Setting the scene.
The itinerary for the trip was pretty simple. Two weeks, two hotels, eight men and their bikes. Unpack the bikes and go for a ride. Then eat, sleep, eat some more, then go to bed for the night. Sightseeing was completely optional and typically coincidental to our trying to find something to eat. After twelve days of cycling, I had travelled 935km and not one of them was a dud.

Week 1: Fiuggi
Fiuggi was an absolute gem. The hills knocked a couple of the boys around a bit, especially Willy, the tallest and heaviest rider on the trip. No-one complained though, we all found our own pace and enjoyed the scenery (okay, some hills were contested with a measure of vigour, but when one of your crew pulls on a pair of shorts with the world champion’s stripes, he’s got to be prepared to defend them). There were romantic Italian towns, stunning valleys and breathtaking snow-capped mountains in the distance. The roads meandered everywhere, never rising too quickly, and always fun to come speeding down on the other side.

Our day typically started early as we went searching for a café. The quality of the coffee dictated our destination, which was fine with me, because the quality of the pastries invariably matched the coffee. The best thing: a few euro was all you needed for a morning hit of coffee and a pastry (custard-filled croissants, mmm). Once we were done at the café, it was back to the hotel and into the dining room to fuel up for the day ahead. An hour later we’d be getting ready in our rooms, bit of soccer on TV while having a stretch, then in the saddle for a few hours.

The air was dense with the pollen, tiny little pom-poms floating about. Fortunately, we were able to plow through it without a single sniffle or itch. The bugs were a little more difficult to contend with though. They were big and made a sport of aiming for cyclists. But they also made for some entertainment, like the time Rob, who was always bemoaning his slow pace on the climbs, cried out in disgust: “I’ve just been passed by a butterfly.”

How did we work out where to go riding? The hotel had all that sorted out for us with a map and detailed routes including profiles so we could pick out the climbs easily. We were all drawn to the jagged profiles with big elevations, so there were never any arguments about where we wanted to go. It took us a few days to get to know the area though, so there were a few wrong turns and a few extra kilometers, but it always seemed to work in our favour. How could it not? We were on holidays (in Italy, no less!) and there was no reason for us to hurry back home.

Our leisurely mornings had one unfortunate consequence: we always arrived back at the hotel well after lunch had been served and siesta was in effect. We suffered some ordinary meals but there was nothing for it. Hungry cyclists cannot wait a couple of hours to eat. Regardless, the food was generally good, and the hotel treated us like kings when dinner rolled around. Before that though, there was time to watch the Giro d’Italia (which was well under way and would continue for the duration of our own tour), enjoy a cupetto of gelato, and perhaps a little snooze... I went for a stroll around town a couple of times but there wasn’t much to entertain.

Week 2: Francavilla al Mare
For the second week of the tour, we travelled to the other side of Italy and landed in a place that resembled the Gold Coast, albeit without high-rise buildings. Francavilla al Mare and its neighbour Pescara were all about the beach and the ocean. Our attention was off in the other direction though, to the hills and tall mountains in the west. We had one major goal for this leg: to climb the Block Haus, a 2000m peak about 30km from our hotel. We were going up on the same day the Giro d’Italia was sending its riders there. Aside from the challenge of a 20km climb, we would be able to watch the closing kilometers of the stage from the side of the road and see riders like Lance Armstrong, Michael Rogers, and Carlos Sastre in living colour.

Our stay in Francavilla al Mare came with an added luxury, a local rider to show us around. Beppe was a hard little Italian man and he proved to have an impressive knowledge of the area, right down to the best cafes and the location of all the spigots where cool mountain water flowed freely. I think he was expecting a group of cyclo-tourists though. On our first ride, we were happy with the easy pace until we hit the first slope, then Paul, Bill and I took off, openly defying Beppe’s advice to slow down (Italians are renowned for their steady climbing pace and stories abound of many a visitor that has been bested by them after the vigour of their early effort inevitably fails. We had no fear though, because our Fiuggi training camp had sharpened our legs).

Every ride ended with a steady downhill run back to the hotel, and without a word of discussion the pace picked up. For some of the boys, like Willy and Phil who were also the slowest to ascend, they could stretch their legs and perhaps inflict a little pain. Going fast is always fun, even when you’re riding on the wrong side of the road.

It was during one of these frenzied runs back into town early in the week that Bill came off, dumping his bike while pushing a little too hard through a dusty hairpin corner. There were a few grazes but he was able to get back on, though a few kilometers later it was looking a lot worse. His hip started hurting, and by the time we got back to the hotel, he couldn’t get off his bike by himself. A trip to the hospital and an x-ray allayed his worst fears; his only worry now was finding someone that could administer an intramuscular injection for his next dose of painkillers. I arrived downstairs after the discussion had taken place, so I can’t tell you how Bill made his decision, but my guess is that compared to all the accountants and engineers in our tour group, he reckoned an immunologist has the power to make lame men walk.

At 8am the next morning, I entered Bill’s hotel room, and after a few nervous words, he lay down on the bed and pulled his pants down. Twenty-fours later, he was back on the bike, the power of immunology, no doubt.

The Giro d’Italia (and the Block Haus)
Our preparations for the day were pretty simple. Eat a decent breakfast and pack some warm clothes and food in a backpack. With our bottles full of water, we headed for the Block Haus. The race would follow us four or five hours later.

There were a few bike riders out on the road to the Block Haus, plus a few more on the climb itself, enough to give us the sense that for today at least, we owned the road. Happily, what few cars there were never challenged our supremacy. I kept my eyes on the peak for the duration of the commute, my excitement and expectation growing with each pink banner and sign that appeared. Now I could understand what it is like for a AFL fan to step onto the MCG or a mad cricketer to visit Lords. Except I was riding on the race course just a few hours ahead of the pros, something akin to an AFL or cricket fan walking out onto the field to have a kick or hit out on the day of the match.

The first half of the climb was easy for Bill, Paul and me. It was hot and we took our helmets off after a few kilometers, otherwise, our legs were turning over very smoothly and we were passing dozens of cyclists. Then came the small village where the road steepened dramatically as the road snaked through a series of hairpin turns. Spectacular stuff, but for the first time, we had to strain against the pedals. Fortunately, the slope eased as we left the village, but the damage had been done. My legs were starting to lose their suppleness and I was pulling on the handlebars. I wasn’t in pain, my chest wasn’t heaving, but there were still ten kilometers of climbing to go (later, we would learn that we were the only ones to suffer those hairpins because Beppe lead the rest of the team around the village on a much gentler slope. Oh well, at least the three of us could say that we stuck to the race route...).

A few kilometers later, we stopped to refill our bottles with fresh mountain water and dawdled a bit. I was starting get hungry, and worse, the biscuits I had been nibbling weren’t doing anything to satisfy the mild gnawing sensation in my belly. Back on the bike, I was getting tired and discovering the true circumstances under which a word like “relentless” should be used. By this time, we must have been climbing for about an hour, though I can’t be certain. I had my eyes on the slope, the next corner, or just up, rather than the clock.

And then gradually, the road widened, there were parked cars, some trucks, and then several stalls, a stage and a giant screen, loud music too. We weren’t at the top yet, but Bill suggested it might be a good place to stop so that the others could catch up and we could make for the summit together. I sat down and ate.

It was noticeably cooler as we mounted up to finish off the last six kilometers of the course. A dense forest started to crowd in on us, and now there were pink banners at every kilometer, which was really important for me because I was struggling with a hunger flat. For those not familiar with the sensation, there is more to it than simply being overwhelmed by all-consuming hunger. I had no energy, my feet we too heavy to lift yet too light too apply any appreciable force on my pedals. There was an amount of light-headedness and a sickly kind of clamminess too. I had no more food, so there was nothing for it except to ease my pace and wait for the feeling to pass. And it did, about ten minutes later, with less than two kilometers to climb.

We regrouped at the top, though with road closures and preparations for the big event, the top was a few hundred meters from the actual finish line. There were plenty of spectators, lots of bikes, and another big television screen. We decided to forego all of this for a something a little quieter back down the slope. Most of the boys returned to the village, while I set up camp near the 2km banner where the road snaked back on itself a couple of times.

I spent the next three hours sitting on the side of the mountain as the clouds rolled in to block out the sun and my view of the road below. There was a steady entourage of cars carrying VIPs, police, and as the raced neared, team buses and helpers. The sound of the television helicopter slowly closed in and eventually, the first of the riders appeared below. What struck me most, as they wended their way towards me was their concentration. Every single rider was focused on the road. The crowds, the cheering, the booing, not even the smoking pink flares could distract them. Awesome stuff.

Cycling doesn’t have much to offer spectators on the course. The riders pass by too quickly, and in the absence of any information about the race that came before, there isn’t sufficient context to understand their struggle for position. So I’m going to have to buy the DVD to find out what actually happened on the day the Giro went to the Block Haus, though I’ll never have to guess at what the slope was like or how passionate Italian fans can be. Plus, I got to ride down the mountain after it was all over.

The last day of riding.
On the last day in Francavilla al Mare, the air was clearer, the land cleaner, the foliage brighter thanks to some overnight rain. The Block Haus had fresh snow too so the whole region seemed to be at its gleaming, thriving best. Though no one ever volunteered their thoughts, I suspect most of us knew it was our last chance to prove ourselves in Italy. For Paul, Bill and me this meant an impromptu battle for the polka dot jersey. The first hill went to Bill thanks to his sprinting prowess, so I had a chat to Beppe about when the next hill was due. Forewarned, I moved to the front and picked up my pace. Bill quickly joined me but Paul was caught napping (bad luck sunshine). I went on the attack—again and again—but Bill was strong enough to match me every time and as we approached the top we had to admit to a frustrated stalemate. You should know that Bill is 51 years old...

For the second half of the ride, we joined up with a friend of Bepe’s, a young man named Alessandro who admitted to training but never really racing. It only took a few kilometers for us to realise that any show of Aussie bravado, no matter how sharp our legs, was going to be futile. How did we know? Classy riders can’t hide their ability, especially when they are able to maintain a brisk pace up the hills while chatting into a mobile phone. We were humbled—and thankful too—because someone always seemed to be calling him on his mobile.

Alessandro left us after our obligatory café stop, then we finished off the ride with another dash into town.

Roma.
I didn’t like Roma. I couldn’t find any beauty in that place, I guess it had all been swept away by the constant surge of tourists. We had arrived in the middle of a hot day, and after a lengthy search, finally found our hotel. The Trevi fountain was a block away, and the Giro would be riding past our hotel the following day. Sadly, we would be at the airport by then.

That left a five hour window of opportunity for me to address my souvenir needs. My kids were expecting shoes, my wife a pendant while I had a small hope I might find the ultimate Italian bike shop. I succeeded in the former and failed in the latter. I saw the Colosseum, some Roman ruins, and the Spanish steps. Ho-hum. Perhaps I had been spoilt by the countryside.

There was one saving grace for the capital. It came the next morning, well before most of the tourists had made it out of their beds. With only a handful of spectators, I took my place in front of the Trevi and flicked my coins high into the air. I watched them hang there, and in the quiet, Roma finally began to reveal her romance and beauty to me. If I’d had my bike handy (it had already been washed and bagged for the trip home), I would’ve taken a ride through the quiet streets and I’m sure I would have discovered more of what she had to offer.