Sardinian sufferance

From a long past great ride on the island of Sardinia, Italy

From the hotel balcony all looked safe and well, the mountains looked set for a brief incurrence on a longer mission. Today was going to be a breeze, a neat and rolling flat and windy day, from where I could sweat out my hangover from the comfort of the other guys draft, and without them even noticing – the benefit of badly earned experience. Stretching and preparing for the days ride as if it was to be a stage of the Giro it’s self the others were getting edgy, and I was beginning to question whether experience would once again be able to triumph over brute fitness, because as sure as wine is red one day it the bottle will run dry.

Captain Jamie informed us that the route was estimated at around 50 plus miles, and that if we hadn’t had enough by the end of it them maybe we could do another lap. I looked around in horror at the eager and hungry faces; they seemed to like that idea, for some perverse reason.  He also added that the ride would start with a ten kilometre climb, yes a whole ten kilometres of breakfast regurgitating and screaming legs masked only by panting lungs, great start to my easy days ride!

Cunningly I advised that we took things easy on this first climb, just to get ridden in to the day, after all it could be a long day in the saddle, and blowing this early was not a good option. A whole two minutes of soft pedalling and we crossed the dreaded white line, which has signified to so many visiting racers that the pain was about to begin. That white line also seemingly ended the pact of brothers at ease, and Gavin, the fearfully skinny triathlete spun in to action, grinding on at a pace that was just one level too high at the best of times, let alone this early in the day. Pride is a nasty beast, and it can make your legs scream out loud, and was duly about to do just that.

Climbing high above the town of Alghero the mountain road twisted as my legs shouted for mercy. Majestically it weaved away from the coast and in to the heart of the islands northern mountains, and on to a high plane which is wildly removed from the coastal strip, and is where most of the islands agriculture is focussed. The views on the climb to the plateau were quite awesome, though mine was mainly of Gavins back wheel. Within a kilometre there was just a fab four left on the road; Gavin, Myself, Jamie and ironman triathletes Matt Belfield. The three of us were fixed firmly behind the grinding Gavin, grimacing and joking in an attempt to reduce the dignity blows and to slow him down. 

Thankfully it was a nice and continual climb, which I can handle even at the worse of times. The kilometre count down signs are a bit of a bate, but either way we suffered it out until we crossed the white summit line. By now I was ridden in, and ready for a ride, mainly because I know that every epic climb has an epic descent, and that usually spells revenge for me. Everyone elected to ease up for a while, and to wait for the others, except for the next man on the road, Troy. Having only had a bike since Christmas Troy had managed to find the fitness side of things, but was still lacking in the basic control skill required to accompany a two-wheeled vehicle down hill, or even up hill for that matter. The previous day he’d managed to run out of road twice, in less than 30 miles. So when he screamed past us heading for the descent a sense of amused concern radiated around, and we decided to press on steadily, checking every hedgerow along the way for the tell tale holes and skid marks.

Unfortunately of course we had climbed on to a windy mountain plateau, so the descent was going to be short but sweet. Then it was straight back to the climb. In fact I’ve ridden serious Alpine climbs with more mid climb down hill in them than this. The next section was windy grind up to an old hill top village, where life had seemingly stood still for half a century. Old Fiat 126 bubble cars rattled through the towns narrow streets while little old women yattered past all packed up with fresh produce. Seemingly the elder men folk of the village spent their days in great communal lines sitting on or beside every wall in the village. 

As a sweetener we were served up a super fast descent, where myself and Jamie went into overdrive, skinning the kerbs and clipping pedals all the way, until we hit a bridge at 90 degrees and were almost swept over the edge by a valley up gust, kind of un-nerving, but fun. Open fields and terraced hillsides adorned the high plane landscape, fresh veg and olive groves peppered with herds of goats and sheep – which ironicly enough is how the locals tend to serve then at dinner times – goat and olive being a particular delicasy in the central mountain areas.  More climbing into a hellish wind was to follow, until we decided on a near total re-group for the rest of the ride. By now we were well in to the second half of the ride, and the heavy roads and wind were combining with the eternal climbing to make things unpredictably tough. For some time now we’d been grinding towards the base of yet another long climb, in to a near block headwind. I was quite aware that Matt and Gavin were sitting silently behind me, sheltering from the wind; it was time to swing over and prepare my survival plans! 

By now all was deadly silent, and the group had splintered under the pressure. The wind had each and every one of us on our bottom sprockets, and hardly able to turn then. Gavin had blown big style, leaving myself and Matt head to head, grimacing towards a distant respite. The last long kilometre was hell, but at least it left just one more climb to polish the day off. Being early spring the surrounding vines were bare, which didn’t help on the wind stopper front. 

That final climb was threaded into by means of long windy descent into a lake -lined valley, its walls scattered with ancient rock formations. This high land is home to eagles and wild boar, though unfortunately we had neither the time nor inclination to partake of bird watching. Climbing back up towards the hill top town the old men still decorated the town walls, only this time on the opposite side of the street, draining the last drops of the days sunlight before it left for the west.  We were about to complete the main loop, leaving just the rolling inroad and descent back to town. The wind made it tough, but riding headlong into a blinding sunset dulled the evening pain some. By this point we’d already well passed Jamie’s estimated 50 mile mark, and for sure there were going to be no takers for round two – except maybe for the elusive Troy, who we still hadn’t traced. 

Battered and torn we made the most of the hairpinned cocktail of a descent down the days opening climb to round the ride off in fine style, all be it some 18 miles longer than estimated – so much for computer calculations!

All that was left now was an evening in which to try and drink Alghero dry of the fine local red wine, a mission I’d started several days before, and was destined not to finish. Oh well, I’ll just have to go back and try some more.