Sardinian memories
Posted: Fri May 02, 2014 3:30 pm
There's so much to say about the Sard experience, it's hard to get it all down. But I've tried. Below is a summary of the Fifth Stage, last Thursday, April 24th.
Thanks so much to the Tripleshot gang: Steve, Eric, Jenn, Peter and especially Dave who coaxed us along. We invented a lot of fun before, during and after each event. Ciao ...
Stage Five of the Giro di Sardegna was epic. Not that any of the previous four days racing were short of the pain and pleasure the anxieties and excitement of bike racing. Or that the following sixth stage was lame. Just on paper Stage Five promised an extra effort. Over 2,500 meters of climbing on its 130km course.
We woke up to another day of bluish skies with high clouds that would burn off as the day worn on. We were lucky, no rain at all in six days of racing. It was only after the last day of racing, on our ride back to the Chia Lagoon Resort, that the skies opened up with a deluge and drenched us all.
Stage Five was also the only race away from our base in the south-western corner of Sardinia. Just to get to the start we had to get up extra early, drive north past the Sard capital, Cagliari (just say “Calgary”). We left the base resort at Chia Lagoon at 7:30 aiming to get to the start by 8:30.
The stage start was from the village of Dolianova. My Italian/English dictionary translated it to “New pain/grief.”
But a check on the internet shows it’s Latin for “Place of Olive Oil.” The dictionary translation came closer to our experience.
We packed Dave’s rental Fiat, a modern stylish boxy high ceiling car, with four bikes in the back. Peter’s ‘Stork’ was tied to a foam pad on the roof. There wasn’t room for my bike so I hitched a ride with the other Canadian, Denis (of Italian heritage) from Toronto, who’d rented a sleek white Alfa Romeo. A roomy sedan.
We were only a little late leaving, on the road by 7:35, but figured that Italian driving, an experience in itself, would make up the time. Making all the right turnoffs and negotiating rush hour traffic as we approached Cagliari was another thing altogether. Still, we made it to the starting area by 8:45. Denis was getting nervous, his the MedioGiro bunch was starting at 9:30am. For the Tripleshot crew our GrandGiro start followed at 9:45.
There must have been close to 100 cars and vans scattered around and between the trees on the sandy lot of the park that served as our starting point. As soon as Denis squeezed his car between two team vans we jumped out and started assembling our bikes. I was desperate to make some last minute adjustments to stop my front brakes from squealing but needed to find a T25 wrench. In broken Italian I asked riders from the team vehicles; they had nothing. Then, against his first guess Denis found the famous T25 on his multi-tool. As I was adjusting my brakes Denis, in fluent Italian, was talking to several riders beside us. When his conversation ended he came over to me and said “one of the racers died last night in his room at the Chia resort.” “What?!!” I answered. Denis said the Italians had just told him that the fellow’s mates were waiting for him at breakfast. After breakfast, when he still hadn’t shown up, they went up to his room with Hotel staff. They found him dead on the floor. “That’s all they know” Denis said.
There was nothing more. The race would go on.
My mind was swirling but I also was desperate to find some toilette facilities. I bid Denis good luck as he cycled off to the start line and I was off in the other direction. I made do with no facilities and there was time for a bit of a warm-up and then off to the starting gate. A long round about route took me to the start line from the opposite direction. Our Tripleshot gang had staked out positions right behind the ribbon. Following the example from the Italians cyclists I slipped my bike under the ribbon, elbowed in, and joined our team while the rest of the peloton was fenced in and lined up over a 100 meters back.
The MedioGiro riders, another 120 or so, were rounded up beside us, they were almost set to go. A race director was talking non-stop in Italian over a megaphone, only those at the front of mass of cyclists could hear what he was saying over the din of chatter. We’d tuned him out as it was all in Italian anyway.
Faintly I heard the race director say the word “morte” and then a request for silence. The crowd around us stopped talking. In a low voice I told our group “A guy died last night at the Resort. He was found in his room this morning.” We joined in the silence. After the silence I told everyone as much as Denis had told me. It wasn’t until later that day we were given a little more information. He was a 54 year old man. Apparently a massive sudden heart attack.
Moments after the silence the MedioGiro pack were off. As he went by the Tripleshot gang called out “Go Denis.”
Another 15 minutes of anxious waiting and finally we started out. It was shoulder to shoulder, down both sides of the road. The police and motorcycle escorts had closed down the road. Oncoming traffic had been pulled over. It was a melee. Riders were trying to move up towards the front of the peloton on the left and on the right. Sometimes right up the middle. We headed into the centre of Dolianova. Restored cobbled roads for tradition’s sake rattled our bikes and bodies. We weren’t going full bore but must be hitting 30kph. There was no time to look at the Garmin. With a sharp right turn we squeezed past a parked car on the left. Then a cry from an old man on the side of the road “Allee.” We went up a rise, down a patch, then after 4kms in this sardine can of a peloton we arrived and stopped under at an inflated plastic arch. This was the official race start. The Tripleshot gang were well positioned, fairly near the front. Down the road in front of us the lead cars, police and escort motorcycles revved up again. Then we were off. Passed under the inflated gate leaving Dolianova behind until the end of the race.
It was an easy ride for 2kms. The only sound a steady whir of tubulars and 700C tires inflated to 110-120psi was occasionally interrupted by the odd “Occhio” (pronounced ‘Oak-ee-oh’) meaning ‘Heads up’, as the rider to your left or right warns their position. Sometimes you’d hear “Sinestra” (left) or “Destra” (right). On rare occasions, in English, “on your right” from one of the 20 or so UK riders or from a Tripleshotter.
A few minutes later we started up the first mountain and the pack split apart. For those who had fought their way to the front it was a small advantage to have a bit of ground on those further back. Now it was the legs that were separating the front riders from the rest of us. Everyone around me was breathing hard. A few rogues are talking nonchalantly but that doesn’t last long. Too soon I started to fall back, riders were passing on my left and right. Shit, there’s no way I can sustain this pace and it’s only been two kilometers into this first 5 km climb up 400 meters. A voice calls out behind me. It’s Dave, “Come on Joe, show’em what you can do.” I croaked back “Not today Dave.” But his encouragement was just enough. I found a surge and joined two or three other guys I’d gotten to know over the last few days as they crawled by. We were all in the same boat, slowly losing contact with our regular group of 30 riders. We could see our familiar group about 200 meters up ahead of us and we now managed to hold them at a steady gap. There were five of us now pulling together and moving upwards, our own mini group. We rounded a corner of the mountainside and we could see the top less than 500 meters ahead.
Once the road leveled off and started heading downward we turned into a real chase group. We were able to descend faster as a small group than the 30 in front of us. After some hard pulls on the straightaways and some tight cornering we managed to get the last rider of the group in our sights. Another minute of hard pulling and we’d reeled them in. As soon as the descent finished I moved towards the front. There was Peter tucked behind a rider then going up to do his turn at the front. It was good to see him and I joined in the work. A river on our right wound through the medium sized mountains. There was no forest on these rocky outcrops around us. Just an odd stubby tree or two, shrubs and green tufts of grass.
We were climbing again but the pace had eased. It was a civilized truce, no one was attacking the group. Anyway these hills were just little bumps in the road. Short bursts. We’d broken through the valley and up ahead was the town of Ballao.
We roared through the village. The narrow streets called for extra attention. Someone overtook me just as we headed into a corner and then slowed down. I had to squeeze in tight to the gutter just to avoid touching wheels.
It was good to clear the town and head back to the countryside. As soon as we passed the village limit the roads rose up again. It was the beginning of almost 45 minutes of climbing interspersed with some more fast descents.
The first relentless climb dragged on for about twenty minutes. Thankfully the pace was steady. Some of us were out of the saddle and shifting into a slightly bigger gear to break the monotony of the grind. Then we’d quickly sit back and shift into a gear that could be spun. We wound around switchbacks and kept going up. First we breezed through the village of Armungia, 350 meters above Ballao. There was a quick descent followed by another 400 meters of climbing. The equivalent of climbing the Malahat again and a bit more still. The sun had come out by now and we were all feeling its strength. We could see the next town, Silius (that’s what it’s called), 5kms before we got there. It was away in the distance, above the guardrails snaking around the mountainside.
As we approached the town we were greeted with one final steep straightaway. Silius families had come out in groups and were clapping as we went by. As the applause from the first group faded another group of townsfolk started clapping up ahead. The applause and cries of encouragement faded and then were bolstered. They blended into each another as we moved through the town. Everyone in our group was lapping it up. Then we went by a whole class of school children and their teacher cheering us on.
The road through the town didn’t stop climbing. We kept going up until finally the village ended. As we approached the last building in town we turned right, we’d reached over 650 meters and now coasted down a narrow street. We left the town on a back road.
We only dropped three or four riders on that climb and were still 30 strong. Now we started rolling through undulating countryside. Some windmills were churning ahead of us. They disappeared and reappeared as we dropped below a hill top and came back up again. As we got closer we could make out the top of the rotating blades from one mill. Then all three mills, their towers partially submerged below the hilltop. These monster wind vanes were silently and steadily being driven by the same tailwind that helped keep our legs rolling around. We came right up beside the windmills, veered off to the left and they were gone.
At the top of the next short climb we came upon our second water stop. Suddenly the bunch was slowing and calling out “Aqua, Aqua.” We squeezed right to grab a bottle from the swift moving volunteers who clutched five bottles across their chests with their left arm and fed bottles over to riders with their free right hand. I snagged a 500ml bottle and shoved it into my jersey pocket. Peter and I slipped back, shared some encouragement, but never really lost contact with the group. A minute later, when the road leveled off, I was able to refill my empty water bottle on the bike. I took a couple of swigs from the remainder in the 500ml container before tossing it to the side of the road. Most everyone else had guzzled the entire 500 ml and chucked the empty bottle on the road right at the water station. You had to watch not to run over or get tangled up on the littered empty plastic bottles.
There were a few new faces in our group. Some Italians and the Norwegian jersey clad woman, Lillian. And there was the usual gang of Italians. On one rise a little later, a fellow came up to Peter and said “Gambas fortes” (strong legs). Peter answered back “Yeah.”
Over the next 10kms we gradually went back down to 300 meters. We all knew the climbing wasn’t done. The tranquility of rolling countryside, wheat and alfalfa fields and billowing clouds in the distance would soon be broken by another grinding climb. Gradually we were moving towards some more mountains.
The sun kept beating down when we came to a junction where a policeman held out a little baton and directed us onto a larger road. There was a small crowd cheering us on as went through the crossroads.
The junction marked the beginning of the final climb, it wasn’t steep but it just kept coming. After just 500 meters my legs were screaming. All around me riders were panting. Soon some riders were dropping behind. I was just trying to keep in contact with the leaders, then sensed that there was no one behind me. Getting dropped now would be the end of my ride with our group. At the same time there was no way I could move up to gain some ground. I was stuck hanging onto the back of about twenty riders strung out on this mountain. I was determined not too loose too much ground from the last two Italian mates in front of me. I told myself I can tolerate this. I took a quick coasting break then shifted into a larger gear, got out of the saddle, latched myself back on, then settled back down to the steady grind and an easier gear.
We came around a corner and could make out the guard rails in the distance. They showed that the road wound around and disappeared up behind another distant hill. I decided not to look so far ahead and focus instead on the riders hanging onto the tail end of the string in front of me.
It’s painful. I remembered the quote from the Australian pro Phil Anderson “Pain is temporary, memories are forever” as told to me by another Aussie, Jamie, last night after dinner.
I glanced over the guardrail on my right. The slope fell away into a distant green valley.
I took a sip of water. A short pleasure. Then some more honking out of the saddle to give the legs a breather. “As long as these guys don’t go any faster I can handle this” I told myself. The minutes rolled on.
The two Italians team mates dropped behind me. I’m yo-yoing five to ten meters from the last rider in the group. Another quick coast and another little burst and I’m back on again. We’ve been climbing non-stop for over six kilometers.
We round a corner and luck has placed a water stop. The group slows and most swoop in for a bottle. I grab a bottle too and stow it away into my jersey back pocket. With a little more effort I’m in contact with the group. At the end of a final long straightaway the grade eases ... it’s almost flat. A wave of relief rolls over me as 20 of us start our descent. The computer says we’ve covered 100kms. That means just 30 to go.
The next 10kms whiz by as we drop from 600 meters to 350. We’re back into some rolling hills then have to struggle back up to 450 meters. Another drop and we’re right back down to 350 meters again. This time there’s some relief in a little valley with shade from a mini forest. Then a final kick in the teeth. We grind ourselves back up to 500 meters. We’re out of the shade, exhausted and moving beside the exposed barren rock.
But that’s it. We barrel down the mountainside at 65kph rounding a few last hairpins before the straightaway into Dolianova. The inflated gate in the distance signals the end of the race. I’m just happy to have hung in but the pace picks up and then join in the group lunge forward in a collective sprint.
Our group takes its time as we cover the four kilometer wind down back to the start.
At the car Denis has already changed. With a wash cloth and water I’m able to clean the salt and sweat off before settling into the comfort of shorts and a T-Shirt. The organizers have put on a pasta party and we line up with the others for some little Sardinian shell shaped pastas in pomodoro sauce. Then, it’s back to the Resort and for a feast at the buffet.
One more day to go.
Thanks so much to the Tripleshot gang: Steve, Eric, Jenn, Peter and especially Dave who coaxed us along. We invented a lot of fun before, during and after each event. Ciao ...
Stage Five of the Giro di Sardegna was epic. Not that any of the previous four days racing were short of the pain and pleasure the anxieties and excitement of bike racing. Or that the following sixth stage was lame. Just on paper Stage Five promised an extra effort. Over 2,500 meters of climbing on its 130km course.
We woke up to another day of bluish skies with high clouds that would burn off as the day worn on. We were lucky, no rain at all in six days of racing. It was only after the last day of racing, on our ride back to the Chia Lagoon Resort, that the skies opened up with a deluge and drenched us all.
Stage Five was also the only race away from our base in the south-western corner of Sardinia. Just to get to the start we had to get up extra early, drive north past the Sard capital, Cagliari (just say “Calgary”). We left the base resort at Chia Lagoon at 7:30 aiming to get to the start by 8:30.
The stage start was from the village of Dolianova. My Italian/English dictionary translated it to “New pain/grief.”
But a check on the internet shows it’s Latin for “Place of Olive Oil.” The dictionary translation came closer to our experience.
We packed Dave’s rental Fiat, a modern stylish boxy high ceiling car, with four bikes in the back. Peter’s ‘Stork’ was tied to a foam pad on the roof. There wasn’t room for my bike so I hitched a ride with the other Canadian, Denis (of Italian heritage) from Toronto, who’d rented a sleek white Alfa Romeo. A roomy sedan.
We were only a little late leaving, on the road by 7:35, but figured that Italian driving, an experience in itself, would make up the time. Making all the right turnoffs and negotiating rush hour traffic as we approached Cagliari was another thing altogether. Still, we made it to the starting area by 8:45. Denis was getting nervous, his the MedioGiro bunch was starting at 9:30am. For the Tripleshot crew our GrandGiro start followed at 9:45.
There must have been close to 100 cars and vans scattered around and between the trees on the sandy lot of the park that served as our starting point. As soon as Denis squeezed his car between two team vans we jumped out and started assembling our bikes. I was desperate to make some last minute adjustments to stop my front brakes from squealing but needed to find a T25 wrench. In broken Italian I asked riders from the team vehicles; they had nothing. Then, against his first guess Denis found the famous T25 on his multi-tool. As I was adjusting my brakes Denis, in fluent Italian, was talking to several riders beside us. When his conversation ended he came over to me and said “one of the racers died last night in his room at the Chia resort.” “What?!!” I answered. Denis said the Italians had just told him that the fellow’s mates were waiting for him at breakfast. After breakfast, when he still hadn’t shown up, they went up to his room with Hotel staff. They found him dead on the floor. “That’s all they know” Denis said.
There was nothing more. The race would go on.
My mind was swirling but I also was desperate to find some toilette facilities. I bid Denis good luck as he cycled off to the start line and I was off in the other direction. I made do with no facilities and there was time for a bit of a warm-up and then off to the starting gate. A long round about route took me to the start line from the opposite direction. Our Tripleshot gang had staked out positions right behind the ribbon. Following the example from the Italians cyclists I slipped my bike under the ribbon, elbowed in, and joined our team while the rest of the peloton was fenced in and lined up over a 100 meters back.
The MedioGiro riders, another 120 or so, were rounded up beside us, they were almost set to go. A race director was talking non-stop in Italian over a megaphone, only those at the front of mass of cyclists could hear what he was saying over the din of chatter. We’d tuned him out as it was all in Italian anyway.
Faintly I heard the race director say the word “morte” and then a request for silence. The crowd around us stopped talking. In a low voice I told our group “A guy died last night at the Resort. He was found in his room this morning.” We joined in the silence. After the silence I told everyone as much as Denis had told me. It wasn’t until later that day we were given a little more information. He was a 54 year old man. Apparently a massive sudden heart attack.
Moments after the silence the MedioGiro pack were off. As he went by the Tripleshot gang called out “Go Denis.”
Another 15 minutes of anxious waiting and finally we started out. It was shoulder to shoulder, down both sides of the road. The police and motorcycle escorts had closed down the road. Oncoming traffic had been pulled over. It was a melee. Riders were trying to move up towards the front of the peloton on the left and on the right. Sometimes right up the middle. We headed into the centre of Dolianova. Restored cobbled roads for tradition’s sake rattled our bikes and bodies. We weren’t going full bore but must be hitting 30kph. There was no time to look at the Garmin. With a sharp right turn we squeezed past a parked car on the left. Then a cry from an old man on the side of the road “Allee.” We went up a rise, down a patch, then after 4kms in this sardine can of a peloton we arrived and stopped under at an inflated plastic arch. This was the official race start. The Tripleshot gang were well positioned, fairly near the front. Down the road in front of us the lead cars, police and escort motorcycles revved up again. Then we were off. Passed under the inflated gate leaving Dolianova behind until the end of the race.
It was an easy ride for 2kms. The only sound a steady whir of tubulars and 700C tires inflated to 110-120psi was occasionally interrupted by the odd “Occhio” (pronounced ‘Oak-ee-oh’) meaning ‘Heads up’, as the rider to your left or right warns their position. Sometimes you’d hear “Sinestra” (left) or “Destra” (right). On rare occasions, in English, “on your right” from one of the 20 or so UK riders or from a Tripleshotter.
A few minutes later we started up the first mountain and the pack split apart. For those who had fought their way to the front it was a small advantage to have a bit of ground on those further back. Now it was the legs that were separating the front riders from the rest of us. Everyone around me was breathing hard. A few rogues are talking nonchalantly but that doesn’t last long. Too soon I started to fall back, riders were passing on my left and right. Shit, there’s no way I can sustain this pace and it’s only been two kilometers into this first 5 km climb up 400 meters. A voice calls out behind me. It’s Dave, “Come on Joe, show’em what you can do.” I croaked back “Not today Dave.” But his encouragement was just enough. I found a surge and joined two or three other guys I’d gotten to know over the last few days as they crawled by. We were all in the same boat, slowly losing contact with our regular group of 30 riders. We could see our familiar group about 200 meters up ahead of us and we now managed to hold them at a steady gap. There were five of us now pulling together and moving upwards, our own mini group. We rounded a corner of the mountainside and we could see the top less than 500 meters ahead.
Once the road leveled off and started heading downward we turned into a real chase group. We were able to descend faster as a small group than the 30 in front of us. After some hard pulls on the straightaways and some tight cornering we managed to get the last rider of the group in our sights. Another minute of hard pulling and we’d reeled them in. As soon as the descent finished I moved towards the front. There was Peter tucked behind a rider then going up to do his turn at the front. It was good to see him and I joined in the work. A river on our right wound through the medium sized mountains. There was no forest on these rocky outcrops around us. Just an odd stubby tree or two, shrubs and green tufts of grass.
We were climbing again but the pace had eased. It was a civilized truce, no one was attacking the group. Anyway these hills were just little bumps in the road. Short bursts. We’d broken through the valley and up ahead was the town of Ballao.
We roared through the village. The narrow streets called for extra attention. Someone overtook me just as we headed into a corner and then slowed down. I had to squeeze in tight to the gutter just to avoid touching wheels.
It was good to clear the town and head back to the countryside. As soon as we passed the village limit the roads rose up again. It was the beginning of almost 45 minutes of climbing interspersed with some more fast descents.
The first relentless climb dragged on for about twenty minutes. Thankfully the pace was steady. Some of us were out of the saddle and shifting into a slightly bigger gear to break the monotony of the grind. Then we’d quickly sit back and shift into a gear that could be spun. We wound around switchbacks and kept going up. First we breezed through the village of Armungia, 350 meters above Ballao. There was a quick descent followed by another 400 meters of climbing. The equivalent of climbing the Malahat again and a bit more still. The sun had come out by now and we were all feeling its strength. We could see the next town, Silius (that’s what it’s called), 5kms before we got there. It was away in the distance, above the guardrails snaking around the mountainside.
As we approached the town we were greeted with one final steep straightaway. Silius families had come out in groups and were clapping as we went by. As the applause from the first group faded another group of townsfolk started clapping up ahead. The applause and cries of encouragement faded and then were bolstered. They blended into each another as we moved through the town. Everyone in our group was lapping it up. Then we went by a whole class of school children and their teacher cheering us on.
The road through the town didn’t stop climbing. We kept going up until finally the village ended. As we approached the last building in town we turned right, we’d reached over 650 meters and now coasted down a narrow street. We left the town on a back road.
We only dropped three or four riders on that climb and were still 30 strong. Now we started rolling through undulating countryside. Some windmills were churning ahead of us. They disappeared and reappeared as we dropped below a hill top and came back up again. As we got closer we could make out the top of the rotating blades from one mill. Then all three mills, their towers partially submerged below the hilltop. These monster wind vanes were silently and steadily being driven by the same tailwind that helped keep our legs rolling around. We came right up beside the windmills, veered off to the left and they were gone.
At the top of the next short climb we came upon our second water stop. Suddenly the bunch was slowing and calling out “Aqua, Aqua.” We squeezed right to grab a bottle from the swift moving volunteers who clutched five bottles across their chests with their left arm and fed bottles over to riders with their free right hand. I snagged a 500ml bottle and shoved it into my jersey pocket. Peter and I slipped back, shared some encouragement, but never really lost contact with the group. A minute later, when the road leveled off, I was able to refill my empty water bottle on the bike. I took a couple of swigs from the remainder in the 500ml container before tossing it to the side of the road. Most everyone else had guzzled the entire 500 ml and chucked the empty bottle on the road right at the water station. You had to watch not to run over or get tangled up on the littered empty plastic bottles.
There were a few new faces in our group. Some Italians and the Norwegian jersey clad woman, Lillian. And there was the usual gang of Italians. On one rise a little later, a fellow came up to Peter and said “Gambas fortes” (strong legs). Peter answered back “Yeah.”
Over the next 10kms we gradually went back down to 300 meters. We all knew the climbing wasn’t done. The tranquility of rolling countryside, wheat and alfalfa fields and billowing clouds in the distance would soon be broken by another grinding climb. Gradually we were moving towards some more mountains.
The sun kept beating down when we came to a junction where a policeman held out a little baton and directed us onto a larger road. There was a small crowd cheering us on as went through the crossroads.
The junction marked the beginning of the final climb, it wasn’t steep but it just kept coming. After just 500 meters my legs were screaming. All around me riders were panting. Soon some riders were dropping behind. I was just trying to keep in contact with the leaders, then sensed that there was no one behind me. Getting dropped now would be the end of my ride with our group. At the same time there was no way I could move up to gain some ground. I was stuck hanging onto the back of about twenty riders strung out on this mountain. I was determined not too loose too much ground from the last two Italian mates in front of me. I told myself I can tolerate this. I took a quick coasting break then shifted into a larger gear, got out of the saddle, latched myself back on, then settled back down to the steady grind and an easier gear.
We came around a corner and could make out the guard rails in the distance. They showed that the road wound around and disappeared up behind another distant hill. I decided not to look so far ahead and focus instead on the riders hanging onto the tail end of the string in front of me.
It’s painful. I remembered the quote from the Australian pro Phil Anderson “Pain is temporary, memories are forever” as told to me by another Aussie, Jamie, last night after dinner.
I glanced over the guardrail on my right. The slope fell away into a distant green valley.
I took a sip of water. A short pleasure. Then some more honking out of the saddle to give the legs a breather. “As long as these guys don’t go any faster I can handle this” I told myself. The minutes rolled on.
The two Italians team mates dropped behind me. I’m yo-yoing five to ten meters from the last rider in the group. Another quick coast and another little burst and I’m back on again. We’ve been climbing non-stop for over six kilometers.
We round a corner and luck has placed a water stop. The group slows and most swoop in for a bottle. I grab a bottle too and stow it away into my jersey back pocket. With a little more effort I’m in contact with the group. At the end of a final long straightaway the grade eases ... it’s almost flat. A wave of relief rolls over me as 20 of us start our descent. The computer says we’ve covered 100kms. That means just 30 to go.
The next 10kms whiz by as we drop from 600 meters to 350. We’re back into some rolling hills then have to struggle back up to 450 meters. Another drop and we’re right back down to 350 meters again. This time there’s some relief in a little valley with shade from a mini forest. Then a final kick in the teeth. We grind ourselves back up to 500 meters. We’re out of the shade, exhausted and moving beside the exposed barren rock.
But that’s it. We barrel down the mountainside at 65kph rounding a few last hairpins before the straightaway into Dolianova. The inflated gate in the distance signals the end of the race. I’m just happy to have hung in but the pace picks up and then join in the group lunge forward in a collective sprint.
Our group takes its time as we cover the four kilometer wind down back to the start.
At the car Denis has already changed. With a wash cloth and water I’m able to clean the salt and sweat off before settling into the comfort of shorts and a T-Shirt. The organizers have put on a pasta party and we line up with the others for some little Sardinian shell shaped pastas in pomodoro sauce. Then, it’s back to the Resort and for a feast at the buffet.
One more day to go.