“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.
There is legend.
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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