“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’entrate.” This epithet – notoriously carved above the entrance gates to Dante’s Inferno – initiated the Zoncolan climb: a narrow road with an average 15% grade for 10 kilometers. The top of the climb reaches 1700 m with stunning views over the valley. A few weeks ago I wrote about scouting the Zoncolan here. It would be a futile attempt in this blog post to express in detail each painful meter, each dragging foot of elevation gain, every aching rotation of the pedals. Oh reader! I would like to quench your curiosity with an amazing tale about our hero’s relentless battle to reach the heavenly summit. It would be a privilege to relate an epic tale of courageously facing one’s fears with the ecstatic onlookers cheering on our protagonist to new heights. To which end he presses further, out of the saddle, to a climactic victory up high.
Dear reader, I would like to relate all this, but I can’t. Dante’s journey into hell is by all accounts a “descent.” It is the spiraling “ascent” through Purgatory that is physically exhausting, emotionally draining, yet redemption awaits for those who are true of heart. For this tale, by the fourth kilometer, the mountain had gotten the better of our two-wheeled pilgrim, who descended from his bicycle to walk quite a distance. There is nothing to pen about this journey. In fact, there is no story here.
For had our hero not been witness to the most stunning interplay of human determination and elemental wrath, it would otherwise be impossible to believe. It was a stunning display of our meager existence interlaced with powers greater than we imagine.
The early afternoon scorched. Clear skies gave way to blazing temperatures. Our cyclists moved slowly up the hill, burdened with backpacks equipped with supplies for whatever adverse elements lay in store for the afternoon. Morning television reported possible late thunderstorms. Yet, it was due in part to this heat that our heroes stepped off from their bicycles and began to walk. The climb was an unbearable furnace.But as Dante’s Inferno is a mix of fire and ice, so is this mountain. Lo Zoncolan is high enough to wield freezing temperatures and gale-force winds. After hours of walking, our weary travelers made it to within 350 m of the finish line, where over 100,000 damned souls screamed and wailed in expectation of a great finish. Their moans reflected an agony of almost having been exiled to this mountain top for hours if not days, waiting for he big finish to arrive. After hours of inebriation in the blazing sun, these faceless shadows had lost their wits, teetering on the brink of insanity. Our cyclists stayed focused, climbing out of the girone that was the small mountain road and onto the grassy knoll just before the 100m sign to the finish.
The deafening loudspeaker reports announcing the peloton’s proximity rivaled heaven’s trumpeting archangels. The crowd whistled and screamed in drunken mists, spinning themselves dizzy within the mountain fog that settled. At every numerical countdown – 8 km from the finish, now 5 km, now 3 km – these specters howled and roared. Helicopters mimicked Satan’s minions, soaring overhead like black demons, beating the air with a million anxious heartbeats. The ground shook as the wind stirred the mountain sides, bringing an icy end to the day’s scorching heat.
One glance over the shoulder revealed what lay in the hours to come: black clouds grew within the eastern valley of Zoncolan. “That wrath is headed this way,” they thought. At the same moment, a distant thunder roll, then another, and the masses voiced everyone’s inner tension. The mobs gathered around the narrow asphalt path, as flashes of light lit up the crowd. Some believed they were merely early camera flashes, but far away an angry deity was aroused in a fury. The light and sound initially seemed unable to find a perfect rhythm: first a flash than a grumbling moan about half a minute later. But little by little, the two lovers slowly embraced until they were dancing directly over our heads.
Suddenly a collective scream overtook the mountain side, growing in intensity: the first riders appeared from the dark forest below. The guardians along the path locked arms and held the possessed and inebriated spirits from tearing apart the first cyclists: released like fresh souls into this unforgiving underworld. With 200 m to go, the first drops of rain fell on the racers, the road, the podium and the spectators. As Igor Anton made his way to the 50 m mark, the rain fell in diagonal sheets, riveting the protective plastic covers of the bierhaus and softening the grassy hillsides. By the time the second racer, Alberto Contador, came to that same mark, the weather changed to bitter cold. The rain became pea-sized hail, bouncing off the Spaniard’s helmet and the pavement. Lightning continued to streak and snap overhead, as the thunder that followed its steps muffled the crazed and infuriated loudspeaker, which screamed in vain to commentate meter by meter the outcome of this awesome spectacle.
Fearful and tired, the spectators dashed for shelter. What little cover there was at this altitude found itself bursting with four to five-times the number of people it was constructed to hold. Another torrent of hail and rain scattered these lost souls and created mud pits and slippery paths through the fields. Since the road was closed to the racers, the only remaining option was to wait out the storm with no cover, or hike through the treacherous, murky goat paths to get to the other side of the mountain. Our heroes threw their bikes over their shoulders, and began climbing up. They advanced towards the mayhem at the top of the mountain, which was compounded by over 100,00 people moving all at once.Scaling muddy mountain sides and straddling aluminum fences, our travelers stumbled upon the last member of the group (quite miraculously) at the top of the climb. Dressed as best as possible for foul weather, the three began to descend the mountain in a torrential thunderstorm. Lightning crashed on the hillside as the skies rumbled and cracked with discontent. Every car looking to flee the chaos maneuvered its way along the harrowing narrow roads with dropping cliffs on either side. A veritable exodus out of hell, the cars were backed up and honking, with their hazards flashing. Our travelers threaded the necessary needles to get away from this chaos and down to warmer altitudes. At a bar in the valley, Charon – the van – drove our journeymen out from the rings of hell and into a warm hotel for the evening.
Dear reader, I would have liked to have written about my personal successes on Zoncolan. In a way, I believe I just did.
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