We had just broken camp and set out bleary-eyed into the bright morning when the Italian road crew passed us again. I spent far too much energy the previous night feeling nervous about our rule-breaking (wild camping is not permitted in Italy, except in special circumstances, and never in a nature preserve, which we were in. Also, this road was closed and the crew — who was there to work on snow removal — had told me so.) I braced myself for a lecture or worse, but the two men just smiled and waved.
I forget that in Italy, rules are more of a gentle suggestion than a hard line (I suppose I’ve spent too much time in Switzerland, where the rules are unquestionably the rules.) But I did wonder what the road crew thought of us, having seen us the previous evening when we were higher on the mountain. And now, 12 hours later, we were still here and still pedaling in the same direction toward potentially impassable snow drifts. Most likely they were thinking, “These silly American women. We tried to warn them. Ah well. Cosa sai fare?”
But oh, what a difference a day makes. Last night, as sleet fell and darkness was fast approaching, these mountains had looked so menacing. By morning, the sky was clear and the air surprisingly warm. With fresh legs, we made quick work of the 2,000 feet we’d ceded the previous day. We passed Colle dell'Assietta and stepped onto the crust of our first snowfield, which had looked so steep and impassable last night. In this cheerful daylight, it looked like a harmless ramp.
The first few snowfields were easy to cross and presented little danger, which was refreshing and gave me a false sense of security. Hitting them mid-morning made for perfect snow conditions: Not too icy but not yet punchy.
There were several segments where it was clear that if we had hit the Strada dell'Assietta just a week or so earlier, these snow crossings would have been too steep and dangerous to attempt. We’d remark about this frequently throughout the trip, as Danni originally wanted to start the ride during the last week of May (they changed it to the second week of June to accommodate my trip to Paris.) For anyone planning to ride this route, my best piece of advice would be: Don’t try this in May.
We climbed and descended col after col, never dropping below 7,500 feet. The scenery was unrelenting in its beauty and the conditions kept us close together and laughing. We’d hike a snowfield, grind through mud, tiptoe across a steeper snowfield, grind up a shallow col, and hike through the mud. Repeat, repeat.
Spirits were high because we were going to do it! We were going to conquer the Strada dell'Assietta! But then the road insidiously crept over the ridge and onto a north-facing aspect of the slope, where we started encountering danger-angle snow.
The steep snow was never continuous. There were ways to hike around it, but these detours weren’t trivial. We often had to hoist our bikes directly up a steep slope to cut a switchback or two. I had been enjoying every ridiculous task of the day so far, and the bike mountaineering was my favorite. I may not have the cardiovascular or respiratory fitness to crush the cycling, but hoisting a heavy object over chossy limestone scree or soft tundra is my jam.
I reached Monte Genevris before the group and sat beside the summit cross to enjoy my prosciutto and crackers. None of us expected to still be high on this undeveloped section of military road so late into day three, so we were all running low on food. I had rationed this snack from the previous night’s dinner so I’d have something “real” to enjoy high on a beautiful mountain today. It was worth the sacrifice.
Meanwhile, somewhere below me out of sight, Danni struck up a conversation with an Italian bartender who was out for a mountain bike ride. The man, in typical Italian fashion, chivalrously offered to push her bike up the final pitch to Monte Genevris. We hadn’t seen anyone besides the road crew all day. I certainly didn’t expect to see another person after the miles of ridiculous snow we’d plodded through. But here he was, a charming Italian bartender, pushing Danni’s bike.
The Italian bartender initially called one snowfield too dangerous but pressed on anyway. He then rode a fair distance ahead, then paused where the road curved around a steep couloir. I could see his yellow jacket from several hundred meters away, stopped next to a wall of white. We’d enjoyed dry road for a while and I wasn’t expecting to deal with any more snowfields. But this one was the end-all. The snowfield was only about 10 feet wide, but it was angled at least 50 degrees. One slip could send a person careening down the couloir. The snow wall could be crossed, but I had strong feelings about whether it should be crossed. (No!)
The Italian bartender seemed to agree and turned around before I arrived. He flashed a grin at me as he passed, which my anxious brain interpreted as “Haha, you’re doomed.” We had already traveled 15 miles since leaving camp, and the distance had taken us more than six hours. Turning around here, with as low on food as we were, would make for a rough day.
I was not discouraged in the least. I admit to feeling thrilled about the prospect of route-finding a viable detour around this couloir. The slope above the couloir looked chossy and loose. Bands of limestone formed unclimbable cliffs around the top of the couloir. But if we backtracked a hundred or so meters and contoured to a larch tree standing alone over the cliffs, I was optimistic we’d find a similarly gentle descent back to the road.
Pushing my bike up such steep slopes required bursts of energy that felt like a heavy bench press. I’m terrible at the bench press and get a little ego boost whenever I can conquer a new set of weights. This effort gave me a similar boost. It was honestly the only time during the trip that I felt powerful, and damn it, I was going to take it. Rawr!
My friends took a while to appear, so I climbed back up the slope to help guide them through the line. Danni announced that she was stuck so I grabbed the handlebars of her bike and we worked together to push it over the slope. The steepest section came just before dropping back to the road. I mistakingly tried to rush the final few steps and badly rolled my left ankle. The way it felt while it was happening, I would have sworn that the joint made a 360-degree turn. But miraculously, nothing was sprained or torn. I sat and gritted my teeth through the initial shock of pain, and then everything was fine. (My left ankle is my bad ankle, and sometimes I wonder if those tendons are even attached anymore. But I won’t complain if the ankle’s tenuous structure works in my favor.)
We finally made our way down to Sestriere nearly a full day later than we had hoped to arrive. We were all in need of supplies but the town was shuttered. Sestriere is a ski resort that shuts down during the off-season. We found one bar open. As we were propping up our bikes, the bartender rushed outside to warn us that she had no hot food.
“Just sandwich,” she said. “No fries, no grill, no burger, only sandwich.”
We were fine with that. We had a couple of hours to kill anyway as we waited for the one operating grocery store to open its doors at 4 p.m. As we lingered over second lunch, we scrolled through trip notes and maps to parse out what the next few days might look like. After needing nearly 24 hours to cover 20 miles of the Torino-Nice Rally, we were uncertain how finishable this route was for us.
We decided to spend the night another 20 miles down the road after crossing the border into France. Nestled in the Dauphiné Alps, Briançon is the highest city in France (4,350 feet — more than 1,000 feet lower than Boulder!) It’s a beautiful old town with stone fortifications built high into the cliffs above the valley. Briançon was established to defend the region from Austrians in the 17th century. To get there, we descended the steep road from Sestriere, climbed toward an abandoned road tunnel at Col de Montgenèvre, ate yet another giant snack at a picnic area near the ski resort (I think we were all having food anxiety after our hungry morning), and descended to Briançon. Come to think of it, it feels like most of the 20-mile ride into Briançon was spent coasting downhill. Weird that it’s the highest city in France.
We booked a nice but small hotel room in the center of town, hung our camping gear all over the hotel’s basement to dry, and washed our mud-caked clothing in the shower (at least I did this.) The perils of the day were already a distant memory.
Torino-Nice Rally, day three
Colle dell’Assietta to Briançon.
40 miles
4,531 feet of climbing
6.3 mph average moving speed
9:58 elapsed time