L'Eroica, Giaole in Chianti

When the early pioneers of cycling first raced the one day classics and the emerging grand tours there were no team support vehicles, few metalled roads and carbon was just a common element. Even in the ‘40s when Coppi soared with apparent effortlessness over the roads of Cisalpine Gaul the surfaces were rudimentary and the only person with a 22 speed indexed gear system was Flash Gordon. This spirit is what makes L’Eroica a race of legend; a race which transports ordinary men back to a time of heroes.
(photocredit)

We are in Giaole in Chianti and at the end of the small town square is an 'Agritubel' style cattle gate and a huddled group of men muffled in scarves, hats and overcoats. The incongruous LED display on the wall beside them displays the time and the temperature. The former is 5:15am and the latter is a bone-chilling 2º - it is pitch dark and a ghostly vapour hangs over the town. Out of the swirling mist come the shadows of men on dew dappled bicycles. The machines, like the men, are of all vintages; an early Holdsworth and a Claud Butler, a silent blue coven of Bianchis, garish Colnagos, a sober black Singer, some French Peugeots and an elaborate English Hetchins.

Imprisoned in sheds and garages, offices and workshops these machines and men had come to reclaim their birthright. They would endure cold, physical pain and exhaustion, flout the dictates of safety, and suffer, of their own free will, because in suffering they may realise themselves.

Scrutinizing and authentication were perfunctory and in moments il gruppo was on the asfalto. The black sky was strewn with stars and the cold air bit at the flesh. Hands were thrust into clothing to retain some sensation and we spun the highest gears to avoid freezing. Ten kilometres of descent made locating gear levers perilous because of their proximity to the front wheel.

At last the road turned left and kicked up sharply. It was pitch dark apart from the small pools of light spilled by the bikes themselves. With frozen fingers I felt for the gear levers and somehow selected a lower gear. Our first stretch of the strada bianca was actually quite forgiving by the standards of what was to come but it seemed challenging enough. The surface is crushed limestone with occasional outcrops of the ‘living rock’ beneath it. I think that darkness was probably the best way to ‘see’ it to start with. The end of this short (2km) section at Luciagnano brought us back to the asfalto and a sharp descent and climb.

The strada from S. Giovanni highlighted the greatest danger of the white roads. Descending on an unpredictable surface with no possibility of braking on the bends makes slips and crashes (some at quite high speed) and ever present danger. The long section between Bivio Radi and Murlo was a long uphill slog but I found (to my surprise) that both the Holdsworth and I were more than capable of climbing it in bottom gear.

The big climb to Montal Cino was my undoing however and coming up a steep and strongly cambered turn of Strada I found myself in a dizzying 1mph fall. I walked the next 100m wiping the blood from my arm and the dust from my lovely Woolistic Peugeot/Michelin team shirt. Shortly afterwards Dave’s back tyre punctured. It transpired after the third puncture that the rim tape was damaged.

Perhaps it was enthusiasm after escaping the first Strada but our big screw up came shortly afterwards. On the descent from Montal Cino we got carried away and missed a sign. We ended up in Buonconvento thus missing out 30km of the route. After a moral tussle about the ethics of missing out a chunk of the route we noticed that this would mean also missing two checkpoints. This decided it and we back-tracked and added between 10 and 15km to our route.

From there we were always rushing to catch up. Our gruppo were way ahead and we slogged on, tight lipped and in our own worlds, until we reached the strado. This was a particularly unpleasant section with lots of gravel filled potholes and it seemed to take forever to reach Buonconvento once more. By this time we had passed four control points and Ristoro. The food is what marks L’Eroica out from all other sportifs. Salami, Italian breads, cakes, grapes, Chianti wine, strong black coffee, vegetable stews and olive oil all tasted wonderful.

By the time we reached Ponte D’Arbia we were fatigued and the following 30km of Strada sent us into survival mode. Dave’s back tyre puctured again and his high bottom gear was slowing him up but still we were catching people and passing them. By the time we got to the CastelNuovo control (the final one before the finish) we were ahead of quite a lot of bikes on the road. Indeed we ended up pulling a small train of modern bikes through the last 20km. The strada to Vagliagli was a monster but I managed to keep pumping away. My legs have never felt so strong in adversity. They kept on giving hour after hour without significant mental intervention. Finally we swept down the last of the strada into Gaiole in the pitch black and icy cold.

The welcome of the locals was genuinely warm and we were clapped through the last villages and shown to the food tent when we finally crossed the line after 13hours on the bikes.

I was really glad to have done the race but we said “never again”. Never? Well, maybe never.