For the briefest mile, the sun was out, the road was flat, and I blinked away last night’s anxiety dreams about my legs seizing on the bike and toppling backward off a cliff. By mile two, clouds had settled in and the road pitched steeply into the gray.
The Giro d’Italia, a famous multi-stage bicycle race that has included this gravel road in the past, calls Colle delle Finestre, “One of the hardest and most beautiful climbs in Europe, snaking its way for 18 kilometers through the woods from the Val di Susa to the Val Chisone.” The road includes roughly 30 hairpin switchbacks over three kilometers before rising above treeline. In 15 miles we gained nearly 6,000 feet of altitude, and I’ll confess that this distance took me five and a half hours to ascend. Why did it take so long? There was lots of stopping to catch my breath, taking puffs from my inhaler, standing and marveling at the lush forest, and willing myself not to resort to hike-a-bike. However, alarming lightheadedness and muscle cramping eventually forced me out of the saddle for good.
Despite my conviction that I pedaled more of this pass than Collombardo, my average speed on a 10-mile Strava segment was 2.3 mph. I gritted my teeth as I clicked on the segment rankings, convinced I must be the slowest of all time, but I was not! I was 792 out of 824 women. The slowest took 13 hours, so I imagine some camping was involved.
Although my self-esteem took a big hit during my poor performance on the first day, by day two I understood that I had to make a decision. Either I let my ego continue to beat me up for no tangible benefit, or I cheerfully accept my breathing difficulties and lack of leg strength as “the car I’m driving” and enjoy my trip through the Italian Alps in a Microlino.
My friends were waiting for me at the col, where we took a brief break next to a monument for Danilo Di Luca, an Italian cyclist who won the 2007 Giro d’Italia. I learned that Luca is a convicted doper, but honestly what professional cyclist in the 2000s wasn’t? There is also a little statue garden commemorating “9 coli più epici” — nine of the most epic cols in cycling, of which I’ve ascended three: Finestre, Col Izoard, and Mont Ventoux. Now I want to spend the winter building my FTP and return to Europe next year to crush them all!
We descended a short distance through stinging, cold rain before turning onto the rough gravel of Strada dell’Assietta. For more than 20 miles, this old military road traverses a rugged ridge high above the Chisone Valley. Along the way, it passes the ruins of 19th-century forts and barracks, but little in the way of modern civilization (there’s one rifugio that was shuttered during our trip, as the road was still closed.)
We planned to end the day in Sestriere, a ski town at the end of this traverse. It was 20 miles away, how long could it take? I mean, at 2.3 mph, how long could it … hmmm. It was after 5 p.m. and the weather had deteriorated to a steady rain. It couldn’t have been warmer than 40 degrees, and we still had 2,000 feet at altitude to gain before the next pass.
A maintenance van approached. The driver stopped beside me and rolled down his window. He said a few sentences in Italian before I interrupted him with, “Sorry, do you speak English?” He did not, but he did start into French, of which I understood “fermé, fermé,” as he struck his right palm with a stiff left hand. He was telling me the road was closed, which I knew because we had passed a “chiuso/ fermé/ geschlossen/ closed” sign next to a cement barricade at the intersection.
“Oh,” I replied with a look of contrition because I thought he was telling me I was breaking a law. I spent most of the night anxious that the road crew was going to sic the Italian police on us. Only later — the following day — did I realize he was trying to warn us that the road was impassable.
We climbed and the precipitation grew harder and colder. At 7,500 feet the rain thickened to sleet, and then big flakes of snow. Lora, Danni, and I stopped beneath Colle dell’Assietta to discuss the possibility of turning around and descending to the valley. We were soaked to the skin and none of us were well equipped to camp in wet, below-freezing temperatures. It was after 7 p.m. Sestriere was a distant dream at this point. But Amber, as usual, was out of sight somewhere ahead and we couldn’t turn around without telling her first. So we shivered onward.
A brilliant sucker hole opened up at Colle dell’Assietta, just enough to shed a few layers of doom from our demeanor. Amber had waited for us at the pass. Ahead, the roadbed was buried in a patchwork of snow. The first snowfield angled steeply to the bowl below. It wasn’t quite death-slide territory, but a fall there would not be fun.
We abandoned our bikes and clawed our way directly up the slope in hopes of capturing a big-picture view. Patchy snow continued as far as we could see, covering the roadbed until our sightlines disappeared into the ominous fog. Of everyone, I seemed to be the most skeptical that we could continue. I’ve attempted Colorado mountain roads too early in the spring and turned back for fear of sliding to my death. These Alpine slopes were liable to be even steeper, and it was cold enough that the surface snow would soon turn to solid ice. Not only were we lacking crampons or spikes, but we also had awkward heavy bikes to manage.
Danni objected to my proposal that we turn around, but I think she was mostly reluctant to give up any of our hard-won climbing. The four of us reached a compromise to descend until we reached a protected campsite. Then we would try again in the morning. Tomorrow the weather was forecast to improve substantially.
We dropped nearly 2,000 feet before the weather finally began to feel less ominous and the feeling in my toes returned. We set up camp on a patch of rocky tundra next to the closed road. Although it was now after 9 p.m. (sunset was close to 10 p.m.), I continued to fret about the Italian po-po coming to arrest us for illegal camping.
I was annoyed that I felt so anxious. I’d already made peace with driving around the Italian Alps in my underpowered Microlino. Couldn’t I also decide to not be frightened of freezing nights or authority figures or sliding to my death down a frozen couloir? I resolved to work on myself.
Danni asked about our distance for the day. “Not even 28 miles,” I replied.
So much for our 40-mile-per-day comfort tour.
“But we climbed nearly 8,000 feet today,” she said.
“Yeah. That’s right.”
Welcome to the Alps.
As night fell, the ominous fog settled into the valley, revealing the stunning snow-capped peaks surrounding us. The colors were otherworldly, the light stunning, the air so clear and pollen-free that I could almost taste my food again. These are the moments when you think “This. This is exactly what I came for.”
And it’s always worth it.
Torino-Nice Rally, day one
Turin to Bussoleno.
65.4 miles
7,165 feet of climbing
6.9 mph average moving speed
11:33 elapsed time
Torino-Nice Rally, day two
Bussoleno to Colle dell’Assietta.
27.7 miles
7,776 feet of climbing
3.6 mph average moving speed
9:45 elapsed time
I feel your pain on the slowness. However, I've never been fast so have had to accept that my strengths lie elsewhere (I generally do well with long distances). I've very much learned to enjoy the journey. And still struggle with rating myself against the relative speed of the group.
After years of thinking I will "ride myself into shape" and struggling with breathing, I went and got a prescription for an inhaler. The doctor said that they were surprised that I hadn't complained about breathing issues before. I guess I have all the classic markers for asthma (food and inhalent allergies, auto-immune disorder). The inhaler has been helpful but I am still slow.
But I am still out there, still enjoying my journeys, still happy to be mobile. I'm never giving up.