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Coppi or Cop Out?

The start-line ritual of racing cyclists defines and separates the species. Until I can change mine, I shall never know what it is to win a race, and this became apparent as I lined up at the start of the Fausto Coppi memorial Gran Fondo in Cuneo, Italy.

As always I sat astride my down tube and castigated myself for all my omissions in kit and preparation. Two huge alpine climbs awaited me and my legs had only done one this year. My rear sprocket was clearly missing a few teeth, highlighted by the dinner plates on the back of other bikes. My white legs sprouted hair while all others around me were shaved and tanned. I hadn't learned one single Italian phrase to be relayed as an excuse to the multitude of riders that would pass me. Why do I always start these rides regretting my inadequate preparation? And why do I always forget something?

I bet Fausto Coppi never felt like this. I bet he couldn't wait to get started, I bet he couldn't have cared less about his gear, I bet he always felt prepared, I bet he just wanted to win and that's how he felt at the beginning of every race.

And so, as the minutes counted down to the 7 am start, I reflected upon the ride ahead of me ... One hundred and twenty-five miles through the Italian Alps surrounding Cuneo. Fifteen thousand feet of climbing, mostly within the first sixty miles. One thousand riders, all of a high standard and many returning to the race from previous years.  Two companion riders with me, Cronan and Peter, none of us having ridden together before and with no idea of our relative abilities. And finally, three spectating wives, all willing their husbands on towards a good performance. We were doing the Fausto Coppi.

The Fausto Coppi Gran Fondo is run annually, and attracts up to 1,000 riders, all of a relatively high standard. Every year the route changes subtly but always starts and finishes at the market square of the photogenic town of Cuneo. The race fee includes a rider shirt that MUST be worn throughout the ride. If this year's shirt is anything to go by, it is usually designed to illicit maximum comment from club members when worn again back home. My road club comrades currently refer to it as "That kit".  I can only describe it as a symphony in orange finished off with the flags of all major European countries except Ireland (much to the disgust of the pure-blooded Irishman, Cronan).

Peter and I had migrated to the Coppi after completing last year's Etape du Tour as silver medallists. Cronan was back in action following an extended lay-off brought on by over-training.

And so we waited for the starter's orders. I scanned the façades that surround the market square of Cuneo, the early morning sunlight picking out its favourite buildings. My reflection was interrupted by the quick-fire Italian that shot from the starter's loudspeaker, and we were off.

The pack shuffled forward and it took no more than a few minutes for my transponder to register at the start line. A cobbled street restricted the initial pace before the race turned out of the town centre and headed out towards the mountains.

The previous evening our "team" had met over the dinner table and discussed race tactics: we were to ride fast up to the mountains in order to avoid any bottlenecks once the climbing started. On the day our tactics evaporated. I'm not sure whether it was nerves, pessimism or simply the fact that we were not aware of each individual's pace, but we were passing riders while remaining squarely in the middle of the pack.

The first twenty miles were uneventful. The alpine views were hindered by low cloud as riders were beginning to settle and find their pace.

At Valdieri the foothills of the Alps made their presence felt, as a sharp right took us into the village and we started our first major climb. Two poorly parked support vehicles hindered many riders and I only just made it through the gap between them. The congestion forced Peter and Cronan to dismount and walk past the vans. Meanwhile, I had begun the struggle up the Madonna Del Colletto.

Believing Peter and Cronan were with me, I set a good early pace and climbed comfortably past riders who had expended more effort in the early stages. I found my rhythm and arrived at the top slightly sweaty but elated that the Col had surrendered so easily. We regrouped, refuelled, re-clothed and clipped in. A glance over the left shoulder and the pack was rejoined for a cautious descent down a narrow, pock-marked road into the valley below.

As the downward incline gradually leveled out I caught sight of our next undertaking. The valley rose steadily for miles ahead of us; there was to be no rest, brake levers would be released as we began to climb, swapping effort from the front to the back of our legs.  The sky brightened with early sun and jackets were relegated to back pockets. My chain skipped up the block as the valley forced us higher. Our first serious climb, the ascent of the Fauniera had begun.

I could spend paragraphs detailing the gradients, their length, and our performance over them, using the usual superlatives that pepper cycling articles. I could finish by describing our elation at reaching the summit and how privileged we felt to have been able to accomplish it. But that would skip over the secret truths shared by us semi-competitive types. And I am going to own up.

For me the climb was characterised by a single emotion. Within my group I did not want to fail and I didn't want to be the last. I was driven by visions of post-race conversation - I didn't want to be making excuses, I didn't want to be congratulating others for things that I hadn't achieved. In the bar I wanted to celebrate my performance in the same breath as that of others. And it is that which drove me up.

It was clear that Cronan's racing gearing was going to make the climbing hard for him. Peter and I made a few early attempts to keep us all together but the gap between us and Cronan steadily increased and he was left behind. Peter was probably concentrating on the scenery or his heart-rate monitor; me, I was concentrating on him. I was determined to finish at his heel and thus set my cadence and climb rate to his. As it happened, we switched the lead many times as the climb progressed and after two hours we gained the Col and a typical Gran Fondo chaotic feeding station. 5680 feet climbed, sixteen miles traveled a temperature drop of nearly eighteen degrees centigrade, I couldn't care less. I'd matched Peter and that's what mattered to me.

And it is here that we made our first mistake. We waited for Cronan. Alpine climbs are differentiated from their UK cousins by two things: their length and the change in climate and temperature from the bottom to the top. Ten minutes passed before Cronan rejoined us, during which I donned all of my spare clothing and gathered spare food and water. But ten minutes is too long. I became cold quickly, with little prospect of warming up, given the long winding descent ahead. I learned a valuable Alpine lesson: if you're going to wait, then wait at the bottom. At least there is the prospect of warming up quickly if you become cold, when you start the next climb.

The descent from the Fauniera split the race, with 50% of riders turning off to complete a short course of 60 miles. This gave us a clear road ahead on the way down and so we dared each other ever faster to the bottom, twisting between trees and criss-crossing the mountain stream that took the direct route down.

I'd been told that the Fausto Coppi is one of the hardest European Gran Fondos and the reason was about to become clear. Its two major climbs are separated by a descent, and nothing else. Only a few miles of respite before the effort had to begin again. A marshal waved us left up a steepening slope and the geography made it quite clear to me that we were to escape this valley the hard way, up its side. My private battle with Peter had recommenced.

I don't have many good memories of the ascent of the Col de Sampeyre. I already had two climbs in my legs and the gradients were harsher, with extended sections of 18%. My 25-tooth rear cog had become an optimistic overstatement and I glared jealously at Peter's larger cog. A flattish section of one kilometre gave some respite before the climbing became steeper and the terrain more exposed. The final four miles were climbed in the mind rather than by the legs. I refused to let Peter move ahead of me, I cursed the signs that counted down the remaining distance to the top, I silently mouthed catchy lines from dated pop tunes, I fixed my attention on riders in the distance and willed myself closer to them, I furiously calculated average speeds and distances to convince myself that the top was near; I even stopped and poured away most of the water from my bottles to reduce weight. I emptied my mental arsenal in order to will myself to the top and after one and a half hours of effort I did it.

The illusion I had created of myself as a good climber was shattered by the reality I encountered at the top. It was clear that many many other riders had been through the feeding station, and that we were to the rear of the field. I realised that heroics on the English hills do not translate to the European cols, where a different breed of strength and endurance are needed to compete near the head of the pack.

Cronan had not climbed with us. Again, we waited, longer this time, until we finally twigged that we would do better to continue before becoming victims to the cold. A marshal handed me newspaper for the descent and I proudly stuffed it down my jersey to keep my chest warm. This was old-school cycling - disposable clothing to be discarded at the bottom.

The descent was the worst part of the race. We shared the narrow winding road with cars ascending for an afternoon picnic at the top. Every corner delivered its open unique sense of fear, laced with the anticipation of another poorly concentrating driver. I didn't enjoy it at all, and it was with a huge sense of relief that I discarded my newspaper into a welcoming marshal's hands at the bottom.

The challenge was unrelenting. There were still fifty miles to go to the finish line. We had nearly 13,000 ft of climbing in our legs and we were on our own. No packs to shelter in, no drafting. The two of us upped our cadence and set off in search of others willing to bear the burden of the continuing fight against wind resistance.

A few miles down the road and we had picked up some fellow stragglers. In the next twenty miles our group sighted another and we then descended into a fit of "chain-ganging" in an attempt to catch it. We'd meet up and then continue at pace; some would keep up with us whilst others relaxed off at the back. It was hard work, with Peter and me the main protagonists, urging others on towards the next objective. Eventually we joined a group of ten and were able to relax into a steady pace of about eighteen miles per hour.  Peter began to chat in Italian with our fellow riders whilst I marveled at the cyclist next to me, a double amputee who had fitted carbon lower legs yet was able to comfortably match our pace.

Our peleton meandered on, until we reached a small town and met our mini-fan club, our dedicated wives, who had waited for us for hours with food, water and encouragement. Torn between an easy ride back with our loved ones or finishing the race, we made the right choice and, after a brief chat - during which we learned that  Cronan had been contacted, was OK and making steady progress - a snack and a kiss goodbye, we sped off to finish the race.

Peter and I excelled on this final leg. We found the spirit to up our tempo and share the load of the race towards the line. In the relatively flat terrain we tore up the miles and soon we hit the outskirts of Cuneo, even picking up a straggler who fixed himself to our rear. Eventually stray wisps of loudspeaker noise announced the finish line, Peter and I turned left from a cobbled street and saw the beckoning arch of the finish line.

A quick glance, a smile and we sprinted for the line. Justice was done as we crossed it together in exactly the same time. A few minutes later we welcomed Cronan over the line, the first Irish rider home! He looked tired, but I saw a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. He'd known early that his low gearing would make it hard, but had persevered; a lesser rider would have packed it in and blamed the bike.

We'd finished, and there followed the post-race ceremony of the amateur cyclist. The "well done" from a partner, the gathering of trinkets, certificates and finish positions, the consumption of free food and drink and the reflection upon how we could have done so much better, if only ...

And so, the reflection. There is no doubting the pedigree of the Fausto Coppi Gran Fondo. It is a serious undertaking when considered statistically: 15,000 feet of climbing, 125 miles long, average gradients in excess of 12%. Geographically, the back-to-back climbs add to the challenge, the vast majority of the 15,000 being covered within a distance of fourty miles. The "weekend warriors" were absent, we were fit, trained competitive cyclists and yet found ourselves at the back of the pack. In summary, it is an event for the tough and committed rider. The Fausto Coppi Gran Fondo is the ideal tribute to its namesake; it shares his defining characteristics as a rider.

Our sense of achievement was dampened by our finish position. However, we've shelved our excuses and clearly defined the improvements necessary for next year. From the starting line we're going to race hard in order to get near the front before the mountains. We're going to believe in ourselves and ride harder on the climbs. We're not going to wait for anyone at the top; we'll take food and water and then be off. If we can, we'll ride with a pack and help drive it to the finish at speed.

The trials of this ride haven't dented me at all; in fact I feel they'll help form me as a cyclist. I'm going back to do it better next time. Because I'm convinced that is exactly what Fausto would have wanted me to do.

© Dave Barter, January 2005

This article was published in Cycling Weekly Magazine