Hitting The Wall
Italy’s Gran Fondo Il Lombardia fuses the glamour of Lake Como with the horror of the 27% Muro di Sormano. Cyclist survives the inaugural edition of an instant classic
Lake Como is the perfect backdrop for an Italian sportive – yet up in the mountains lurks an evil 27% climb that will do its best to spoil the views
Everything about Lombardia suggests today’s ride will be a serene and sophisticated affair. The road slips alongside the Prosecco sparkle of Lake Como, passing chic locals sipping cappuccinos outside cafes. A seaplane lands on the water in a swirl of foam and froth. Italian flags ripple in the breeze. If we’re lucky we’ll spot George and Amal Clooney, members of Como’s vacationing glitterati, on their morning stroll. But despite the glamour, sunshine and beautiful vistas, something is haunting my mind in the moments before the start of the Gran Fondo Il Lombardia.
This new event is inspired by Italy’s fabled Giro di Lombardia pro race, and looming about 65km into the 110km course is one of the race’s most notorious obstacles – the Muro di Sormano, otherwise known as ‘The Wall’. This twisted monstrosity may be only 1.7km in length, but it averages an appalling 17% gradient. On its most vicious hairpins that gradient hits a suicidal 27%.
A local rider tells me he has never made it up without walking. To illustrate what’s to come, he simply holds his hand flat then yanks it up until his fingers are perpendicular to his wrist.
The devilish climb made its first appearance in the race in 1960 but featured only three times before it was banished, with desperate pro riders forced to walk or accept illegal pushes from fans. The climb fell into disrepair but a campaign by local cyclists saw it resurfaced in 2006. It made its return to the Giro di Lombardia in 2012 and it is now the sinister star of the new gran fondo.
Gran designs
It’s early on a Sunday in October, and I’m in a pen by the shores of Lake Como with about 1,400 other cyclists. They are mostly Italians, dressed in bright attire and cursing the predawn cold, but in total there are entrants from 25 nations, including many from the UK. At this time in the morning, simply finding a place to relieve yourself without getting collared by the carabinieri seems to be most people’s primary challenge.
The peloton flies out of the blocks just as the sun begins to toast the waters of the lake. Europe’s gran fondos aren’t like UK sportives, with a more competitive race vibe and riders hunting positions and times. I decide that it is prudent not to get pressured into full-on race mode this early in the day, so I move to the side of the road as riders fly past like a squadron of fighter jets, undertaking, overtaking, whistling, shouting and cursing. I’m only about a foot
This twisted monstrosity may only be 1.7km, but it averages an appalling 17%. On its most vicious hairpins that gradient hits a suicidal 27%
from the kerb but somehow a bony figure in red still manages to undertake me.
In the hazy dawn, we ride past bobbing boats and the grand shuttered apartments of Como. The church bells clang lethargically, as if they too have been awoken from their Sunday morning slumber for some exercise. They’re still ringing in my ears as we tackle a short climb to Lipomo before riding past the neat gardens that line the shores of Lake Pusiano.
It’s reassuring to find the peloton protected by motorbike outriders and support cars, but as I roll along leisurely and take in my surroundings I realise that the vehicle that has just passed me is the broom wagon. These Italian gran fondos really are designed for speedsters, so I step up my pace a bit and slip back into the main pack.
The roads are still open to traffic, and being in a bunch of riders offers a bit of protection from the constant stream of cars. Later I speak to riders who were nearer the front who say they were protected by motorbike outriders for most of the race, but even they were spooked by segments of busy roads. I’m relieved when I eventually turn off the main road at Asso and take up the more tranquil road to Valbrona.
On the descent to Onno, we glide down some switchbacks, catching glimpses of Lake Como framed by the mountains beyond. From Onno, the route blasts along a narrow road hemmed in between steep rock faces and the shores of the lake on the way to Regatola. The lakeside road is covered by fallen leaves in the earthy red and
As I arrive at the base of The Wall, I get cheered on by a kindly Italian family shouting, ‘ Die! Die! Die!’
brown hues of autumn – a reminder of the Giro di Lombardia’s popular nickname – ‘the Race of the Falling Leaves’.
Centurions of the road
The Giro di Lombardia dates back to 1905 and is the last of the five Monuments of the season. Previous winners include the Italians Alfredo Binda, Gino Bartali, Felice Gimondi and Fausto Coppi, who triumphed a record five times. And the day before this year’s inaugural gran fondo, which traces the final stages of the pro race’s 247km course, another Italian, Vincenzo Nibali, took his second win at the event.
Perhaps the best-known landmark in the race is also the first major challenge of our day – the ascent to the famous Church of the Madonna del Ghisallo. It heads up along stonebuttressed hairpins to the hilltop church with an atmospheric museum that’s packed full of cycling memorabilia.
This climb was once dubbed ‘the poor man’s spaceship’ by Italian writer Gianni Brera because it allowed humble cyclists to leap to the heavens. It’s 10.6km long with a total ascent of 552m, meaning the average gradient is a relatively benign 5.2%, but it includes several sharp stretches at over 10%. By the time I arrive at the feed station at the top, riders are sitting around eating apricot-flavoured brioche and sweet biscuits, so I duly follow suit.
After the welcome pit stop, I rattle down the descent to Maglio, dropping 250m before
My pace has slowed to the track- point where I am essentially standing up the mountain
beginning the climb that will take me to the foot of The Wall (in case the diabolical Sormano wasn’t tough enough in itself, the approach to it is a 7km climb averaging 9%).
I soft-pedal, trying to preserve as much energy as possible for the horror to come, but nothing can prevent the torture going on in my brain. All I can think about is that the Muro di Sormano has a 3% steeper average gradient than Yorks Hill, scene of the infamous Catford Hill Climb, but the agony lasts triple the distance (1.7km versus 0.64km) and involves triple the altitude gain (280m versus 92m).
As I arrive at the base of The Wall, I get cheered on by a kindly Italian family shouting, ‘ Die! Die! Die!’ in my face.
The Wall
What exactly is a cyclist supposed to do? With my bike tilted at discombobulating angles, if I stay in the saddle my front wheel flips into the air and I am forced to painfully yank my leg upwards just to get my foot over the pedal in order to complete a rotation. If I stand up, the angle is so sheer that I can only stomp down on the pedals in piston-like thrusts. This is less cycling, more heavy gym workout.
I later discover that the winner blasted up the hill in nine minutes. Here at the back of the bus, however, most are already walking, slowly shuffling and grunting uphill like Lycra-clad zombies. A few try to get back on their bikes, but the angle makes re-starting impossible.
Not wanting to join the ranks of the walking dead, I settle on a rhythm of 10 seconds in the saddle, 10 seconds standing up. It’s a horribly frantic, anxiety-inducing sequence, but I just can’t last any longer in either position.
The road surface is decorated with lines marking every metre gain in altitude. On the steeper hairpins those lines are barely a bike length apart. My pace has slowed to the point where I am essentially track-standing up the mountain, moving half a metre with every downward push on the pedals. My temples are throbbing. My leg muscles are convulsing. If I tried to remove a hand to glug some water I’d fall off, as one rider does just in front of me. When he gets up and starts walking, he looks relieved.
‘Just step off and walk,’ whispers the devil on my shoulder. ‘You’re too weak to make it. This is the climb that will finally break you. All you have to do is put one foot on the floor and this torture will all be over.’
‘You’ll never live that down,’ replies the angel on my other shoulder. ‘Just keep going.’
Such toxic mind games will be familiar to any cyclist who has truly suffered, but here on the Muro di Sormano the writing is, quite literally, on the wall. Soundbites from former champions are neatly stencilled on the road. One citation from the Italian cyclist Ercole Baldini translates as, ‘This climb is simply bestial, impossible to get up.’ Thanks for the inspiration, Ercole.
Then, to my utter confusion, my arms begin to bonk. This is a first. Working hard to keep my almost motionless bike from falling sideways, my biceps and triceps have started to quiver and tremble. So now all four of my limbs are flaming and failing. At least none of them feels left out.
I flirt with the idea of quitting upwards of a hundred times on the Sormano, yet somehow I stamp and grind and heave for 25 minutes and 30 seconds and the two-wheeled torture is over. It’s the hardest climb I have ever done but the sensation on reaching the top is extraordinary. I celebrate my achievement by lying face down in the grass, chest heaving, writhing in pain. I suspect this is not how George and Amal spend their weekends in Lake Como.
I celebrate my achievement by lying face down in the grass, chest heaving, writhing in pain
The end is nigh
After peeling myself from the grass at the summit, I set about negotiating the final 43km. Still groggy, and with leg muscles convulsing, I’m being overtaken by the previously walking dead, whose ambulatory tactics have left their energy levels intact, if not their honour.