velotel
07-19-2013, 03:51 PM
Continuing the history of my trip to Cingoli, Italy. Warning, this is long. So long that I’ve broken it into two parts, going up and going down. Thought about cutting it way back but then figured what the heck, I’m writing it, I’m going to enjoy myself. If people don’t like the length, jump to the end and look at the pics. Or don’t click on the post.
You can also blame it on old potatoe; he wanted more of Italy. Cheers
Time for a good ride. Turned out to be better than I had in mind. Around 75 K with maybe 2100 vertical meters of hard going. That wasn’t what I’d been contemplating.
What I thought I wanted was a nice spin through a bunch of fine Italian countryside I didn’t know on roads I didn’t know. Influencing my modest ideas for the day was my map, a Michelin regional map, scale 1:200,000. On a scale of 1 to 10, around 4 or at best 5 for riding. Might even be a bit generous on that but on the other hand in the end it did serve my purposes well enough. Detailed enough to let me rough out where I was going but vague enough to let me remain for long periods of time in a state of semi-lost.
I’d seen a bit of the country behind Cingoli during my first evening’s sortie. A soft valley with a few small villages and hamlets scattered around against a backdrop of low mountains. And no main highways. Seemed like the makings for some fine riding. Checked out the map, saw how I could make a nice little loop by dropping down the main road up to Cingoli and then circling around via the valley and coming back into town from just about exactly the opposite direction I left in.
Checked the tires, water bottles, camera battery. All good. Weather overcast and cool enough that any downhills and fast rolling could be cold. I was in south Italy, this was late June, almost July, and I’m debating whether to wear shorts or not! The shorts lost. Light tights with two layers of light-weight short-sleeved wool jerseys up top plus a sleeveless windbreaker vest. I hate being cold! Okay, all set, bowl and roll time. Sweet riding, feeling good, fast cruising mode. But cold. Road contours around town, I dive into a long rounder to the left, and slam on the brakes. Maybe it was the bowl or maybe just because the day was so glorious. No choice, had to stop for a kodak moment. The first of many. The road curling around a small rock outcropping, a line of trees on the outside arc, an overlook with a wooden bench for sitting and soaking up the views. Sweet. Low hills and a chaos of small valleys stretching out to the Adriatic. Weather looking unstable with pockets of rain in the not so far distance.
Back on the bike, going downhill, picking up speed, swinging through linked turns, into a beautifully round S turn, gravity pulling hard. Get to an intersection, a road going to the left, the direction I want. Stop, pull out the map, check the names of the towns on the road sign with the map. Find one, not the other, good enough.
Off again, contouring across the hill, sweeping turns, past a village huddled on a ridge. Rock walls, some stuccoed, some nude, red tile roofs, some decorated with the ubiquitous satellite dish. Always a bit incongruous. More downhill, more speed. Drop into a river valley and over a bridge, to the left an imposing dam. Learned later that the lake behind it is the largest man-made body of water in central Italy. Also that the army had stationed troops there for months on end to guard the dam. They were afraid of a terrorist attack during the Giro. Taking out the dam would wipe out the valley all the way down through Ancona.
Road climbed up past the dam. Good views of the lake. I rode past all of them. Not a political statement, I just don’t find reservoirs attractive, even full. To my eyes they’re blots on the land. This one was no exception. A gorgeous place, a lovely body of water, and totally foreign. I kept riding, heading to Apiro, an unknown destination but on my map.
Getting there meant going up, steeply up, baking under a washed out sun. In the distance beyond an arm of the lake high, steep hills dark with trees, one ridge covered in yellow flowers of some sort. Road slowly bent right, got steeper, a town at the top of the hill came into view. Apiro. Tall tower jutting over the roofs.
My plan was to go left at Apiro on a road my map showed would eventually take me back around to Cingoli. Started rolling past the town and caught a glimpse of a narrow archway through a wall with a stop light. The light was green, well okay then, through I go. Onto a narrow street between walls of low buildings curving out of sight, tires thumping over tight cobbles. Shudders were closed over all the doors and windows. Maybe everyone was having a nap after an early lunch or maybe a nap before a late lunch. I seemed to have the place to myself.
Spent way more time there than I would have imagined in advance. Exploring narrow streets, narrower alleys, stopping and shooting, even setting up my bike for a shot. No summit planned for the ride so instead a town shot to replace the traditional bike-on-col shot. The habitants like colors. Some walls stuccoed a salmon color, town hall a light pastel green, others a soft cream, others a tired gray, the church in white and red brick. Looked like a persuasive salesman had passed through with a truck of green paint on sale; seemed like all the shudders were painted the same shade of green. The streets were cobbles with shallow grooves worn by traffic. Saw a grand total of three or four people moving around. Didn’t even hear the blare of a television. Spotted another arch, rode through, turned left, wandered along until I found myself back on the road I wanted, direction Frontale. Behind me to the left was the hill I’d ridden down from Cingoli. Looked a long way away. Especially vertically.
Beautiful road, two lanes, smooth rolling, long, swinging turns, rolling grades, just what I had in mind. A cruise. Lake off to the left sparkling in the sunlight between green hills. Still looked alien. Wait, what was that! Turn around, get off the bike for a good look. Somebody likes to amuse him or herself. Driveway lined with sculptures of river rock. Nice. Might have to try that at home.
Back on the bike, cruising through fields of I don’t know what. Kept seeing a village with what appeared to be a big church with a tower. Or maybe a castle. Looked interesting, maybe it was Frontale though seemed too far away. Came around a bend and saw it was not only not close but separated from where I was by a couple of valleys flowing off the mountain. Definitely not Frontale which I was supposed to be closing in on according to the last road sign. I was also getting closer and closer to this formidable looking mountain up which there’s apparently a road from Frontale. I knew because I’d noticed the road on the map back at the hotel and thought that could be interesting to ride someday. Someday as in not today, another day. The closer I got, the less interesting it looked. There was only one way a road could get where it apparently went and that was by going up fast and furiously. Wasn’t what I was looking for. I was looking for a cruise.
Frontale turned out to be above the road I was on. What the heck, a quick spin up to check it out, back down and on my way. A small village, group of boys kicking a soccer ball against a wall, couple of old guys sitting at a tiny, round, metal table drinking some sort of pale colored drink. If I’d been in France I’d have said Pastis. A few televisions were competing for the air space over the street with a cacophony of italien chatter and music. A beat up looking classic flatbed truck, Italian version, sitting in the square near an arch. Looked around for a fountain where I could fill a water bottle. No fountain.
Rolled through the arch just to cast an eye on the road up the mountain. Just a look, no more. Narrow, a drop to the left into the valley bottom. Road angled up but not as bad as I thought it would be. Pedal up a little just to check it out a bit more. A hundred or so meters, no more. Road reared up but I was still on my second cog and feeling good. That hundred meters passed by, then another, maybe more. Like a moth heading towards a speeding headlamp, I was doomed; I was going up the mountain.
But only to the village of Pian dell’Elmo where it looked like there was a road contouring across the mountain. A rationalization to soften the pain. By then I was deep into climbing mode on my biggest cog and wondering if I really shouldn’t go ahead and buy a new cassette with a 29 cog when I got home. That puppy was steep! And no slack. Zero. Then it went steeper yet! And stayed like that for a while. Which turned out to be good because when it let up just a tad, what would have been otherwise steep was almost a relief. Almost.
Also hot, no air moving. Hotter than I’d dressed for given those earlier cool-verging-on-cold temperatures. Shed a jersey, drank. Off again, feeling stronger. Amazing how a pause can restore strength. Heard a car coming up behind me, engine sounded like it was straining. I could relate. Passed me going slowly. Like maybe the driver was watching the temp gage. I was ignoring mine.
Road swung through a bend to the left and I was in the shade of tall trees. Instant air conditioning. Looked to the left and in the distance and below me I could see the hamlet that the road from Pian dell’Elmo went through. I liked seeing that. Meant it was all downhill after the village. That must have energized my legs because I rolled into Pian dell’Elmo at a good clip, all things being relative. Like I shifted from my 27 cog to the 25.
Not sure if Pian dell’Elmo is a village or hamlet. Probably village because I saw a soccer field, a campground, a snackbar, plus a restaurant! Maybe a small resort for Anconians wanting to flee the heat. Restaurant looked like it might have been open but didn’t stop. I was feeling good, didn’t want to break the spell. Had to stop anyway a little up the road. I was in a thick forest and full shade and the air con was working overtime. Put the wool back on. I was also glad for the tights despite the heat during the heart of the climb. I was at 900 meters altitude or so and the air was verging on cold! In the shade. The end of June, in southern Italy!
I have no idea how much time had passed since Apiro but in that time, I’d seen maybe half a dozen cars moving, max. And only the one since leaving Frontale. That changed slightly at Pian dell’Elmo. There’s another road up the mountain from the north. Actually two roads from different directions that merge into one before the village. Discovered that fact later. Plus there are two other roads up the mountain from another side. With my remarkable nose that can sniff out the best roads wherever I am, I had rather cleverly stumbled onto the steepest of them all for my jaunt up the mountain. This on a day when all I wanted was a light cruise.
Heading into the unknown, got passed by two cars then a couple of Italian army jeeps full of soldiers. Broke out of the forest into a small clearing where the road made a round hairpin to the right. Straight ahead was the road I’d been thinking of following. Or rather might have been the road I’d seen on the map. No signs. Also no pavement. Also dropped at a steep pitch. That it wasn’t paved didn’t bother me; I enjoy dirt roads with skinny tires. What I didn’t like was the possibility that I’d drop down it into a hole and have to ride all the way back up to where I was. Plus some corner of my brain was flipping out that I was even contemplating not riding to the summit. I mean I’d gone this far, I’d be nuts to not go to the top!
Just one fly in that particular soup. Actually a couple. I had no idea how much further away and up the summit was (nor how steep the road was; I mean I’m in Italy right!) and I wasn’t at all sure that I’d be able to go over the top and down and around back towards Cingoli. My map showed a road that did that but the map’s track record was a bit thin. On to the top anyway. If it doesn’t work, I can always turn around and ride down what I came up. Which could be exciting.
Turned out to be a good call. Not so far away, 4+ K and only 300 vertical. Two of the K were steep and sustained but after what I’d already climbed, they seemed relatively easy. Discovered later those two K are right around 9%. The view wasn’t much at first, unless you like looking at lots of trees. Then things started opening up. I was curling around the mountain and looking out at a sea of convoluted mountains, the summits lost in dark clouds. Just quick shots through the spaces in the trees so not enough to see much. Then the road went limp and I was bounding along up the road so fast I even shifted up onto the big ring! And stayed on it!
I’d left the forest and was in a sort of hollow, to the left the summit of the mountain, a long ridge of small crags a few hundred meters higher, to the right a gentle rise of grasses and wildflowers. Thought maybe this was the summit but as soon as I left the meadows, the road angled up again. Not enough to move me off the big ring. I was in a small valley curving right and I’m on top of a mountain. An odd place. Kept wondering where in the heck this was taking me.
To the top, so to speak. Not that the summit could have been defined without some sort of instrument. The road stopped climbing, went flat for a while, then eased into going down. Nothing but fields of grasses and wildflowers to either side. And my first big views of where I was.
A gorgeous place. Stopped and shook the last drops of water out of my bottles while watching a field of tall grass and wildflowers flexing and sighing with a light wind. Beyond was a huge drop into a round, soft valley, a chaotic checkerboard of fields and forests crawling over rumpled hills and small vales and beyond a scrambled mix of mountains under a sky of threatening clouds. A place to explore some day. But not today. Now it was down, back to Cingoli. The big question, by which direction.
You can also blame it on old potatoe; he wanted more of Italy. Cheers
Time for a good ride. Turned out to be better than I had in mind. Around 75 K with maybe 2100 vertical meters of hard going. That wasn’t what I’d been contemplating.
What I thought I wanted was a nice spin through a bunch of fine Italian countryside I didn’t know on roads I didn’t know. Influencing my modest ideas for the day was my map, a Michelin regional map, scale 1:200,000. On a scale of 1 to 10, around 4 or at best 5 for riding. Might even be a bit generous on that but on the other hand in the end it did serve my purposes well enough. Detailed enough to let me rough out where I was going but vague enough to let me remain for long periods of time in a state of semi-lost.
I’d seen a bit of the country behind Cingoli during my first evening’s sortie. A soft valley with a few small villages and hamlets scattered around against a backdrop of low mountains. And no main highways. Seemed like the makings for some fine riding. Checked out the map, saw how I could make a nice little loop by dropping down the main road up to Cingoli and then circling around via the valley and coming back into town from just about exactly the opposite direction I left in.
Checked the tires, water bottles, camera battery. All good. Weather overcast and cool enough that any downhills and fast rolling could be cold. I was in south Italy, this was late June, almost July, and I’m debating whether to wear shorts or not! The shorts lost. Light tights with two layers of light-weight short-sleeved wool jerseys up top plus a sleeveless windbreaker vest. I hate being cold! Okay, all set, bowl and roll time. Sweet riding, feeling good, fast cruising mode. But cold. Road contours around town, I dive into a long rounder to the left, and slam on the brakes. Maybe it was the bowl or maybe just because the day was so glorious. No choice, had to stop for a kodak moment. The first of many. The road curling around a small rock outcropping, a line of trees on the outside arc, an overlook with a wooden bench for sitting and soaking up the views. Sweet. Low hills and a chaos of small valleys stretching out to the Adriatic. Weather looking unstable with pockets of rain in the not so far distance.
Back on the bike, going downhill, picking up speed, swinging through linked turns, into a beautifully round S turn, gravity pulling hard. Get to an intersection, a road going to the left, the direction I want. Stop, pull out the map, check the names of the towns on the road sign with the map. Find one, not the other, good enough.
Off again, contouring across the hill, sweeping turns, past a village huddled on a ridge. Rock walls, some stuccoed, some nude, red tile roofs, some decorated with the ubiquitous satellite dish. Always a bit incongruous. More downhill, more speed. Drop into a river valley and over a bridge, to the left an imposing dam. Learned later that the lake behind it is the largest man-made body of water in central Italy. Also that the army had stationed troops there for months on end to guard the dam. They were afraid of a terrorist attack during the Giro. Taking out the dam would wipe out the valley all the way down through Ancona.
Road climbed up past the dam. Good views of the lake. I rode past all of them. Not a political statement, I just don’t find reservoirs attractive, even full. To my eyes they’re blots on the land. This one was no exception. A gorgeous place, a lovely body of water, and totally foreign. I kept riding, heading to Apiro, an unknown destination but on my map.
Getting there meant going up, steeply up, baking under a washed out sun. In the distance beyond an arm of the lake high, steep hills dark with trees, one ridge covered in yellow flowers of some sort. Road slowly bent right, got steeper, a town at the top of the hill came into view. Apiro. Tall tower jutting over the roofs.
My plan was to go left at Apiro on a road my map showed would eventually take me back around to Cingoli. Started rolling past the town and caught a glimpse of a narrow archway through a wall with a stop light. The light was green, well okay then, through I go. Onto a narrow street between walls of low buildings curving out of sight, tires thumping over tight cobbles. Shudders were closed over all the doors and windows. Maybe everyone was having a nap after an early lunch or maybe a nap before a late lunch. I seemed to have the place to myself.
Spent way more time there than I would have imagined in advance. Exploring narrow streets, narrower alleys, stopping and shooting, even setting up my bike for a shot. No summit planned for the ride so instead a town shot to replace the traditional bike-on-col shot. The habitants like colors. Some walls stuccoed a salmon color, town hall a light pastel green, others a soft cream, others a tired gray, the church in white and red brick. Looked like a persuasive salesman had passed through with a truck of green paint on sale; seemed like all the shudders were painted the same shade of green. The streets were cobbles with shallow grooves worn by traffic. Saw a grand total of three or four people moving around. Didn’t even hear the blare of a television. Spotted another arch, rode through, turned left, wandered along until I found myself back on the road I wanted, direction Frontale. Behind me to the left was the hill I’d ridden down from Cingoli. Looked a long way away. Especially vertically.
Beautiful road, two lanes, smooth rolling, long, swinging turns, rolling grades, just what I had in mind. A cruise. Lake off to the left sparkling in the sunlight between green hills. Still looked alien. Wait, what was that! Turn around, get off the bike for a good look. Somebody likes to amuse him or herself. Driveway lined with sculptures of river rock. Nice. Might have to try that at home.
Back on the bike, cruising through fields of I don’t know what. Kept seeing a village with what appeared to be a big church with a tower. Or maybe a castle. Looked interesting, maybe it was Frontale though seemed too far away. Came around a bend and saw it was not only not close but separated from where I was by a couple of valleys flowing off the mountain. Definitely not Frontale which I was supposed to be closing in on according to the last road sign. I was also getting closer and closer to this formidable looking mountain up which there’s apparently a road from Frontale. I knew because I’d noticed the road on the map back at the hotel and thought that could be interesting to ride someday. Someday as in not today, another day. The closer I got, the less interesting it looked. There was only one way a road could get where it apparently went and that was by going up fast and furiously. Wasn’t what I was looking for. I was looking for a cruise.
Frontale turned out to be above the road I was on. What the heck, a quick spin up to check it out, back down and on my way. A small village, group of boys kicking a soccer ball against a wall, couple of old guys sitting at a tiny, round, metal table drinking some sort of pale colored drink. If I’d been in France I’d have said Pastis. A few televisions were competing for the air space over the street with a cacophony of italien chatter and music. A beat up looking classic flatbed truck, Italian version, sitting in the square near an arch. Looked around for a fountain where I could fill a water bottle. No fountain.
Rolled through the arch just to cast an eye on the road up the mountain. Just a look, no more. Narrow, a drop to the left into the valley bottom. Road angled up but not as bad as I thought it would be. Pedal up a little just to check it out a bit more. A hundred or so meters, no more. Road reared up but I was still on my second cog and feeling good. That hundred meters passed by, then another, maybe more. Like a moth heading towards a speeding headlamp, I was doomed; I was going up the mountain.
But only to the village of Pian dell’Elmo where it looked like there was a road contouring across the mountain. A rationalization to soften the pain. By then I was deep into climbing mode on my biggest cog and wondering if I really shouldn’t go ahead and buy a new cassette with a 29 cog when I got home. That puppy was steep! And no slack. Zero. Then it went steeper yet! And stayed like that for a while. Which turned out to be good because when it let up just a tad, what would have been otherwise steep was almost a relief. Almost.
Also hot, no air moving. Hotter than I’d dressed for given those earlier cool-verging-on-cold temperatures. Shed a jersey, drank. Off again, feeling stronger. Amazing how a pause can restore strength. Heard a car coming up behind me, engine sounded like it was straining. I could relate. Passed me going slowly. Like maybe the driver was watching the temp gage. I was ignoring mine.
Road swung through a bend to the left and I was in the shade of tall trees. Instant air conditioning. Looked to the left and in the distance and below me I could see the hamlet that the road from Pian dell’Elmo went through. I liked seeing that. Meant it was all downhill after the village. That must have energized my legs because I rolled into Pian dell’Elmo at a good clip, all things being relative. Like I shifted from my 27 cog to the 25.
Not sure if Pian dell’Elmo is a village or hamlet. Probably village because I saw a soccer field, a campground, a snackbar, plus a restaurant! Maybe a small resort for Anconians wanting to flee the heat. Restaurant looked like it might have been open but didn’t stop. I was feeling good, didn’t want to break the spell. Had to stop anyway a little up the road. I was in a thick forest and full shade and the air con was working overtime. Put the wool back on. I was also glad for the tights despite the heat during the heart of the climb. I was at 900 meters altitude or so and the air was verging on cold! In the shade. The end of June, in southern Italy!
I have no idea how much time had passed since Apiro but in that time, I’d seen maybe half a dozen cars moving, max. And only the one since leaving Frontale. That changed slightly at Pian dell’Elmo. There’s another road up the mountain from the north. Actually two roads from different directions that merge into one before the village. Discovered that fact later. Plus there are two other roads up the mountain from another side. With my remarkable nose that can sniff out the best roads wherever I am, I had rather cleverly stumbled onto the steepest of them all for my jaunt up the mountain. This on a day when all I wanted was a light cruise.
Heading into the unknown, got passed by two cars then a couple of Italian army jeeps full of soldiers. Broke out of the forest into a small clearing where the road made a round hairpin to the right. Straight ahead was the road I’d been thinking of following. Or rather might have been the road I’d seen on the map. No signs. Also no pavement. Also dropped at a steep pitch. That it wasn’t paved didn’t bother me; I enjoy dirt roads with skinny tires. What I didn’t like was the possibility that I’d drop down it into a hole and have to ride all the way back up to where I was. Plus some corner of my brain was flipping out that I was even contemplating not riding to the summit. I mean I’d gone this far, I’d be nuts to not go to the top!
Just one fly in that particular soup. Actually a couple. I had no idea how much further away and up the summit was (nor how steep the road was; I mean I’m in Italy right!) and I wasn’t at all sure that I’d be able to go over the top and down and around back towards Cingoli. My map showed a road that did that but the map’s track record was a bit thin. On to the top anyway. If it doesn’t work, I can always turn around and ride down what I came up. Which could be exciting.
Turned out to be a good call. Not so far away, 4+ K and only 300 vertical. Two of the K were steep and sustained but after what I’d already climbed, they seemed relatively easy. Discovered later those two K are right around 9%. The view wasn’t much at first, unless you like looking at lots of trees. Then things started opening up. I was curling around the mountain and looking out at a sea of convoluted mountains, the summits lost in dark clouds. Just quick shots through the spaces in the trees so not enough to see much. Then the road went limp and I was bounding along up the road so fast I even shifted up onto the big ring! And stayed on it!
I’d left the forest and was in a sort of hollow, to the left the summit of the mountain, a long ridge of small crags a few hundred meters higher, to the right a gentle rise of grasses and wildflowers. Thought maybe this was the summit but as soon as I left the meadows, the road angled up again. Not enough to move me off the big ring. I was in a small valley curving right and I’m on top of a mountain. An odd place. Kept wondering where in the heck this was taking me.
To the top, so to speak. Not that the summit could have been defined without some sort of instrument. The road stopped climbing, went flat for a while, then eased into going down. Nothing but fields of grasses and wildflowers to either side. And my first big views of where I was.
A gorgeous place. Stopped and shook the last drops of water out of my bottles while watching a field of tall grass and wildflowers flexing and sighing with a light wind. Beyond was a huge drop into a round, soft valley, a chaotic checkerboard of fields and forests crawling over rumpled hills and small vales and beyond a scrambled mix of mountains under a sky of threatening clouds. A place to explore some day. But not today. Now it was down, back to Cingoli. The big question, by which direction.