as the minutes ebbed away – this was it. The sharp end. The time we’d find whether the preparation and endless gear obsession was enough. I forget the exact final rabble rousing – but it involved the usual cheers and whooping as the last seconds counted down. And with nothing more to say or do, we were rolling. My focus shifted 100% to what was in front of me. I didn’t clip in immediately – there was a sharp right at the end of the buildings, followed by ugly broken pavement and patches of gravel, and finally some tricky kerb stones to negotiate before we got onto the road itself. At least marshals were holding the traffic briefly, so it was just the rough road and each other we needed to look out for. Picking up speed we swept down the street, and curved right towards the small town square before filtering right onto the riverside path which was now so familiar. It was actually much less crowded than I’d expected – maybe 10 or 20 riders around me. Manageable with no real stress even with a handful of other people out on the path. A few clapped and cheered us on, but most were just going about their morning routine – pushing prams, walking dogs, or just sitting watching the world go by. Dropping into an easy gear I let my legs spin freely. Somewhere from behind I was gradually caught by Christopher, Benjamin and Justin. The path was just about wide enough for us to ride 2 up front, and 2 behind. I called out ahead of the pinch points or trickier sections I’d made mental notes of on the loosener rides. At the first river crossing Benjamin just heard me in time and managed to pull left to keep on the path rather than following the group ahead of him down a dead end which was not clearly marked. Christopher joked that they’d stick with me as their guide – but I knew it wouldn’t last long. All three of them were clearly stronger and faster than me. We stayed together as far as the next, narrow slippery cobbled bridge back across the river but somewhere around the point we passed the 46th parallel sign I knew I was starting to push to hard to stay with them. I forget whether it was Benjamin or Christopher alongside me, but I said I needed to back off, bade them farewell for now and dropped back. The guys slid away ahead and were gone from view by the time I passed the cafe from yesterday. Tempting as it was, I had my eye on another Bicci Grill at around the 50 km mark for a coffee and cake. For now it was time to enjoy the unfamiliarity of the paths ahead. Although there was something about several stretches I vaguely recognized from TCR in 2017. Just beyond Trento was a distinctive, somewhat familiar section where the path left the river – a big U shaped dogleg, out onto urban streets, across a steel bridge over a tributary, and through a small town before heading back to the river again.

The riding conditions were near perfect – warm but not yet hot, and the headwind still not really enough to be troubling. But both felt like they may become a real problem later in the day. Somewhere along this section I realised that despite letting the guys go, I was still pulling too hard. For some time I’d had the sense of riders behind me. The path was narrow, so rather than risk a group pile up I waited for a small pull off area, dropped my hand down to indicate I was turning, swung off right and rolled to a stop by a couple of other riders. As I did so a peloton of some 30 or more riders hurtled past. All of whom had been enjoying my slipstream, and not one had pulled ahead to take a turn. I couldn’t help laughing as I commented to the two riders that such a large group had decide to hitch a ride behind probably one of the slowest participants in the whole event. They got the joke. I quickly unwrapped the bar I’d fished from my top tube bag, split the wrapper, and rolled out again onto the path, but at a much gentler pace this time – munching the muesli bar as I rode along.

It’s hard to assemble the events of the next few hours into the proper order – I have very clear memories of many sections, but not necessarily the order in which they occurred. Our route took us steadily upriver, towards a point far ahead where we’d cross the mountains into Austria. For some distance beyond Trento, the river and it’s valley were wide – broad expanses of green fields spreading out on each side. Across such open countryside the wind bore down on us, the scenery was glorious, but this wasn’t free riding. The distance was growing nicely but each kilometre was drawing a price in effort required. At Nave San Rocco we crossed back onto the left bank of the river and passed a tiny newsagent where I’d had coffee and snacks with Isobel Jobling on the way to CP2 on TCR No5. It was tempting to stop just for old time’s sake – but my eye was still set on the same cafe up ahead. The legs would have enjoyed the stop though – the path rose up onto a low embankment and the wind now hit with proper force. It was not the easy start I’d hoped for looking at the forecast of tailwind a few days ago. At least it wasn’t much further until my planned stop. The path ended at a road in front of small restaurant, switched sides again on the road bridge, and then rejoined the river. Just beyond the welcome sight of my target came into view. Down a short ramp and into the rows of bike stands. Almost everyone there was a cyclist, so I just propped the rig up and headed inside without even thinking about wasting time locking it.

I don’t think many riders had stopped this soon – but the staff seemed to know everything about what we were doing, and asked enthusiastically about how it was going as they served my cappuccino, cake and water refills. I was busy chatting with a cyclist on the table next to me about the event when one of the film crew spotted me at the tables outside and came over. I’m guessing the few minutes of interview he filmed didn’t make the grade as I’ve not managed to find them in any of the official material since. This was something I was very aware of at the time to be fair – much as I love this sport, and will talk enthusiastically to anyone about it, my face is not exactly camera friendly material. So it wasn’t exactly a disappointment.

I’d barely got rolling again before the first bit of off-roading became necessary. The embankment section of the path was closed off with wire gates. I looked back briefly to see if I’d missed an obvious detour. And then realised the easiest solution was just to ride down the farm track and alongside the vineyard it led too. It was grassy, and muddy, but mostly firm and very rideable. And, it must be said, a lot of fun for such a short stretch. Even the little steep gravelly ramp at the end back onto the path made for a nice distraction from the wide open expanses of river valley and wind. Before long though the landscape began to change – steep mountainous sides to the valley started to close in, and I realised this was where the gradual ascent up towards the main pass began. That summit was still around 100km ahead, but from my recollection of the profile I knew we were starting to head up towards it. I stopped to try and capture a photo of this feeling of the sides of the valley closing in, but didn’t really capture any aspect of the sensation.

Something I did along this stretch was to try something completely knew to me – I put my very old Jawbone headset on and fired up my extensive selection of Deezer downloads on shuffle (more than 700 tracks – but hey, it was a long road ahead). For some reason the idea of riding with music has never grabbed me and I’ve shied away from doing it. Feeling it would detract from the experience, or distract me in some way. Well, I hadn’t reached the end of the first song before I realised how wrong I’d been. The bone conduction meant I did not lose a sense of what was around me. And if anything, the music seemed to amplify the beauty of my surroundings – at that point, a twisting section of deep, dark damp green forests along a narrow cutting in the river. A correspondingly massive and majestic choral anthem of Mercury Longview struck up and flowed with me around the curves. Somehow shuffle seemed to pick tracks to perfectly match the surroundings – or maybe my brain focused on what the music brought into view. Readers from other blog posts will know I am not religious, but that doesn’t mean I’m immune to the occasional spiritual moment. So when what seemed to be a wire sculpture of an angel appeared ahead at exactly the moment when the lyric “God’s love will save our light” cried out, I’m not gonna lie – a damp patch appeared in the corner of my eye. Followed almost immediately by me laughing out loud when I reached the statue and realised it was actually a butterfly. Like I said, my mind was clearly fitting the surroundings to the soundtrack. If you fancy singing along, here are a few of the other tunes I remember from the start of this first riding experiment with music:

• Further, by Longview
• No Cars Go, by Arcade Fire
• Painted by Numbers, by The Sounds
• Tracy’s Flaw, Skunk Anansie
• You’ll Follow Me Down, but the version with Pavarotti (which against a backdrop of the Alps I do not have words to describe)
• Take on Me, by A-ha (of course!)

The last of those it turns out is an especially good track for punching up short climbs. Coincidentally (and I only found this out after the fact) the third of the tracks above is by a band from Helsingborg, the destination of the second ferry crossing of the event.

Very early on in my ride planning I’d picked Bolzano as a good point for my first proper food stop. Over halfway to the pass, properly onto the uphill part of the day, and a big town with plenty of options. When I got there though, I dithered somewhat. The first restaurant I headed towards looked a bit to slow and laid back. So I settled for a roadside pizza stall, which served up large tasty slices quickly, along with coke and water refills. Plus a modest scrap of shade to hide from the now fierce heat of the early afternoon. Wind, uphill, heat – I guess at least it wasn’t raining.

I can’t remember if I wrote this about my journey through here in 2017, but there is no escaping from the fact that the Adige valley isn’t t exactly fragrant. There’s no polite way of saying this – it smells like shit. I guess to be fair it is mostly the area around Bolzano – too much humanity squeezed into too small a space in a hot country. The romans may have invented town plumbing, but they didn’t exactly bother to try and mask it’s odour. It’s an odd feeling that such beautiful surroundings smell so bad – but your nostrils do kind of close off to it after a while. The landscape started to become more alpine before and after the town itself. Dark damp tunnels leftover from old railway lines, where the path cut through rather than over and around the rocky mountainside. A handy first check of the front lighting system that I’d be using in earnest descending the other side after dark. Each time we crossed the river now, short steep Z bends pulled us up and out of the ravine to small meadows, with their long grasses and yellow and purple wild flowers all clumped together. It was lovely riding, but fiercly hot too. Up ahead a Slovenian couple who I’d played leapfrog with all morning were stopped by a “bike station” – one other NC4K rider was using the air pump whilst the rest of us took turns to grab refills at the water fountain, and dowse ourselves, caps and sleeves with cooling water.

“This wind, heat, and steady uphill is a slog” – the guy by the pump said, or words to that effect.

 “Death by a thousand cuts” I replied out of instinct.

He laughed, followed by me, and finally the Slovenians. I swear the levity took a degree or two off the oppresive temperature.

As the afternoon wore on I passed more and more sights I recognised. The odd sequence of tennis courts and athletic track which the path wound around, before popping out by the hotel I’d ridden out from at 2am seven years back. I was working up a thirst for coke, and maybe an ice cream but the small sequence of villages didn’t oblige. Pulling alongside 3 or 4 other riders as we approached at a T junction in a small village I spied a shop opposite. But on closer inspection, my hopes faded:

“A fucking shoe shop. Who the fuck needs a shoeshop on such a hot afternoon. All I want is a coke and a ice cream”  flashed through my mind, and apparently also out of my mouth. The small bunch I was stood with broke down in laughter at my outburst. One of them even offered me his unopened coke, which I of course refused.

In unison, at the first gap in traffic we swung left onto the curving hill up and out of the town. The route was beginning to climb properly now as we headed toward the real start of the pass. The road was also significantly busier and not all of the traffic was patient or gave us much room. Without thinking I swore at a couple of especially bad drivers before remembering I was wearing an event cap and possibly could be penalised for being less than a perfect ambassador for the ride. They did drive like total dicks though. So I did have a reasonable defence at least. It was several sections of busy uphill road before I spotted a gas station with a large cafe to satisfy my cravings. Unfortunately, negotiating the left turn across the busy roundabout involved more angry drivers hooting their horns at me daring to take a safe position on the road. Expletives exchanged, the moment passed and the forecourt of the garage came into view.

I wheeled the bike up the ramp and dumped down at the nearest open table on the shaded veranda with the delightful view of cars and vans filling at the nearby pumps. They had coke though, and ice cream, and a Radler Zero for good measure – hydration is important in such hot weather after all. Sat cooling off, I counted maybe 8 or 10 other NC4K caps at the cafe and probably twice that taking the turn off from the road onto a path a few hundred metres down from the garage. When I eventually managed to haul myself out of the chair and mount up, it still took me few moments to identify the exact route of the path from the surrounding industry service roads.

The landscape made one last transition into full alpine mode from here – aside from occasional flat meadows, it was largely roads or paths either heading up steeply, or down steeply as they wound around the houses and farms set along the hillside. It was steep enough that up ahead two guys were already pushing – the first I’d seen so far. They congratulated me for keeping riding as I slogged past. In truth though, I was in the wrong gear and in serious danger of stalling out – so I didn’t dare stop. Luckily the worst gradient of the ramp was short enough that I could blast up and over the final section, which immediatelly flattened across a bridge before swooping back down again the other side. The route alternated between path and road, but there was at least some shade from overhanging trees along this stretch. The rolling terrain was lovely, and on any other day would have been nothing but fun. But I hadn’t yet settled into the ride and I was still thinking too far down the road and riding too hard – impatient to get to my destination for the day. I picked better gears and managed to spin more easily over the next few similar ramps, but finally I hit one which also floored me. A deceptive bend which looked as if it would flatten immediately pitched into a second, much longer haul that I only managed half of before dismounting and pushing the last short section up to a barn, whose shade I stood in for a moment, partly to get my breath back, but also for a nature break. At least I wasn’t dehydrated, I thought, as I watered the edge of the recently mowed field.

The heat, wind, and gradients were beginning to take a toll – a late aftenoon torpor was setting in, laziness in the legs and fogginess in the head. A general store appeared as the road took a dogleg turn through a village at the top of one of the rises. I immediately pulled over to join the 10 or so other riders present. Although on closer inspection, it was mostly what seemed to be a group out on a club ride and only a couple were clearly fellow NC4K riders. My brain just couldn’t think of what I needed so I grabbed another coke and a juice of some kind. The latter being downed instantly, and the former half drunk with the rest going into my pocket for later. I knew I hadn’t really eaten enough proper food for the day, so I also wolfed down a muesli bar, a gel, and a couple of bananas which I’d grabbed on a second visit into the shop. I still felt pretty crap, even though I was going well on time. The thought that I was close to the last climb up and over the pass was a double edged sword. The top would be the end of most of the work for the day, but I still had to get there. And I knew, despite the climbing already done,  the last part was the steepest. The terasse outside the shop had no shade, so there was no point lingering. I stoked up, and headed out as quickly as I could recover. The road pitched down again immediately, and became much flatter. I cossed the railway first, and then the river – only to come back again when the Wahoo beeped at me angrily at my mistake. I’d missed that the route threaded between the two. My speed picked up across the easier terrain – and as I sped along the dead straight, pan flat path my mood improved too. I knew exactly where I was – this was the meeting of two valleys. Up ahead was Vipiteno,  the last town before the pass. Beyond it was probably no more than 20km to the top. First though I needed to put in some proper fuel.

 The cobbled streets of the town looked lovely, with enticing eateries either side. But they were all busy, and I didn’t really have time or patience for anything slow. Scanning left and right, I eventually dumped myself at a much quieter bar/cafe at the top edge of town. Their food options were a tad limited, but the array of small plates of anti-pasto looked properly delicious. So I got the waitress to put one of pretty much everything they had on my order, and headed outside with a bottle of water and a beer (zero of course). With my slow pace and regular stops, I figured I must be pretty much at the tail by now. Which did not trouble me in the least. I’d set myself the very pessimistic target of being over the pass by midnight, and in Innsbruck by 2am. But it was still broad daylight, and at this rate even with the likelihood of some pushing, I’d be over the pass by ten. A few stragglers passed as I ate – one of whom, a Brit of about my age, puffed into view out of the steep towm streets and came over to chat.  We exchanged words about the day so far but most of our conversation was about what lay ahead. I wasn’t certain but conveyed my vague impression that we had maybe 20km to the top, about half of which was the punchy part of the climb. I seem to remembering the chap comment that he’d probably be walking some of that, and most likely I agreed that I expected too as well.

Long evening shadows were taking the sting out of the heat as I rolled out, past the bus station next to the cafe. Unexpectedly, the route crossed the main road and climbed the farm meadows on the right hand side of the valley, rather than pitching directly up the left which I knew it would take later. I remembered in 2017 climbing up from the other side seeing the daunting sight of the autostrade elevated high in the sky and realising I still had that distance to climb up to get across. But this time was different. As I wound around barns and houses the highway was there, perched up on massive concrete piers, but at a guess they couldn’t have been much more than 100 or 150 metres above me. There could not be much more climbing left than that – not much more than an average ride back home. After a last half kilometer under the highway and along the railway I finally came to the point I had been fearing – the real climb. A sharply rising switchback where the path pitched upward and disappeared into the pine clad mountainside high above. This was the final push to  the top. And with impeccable timing – the needle dropped onto a near perfect track on my playlist: Hate Street Dialogue by The Avener. It was followed soon after by Midlife Crisis, from Faith No More. Honestly, they are both cracking tunes to climb an ugly hill. I dropped gears and my pedalling sync’d to the heavy drum beat as I swung around the first bend and got stuck into the climb. It was steep, but I was surprised to find it was not beyond me. I span past the Brit, who was walking as he had predicted. But as the friendly “well done, keep going” faded behind me I still felt comfortably within myself. I was sucking down gulps of air, and alternating position  … up 2 gears, stand …. down 2 gears sit … repeat. At no point though was I running out of steam. The gradient was just low enough for me to ride a sustainable cadence. As I rounded each dogleg I became more confident that I had the legs for this. And then, finally, to my amazement the electricity pylons and open pastures came into view. I immediately knew from my last time here that I’d done it. All that trainging had paid off – I had finally I found some climbing legs. And yes, I do know Brenner is the easiest of all alpine passes, but to me getting up it was still a result.

The finally dogleg was flat – off the short stretch of lane, under a wooden arch, and onto the cycle path which I had fond memories of from before. In the dim grey light, I sped along, enjoying the novelty of the tunnels which lit up automatically as you entered them just as much as I had the first time. The chilly evening air was just finding it’s way into my bones as I pulled off the path and into the strange, almost deserted urban glow of Brennero. A bizarre duty free relic from a Europe that once had real borders. It took no time to find the kebab shop my planning had shown would be one of the few places likely to still be open by the time I got there. Although for some odd reason which I will never understand, on top of a mountain, it seemed like a good idea to order a fish burger with chips. Not exactly a logical choice so far from the sea, but it hit the spot – albeit I did not get close to finishing it. The hardest part of the day was behind, but physically and mentally I was not in a great place. Maybe too much caffeine from the cokes, or too much exertion from the climbs. Whatever it was my stomach was not settled enough to process food properly, and my brain felt foggy. I dithered around paying and gearing up, and had to stop on the other side of the loop back around town when I realised I had not put nearly enough clothes on to cope with the night air. A couple of riders passed me and asked if I was OK as I unpacked my entire saddle bag to get out leggings, warm base layers, a jacket, and gloves. The difference was instant – as I rolled under the buildings, past the old customs post and onto the downhill I immediately felt better. The breeze on my face was cooling, waking me up from the mental slumber just as my wheels picked up speed onto the long, perfectly smooth descent. This was what I’d been waiting for, the last 40km of downhill run to Innsbruck.

Except it wasn’t downhill. OK, sure, the 17km after the summit was all freewheeling. But the moment I forked right off the main road and onto a side road it became clear the organizers had routed us along the neighbouring hillside rather than heading straight down the pass. The first few short painful pitches I swore out loud as I slogged up them. Eventually, I still swore but gave up slogging and just pushed. There was no pride to be saved here, I just needed to reach my bed however I could. Rounding one downhill corner a little carelessly my ride nearly ended. I was pelting along in the middle of the road, with a bus coming upwards still veering back onto it’s side of the road after a single lane stretch of road works. Braking and swerving hard, the I skimmed past the front of the bus, ducking under the side mirror which missed me by centimetres at most. I was shaking with the adrenalin as I stood at the red traffic light waiting for my turn along the gravelly broken stretch of repairs. I’d let my anger and tiredness distract me from riding carefully. I resolved not to let that happen again, and took the last few descents with much more care and much less bad humour. I’m still sure there was a proper downhill route which would have saved the extra 250m of climbing in the dark – the brochure had promised had promised us “40km of downhill to Innsbruck”.

By this stage, I hadn’t really needed my lights on their most powerful setting – but the very last stretch to the outskirts of the city was a potholed track across open fields. Cranking the full 2000 lumens out of my front light seemed a much better policy than hitting a hole which could break me or the bike. Just before reaching this point I’d seen a fellow rider bedding down in a bus stop. I wondered if he knew how close he was to the city – as I flowed effortlessly across the fields, I could see streetlights and houses below me. I also wondered how much punishment he was going to take in the night – a few mozzies had already feasted on the scant patches of bare skin I was showing. The one thing that didn’t occur to me was that he’d forget the backpack I saw him offloading. But sometime the next day I saw a post that from someone who had left their passport behind after a bus stop sleep and felt sure this was probably him. I guess I wasn’t the only rider suffering brain fog as the night wore on. 

The potholed track eventually jettisoned me onto a brightly light suburban street – another bus wooshing past as I pulled up, checked the way, and turned. Flying steeply downhill and checking for drain covers and other hazards the edge of the city approach rapidly. In no time at all I ran out onto wide open boulevards and negotiated the tricky maze of tram tracks and one way streets to the hotel I had marked as a waypoint. I was stood on a cobbled street outside the Urban Inn by 23.30 – over two hours ahead of my expected arrival time. Despite the fatigue it was a great result for the first day. Although juggling bike and a stiffly sprung heavy wooden door, I came close to a second ride ending event. Tripping down the steps inside I just barely recovered the fall before breaking the bike or my ankle. The owner of the apartment had been very happy with me taking the bike to the room – and aside from the odd spatter, it was mostly still clean. The stairs proved trickier than they had mentioned though – an akward twisting flight up to the first floor. I didn’t care. I was into my room, unpacked, with devices on charge and me in bed by midnight. It was premature to say the hardest part was behind me – in fact the toughest climb was waiting for me tomorrow. But I was smiling all the same. The first of the opening four challenging days was done – well done in fact.

Total for the day: 218km – Total so far: 218km