Tuscany Road Journal: Part Five — Strade Bianche

We had planned to go to Mallorca. Then the UK government pulled the travel corridor to Spain and the Balearics with one day’s notice.

“Italy has low infection rates and no travel restrictions. Puglia? Sicily? Naples?”

“Tuscany.”

The Strade Bianche had been running in my head for months. The first real race since lockdown: white roads, white dust, equal measures of beauty and brutality. Watching it from the turbo trainer, I felt the cloud on my lockdown brain shift for the first time. I needed to be on those roads. I needed to follow the wheels of Annemiek van Vleuten and Wout van Aert, at least in spirit.

After five days in Tuscany, riding these hills with Gabriele, the connection to this land was already deep. The Mangiafagioli are generous and proud. Their roads are worth the journey.

Strade Bianche

21/08/2020 — 05:00

The cockerel on the farm next door was still asleep. I have never mastered the Tuscan pace of living. My internal alarm does not recognise 7am.

The moon and the first orange trace of sun were both in the sky at once, each edging toward its horizon in opposite directions. A flock of small birds moved in liquid formation, silhouetted against the sunrise. Stars fading. Long shadows pulling across the road. Mist in the valley between the farmlands. As I climbed into the hilltop villages, the air grew thicker and warmer.

“Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face, stars fill my dream.”

Kashmir. Led Zeppelin. The right song for this road at this hour.

After three days on the hire Wilier, I finally had my Factor back.

Every element of this bike has been considered and obsessed over. The hours of riding, suffering and problem-solving have built something beyond function: a bond. The moment I clipped in and began turning the pedals, I felt it. Like slipping on a custom-moulded shoe after days in borrowed ones.

My legs were asking to go hard after the steady days. I put my head down.

“Yes, boss.”

The first gravel sector arrived.

No team cars. No groups raising dust clouds ahead of me. Just the undulating white chalky roads and the silence of 5am in Tuscany. Everything I had watched on television was right in front of me. I was living the fantasy.

The effort felt like nothing. The harder I pressed, the less I felt. “Why isn’t cycling always this easy?”

Because if it were easy, it would mean nothing.

The turbo training was paying off. The combination of fitness and the sensation of these roads produced something I have no precise name for. A state of transcendence. The act of doing, with nothing outside it. No sense of time, no hunger, no thirst, no unresolved thoughts from ordinary life.

I have felt this once before. It came from grief, from losing my grandfather. His spirit found the road with me that day and gave me a wheel to follow. That is a different story.

1950: My grandfather racing “La Course en tête.”

A single cell pulsating through the heart of Tuscany. No interruptions. No photographs. No numbers. Just the bike and the white roads.

I cannot describe what this feels like. I can only tell you it exists, and that I hope you find your own version of it at some point.

Becky met me at the Colle Pinzuto, one of the final gravel sectors, next to a small church on the winery estate of San Giorgio a Lapi. Seeing her returned me to something like normal consciousness.

I tried to explain where I had been. There are no words for it.

What mattered was this: the two of us on a Tuscan roadside, next to a church, at the edge of a vineyard, on a morning that had been four months in the building. We have been through a lot this year. We are stronger for it.

Final leg to Siena. I rode it pretending to be Annemiek van Vleuten chasing down Margarita Victoria Garcia. I climbed the Via Fontebranda into the Piazza del Campo alone, like Wout van Aert.

I had imagined arriving with a mud mask, looking like something from the pro race. There was no one ahead of me to kick up dust. The final road section had polished my tyres from white back to black. No epic visual evidence. Which also meant no bearing service. Both acceptable.

Siena in morning light after the Strade Bianche.

Standing in the Piazza del Campo, looking at the Cappella di Piazza as the sun came over the buildings and filled the square with blocks of warm light. All the emotion of the trip landed at once. The chaos of the journey. The missing component. The hire bike. The Chianti hills with TBRC. San Gimignano. The porcupine. Five days of Tuscany compressed into a single moment at the finish line.

It takes something rare to distract a cyclist from hunger.

“Coffee?”

“Yeah. One more minute.”

We went to Nannini. On Day Two, I had been redirected to the corner and treated as a public health risk. Entirely understandably. The food was worth returning for.

This morning was different.

I parked the bike outside and walked in.

“Buongiorno, come stai?”

The barista looked up. Looked at my shoulders. Looked back at me with a different expression entirely.

“Sto bene. Mr Wiggins.”

He had seen the name on my jersey.

Never underestimate the Wiggins effect.

Brad is not just a British Cycling hero. Winning the hardest race in the world earned the respect of cyclists across Europe in a way that transcends national story. Having a human side, controversies and all, won hearts that victories alone would not have reached.

“Life was never the same again.” — Sir Bradley Wiggins

Having that name on my shoulders changed his perception of me immediately. We were no longer tourist and service provider. We were two cyclists. His English became fluent. His expression changed from neutral to conspiratorial. When I pointed at the pastries in the case, he disappeared to the back and returned with fresh ones.

“Where are you riding today, Mr Wiggins?”

“I have just ridden the Strade Bianche.”

“You ride Strade Bianche? Already?”

“Sì.”

I pulled my Garmin from my back pocket and showed him the route. He looked at it for a moment, then put several extra items in my musette without saying anything.

“Bravo, Mr Wiggins.”

He pulled two cappuccinos, then came out from behind the counter to inspect the bike. He examined every component in the way that cyclists do: methodically, knowledgeably, starting at the bottom bracket and working outward. The Campagnolo groupset drew particular approval. He lifted the rear end with one hand to feel the weight.

“Bella bici. Campagnolo!”

We ate breakfast in the Piazza del Campo.

Bella vista. Grazie, Strade Bianche.

Gareth