The Giro comes to Olang (Valdaora)

Ober Olang is a pretty quiet place and Mitter Olang only slightly more animated, but yesterday was a pretty big day for both as the Giro made its way down from Passo Furcia right through the middle of Mitter Olang and out to the highway on its way to the final climb into Falzes. The day built slowly with very little sign of anything to come when I passed through on my morning ride. The only clue was the pink Giro directional signs that were put up the evening before and, given the nature of the locals, every one of the signs remained in place until after the race went through. The following tifosi took care of them as they came down off the pass later in the day.

The town arranged for the local prize bulls to be tied inside a makeshift enclosure right in front of the local outdoor snack and beer bar and Beevo and friends were not a little annoyed to be stuck in the sun for the better part of the day. They were also not too happy with the Tyrolean ensemble that played through the afternoon next to them. The cows couldn’t keep a tune.

Through the morning and into the afternoon, more and more riders came down from the Passo or headed up to see the racers struggle in the Dolomites. These were mostly groups and they were usually of two types: relatively large groups of 8 to 12 with variously colored kit and a range of bike types—a lot of their bikes looked like steel oldies and were marked with lots of unrecognizable names with the odd Daccordi and round-tubed Bianchi’s in the signature celeste thrown in the mix. The other groups were threes, fours and fives and they were made up of guys in pro-team wear riding Pinarellos, and Williers. One group of four were stopped at a hotel-bar in Nieder Rasun, across the highway, and each fellow had a new or nearly new Colnago; one a C-50 with 10-speed Dura, another a C-40 with Campy Record carbon, another with a Dream with carbon Record and the other with a matching Dream with Dura. These were the “beemer”riders, I figured.

As the day wore on the groups included what looked to be the more serious of the Giro-followers, lots of backpacks and a surprising number of mountain bikes ridden by guys in their local team strip. The roads were far more livelier than they had been in the four days we had been here and I was actually hearing a lot of Italian spoken.

My ride was a short one around the town and up most of the way to the Passo Furcia—to the “Bear” Hotel. The Carabinieri had been stationed along the way and the route was well manned, but it seemed like riders could come and go as they pleased right up to the time the publicity caravan went through.

I almost required the assistance of the local emergency people when, on my way down from Gesselsberg, most of the way up to the passo, I had a flat in a switchback. At first I thought it was the new pavement put down for the Giro that caused my rear wheel to slip out a couple of feet in a pretty hairy turn, but it was a flat. My sudden yelp startled the Carabinieri and the fireman standing on the outside of the turn as I struggled to get the bike back in a straight line. All ended well enough as I managed to roll off the road and the change of tubes was made more pleasant by the handy location of a bench and a good view down the valley to Olang. The Carabinieri took no notice, cyclists, apparently, were a little strange.

I was to meet Diana in the town park where the Giro route would make a sharp left then a hard right then a hard left right in the middle of town. I sat on the low rock wall surrounding the park and realized that my flat was likely caused by a rubbing brake pad that was rubbing because the rear wheel wasn’t seated straight. I had been fiddling with the brakes the evening before and didn’t line the wheel up right. Pretty dumb mistake.

The crowd was local family-style with a few traveling hikers thrown in. The bike crowd didn’t particularly fancy this spot but I figured there be some interesting camera shots when the racers had to make the turns and likely brake hard to get through town.

The Giro is a much smaller linear event that the Tour. The publicity caravan is perhaps a fourth the number of vehicles and the Italians show surprising restraint in their sense of advertising. There were no rolling teakettles, or strange space machines on wheels, or a big Terminator Movie display and no pole-dancing PMU girls holding on for dear life as their rolling stage lurched into the corners. Just the odd septic system display truck and some very nice new cars. The leader of the race at the time was a Phonak rider and his arrival was a bit of a surprise because he was not preceded by the helicopter, only a few of the motorcycle cops heralded his arrival. The television bikes and the real entourage were back with the next group that included Cunego and the real contenders for the stage. They didn’t even rate helicopter coverage that was with the next group and that group went past with no sign of Simoni, the presumed winner of the stage. His group followed shortly and it was apparent that the race was not turning out as expected, with Simoni using the high mountain pass of Valparola (2,200 meters up) to split the group and get in the lead. It didn’t work out that way, Simoni wasn’t quite on form. The TV coverage later showed how Simoni gave way to his teammate, Cunego and Cunego went on to take the stage and the Maglia Rosa.

The cyclists were having a hard time with the tight turns and cobbled pavement they had to pass over to get through MitterOlang. Several had to brake really hard and got surprised by the hidden half-curb on the outside of the second turn. About ten of them had to go on the sidewalk then bump down back into the road as they raced along. I fully expected one or two to come a cropper right in front of the beer stand and could visualize the chaos as the drunks tried to help a stunned rider back onto his bike. But the day went without incident over the 20 minutes or so it took the racers to get by.

The TV coverage was a bit frustrating as the local station carrying the race cut to a half hour of news at 2:30, just when the race was getting interesting. I’d planned to go back to our apartment to watch as they went over the big passes and then I’d head back down to the town square to see the race barrel by. But I got tired of the coverage that seemed to focus more on Beevo and his buddies and headed down to watch the crowd wait for the Giro.

As the publicity caravan went by, there were no trinkets thrown by lovely podium-girls-to-be as the caravan went by, no mini-sausages flung at your feet, no key chains, no green hands—just van after van of squawking salesmen shouting over loudspeakers while a recorded female voice hawked the same goods through the same loudspeaker. They were selling, for 5 euros, pink tee-shirts with a matching pink cap and a matching pink lanyard with the Giro animal attached to the end; and, for an extra two euros you could get a Pantani-style bandana in a not-so-matching pink. The Giro animal seems to have no name, no species, no gender, and, as far as I can tell, no appeal, but you get one with your pink-pack. The blaring contrapuntal Italian worked me into a mild frenzy and I leapt out into traffic and bought two of the Giro packs. The salesguy kept up his patter over the loudspeaker and made it apparent to everyone in the crowd that he was dealing with a rather dull American who couldn’t count change. This couldn’t really embarrass me much since I was dressed in colorful spandex and buying a bunch of pink stuff. Some lucky folks in Chapel Hill are going to get the souvenir of their life, right?

There was a single Mercatone Uno car that went by and it carried a bike that was marked in the colors of the Willier that Pantani used to win the Giro. There were also a few references to Il Pirata on signs along the route when I rode earlier. The past winner’s shadow seemed to follow the Giro.

Later in the day, I drove Diana and Mari and Keith, two friends who joined us in Olang two days earlier, up to Antholzsee, a pristine alpine lake just this side of the Austrian border. I’d ridden up there the day before and its views were as impressive as the rolling wide curves that allowed me to get over 70 kph when I rode back down the valley. This was a great ride, a steady 6-7 percent, 10 kilometers uphill with some 10 percent thrown in and a flat part or two to allow for recovery. The road carried on over the Staller Sattel (Passo Stalle) but that was a one lane road where you were allowed to enter from the Italian side only between half past and quarter-till the hour. It also climbed 500 meters in a couple of kilometers, so I passed on the challenge and pulled off to get a drink at the local pension-bar-restaurant. This was a surprising little joint. Here in the middle of fresh air, crystal clean water, hiking trails, a biathlon center and at the spot where countless cyclists made the decision to go ahead into Austria to enhance their suffering or turn back for relief—here in this apex-of-health spot, Axel presided over a smoky, dark bar filled at 11:30 in the morning with seven hard drinkers, all smoking and all quick with a remark about my needing a beer or a cigarette. Axel, his little cigar hanging out under his mustache, grudgingly gave me a Coke and muttered that I really needed a “schnapps-restorativ.” I retreated to the open air deck and a sit in the bright alpine sun.

The next day, when the four of us began to retrace my ride through Lower Rasun on the way to the lake, I spotted the Vini Caldirola team vans and vehicles and made a quick turn into the hotel parking lot. The next day was a rest day and I knew that the teams would likely be staying in hotels and places nearby. We pulled in just as the riders were debarking and Stefano Garzelli was wandering around in just his bibs and flip-flops. Keith and Mari didn’t quite understand my fascination as I toured the bicycle van and examined the DeRosas that were lined up. The special Cinquenta and the Kings in their black carbon splendor that made up the bulk of the cycles. Garzelli’s unique test bike, the DeRosa “Prototype 1” was hanging up in the truck, unused, it didn’t seem to have passed the test. Interestingly, the May issue of Ciclismo, one of the bigger Italian cycling magazines, previewed the day’s stage using Garzelli and a teammate as the scout riders and Garzelli touting the new Prototype 1. Heck, if he wasn’t going to use it, maybe they’d let me.

We managed a snap of Garzelli hanging out the window of his room and took shots of the bikes and the vans and the mechanics and the kids in the parking lot and the flowers in the garden and cheerfully blurted “grazie” to everyone in sight and no one seemed to either care nor really regard us. This was a far cry from the beefy bodyguards who surrounded the US Postal people at last year’s tour. Shoot, maybe I’ll come over and ride with these nice folks when they do their rest day ride tomorrow.

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