Italian Flyers
In the rolling hills around Tuscany and Emilia-romagna, the Gran Fondo del Capitano provides beauty and pain in equal measure
The Gran Fondo del Capitano in the hills of Tuscany mixes gruelling climbs with stunning views… and wine. Just don’t have too much of the latter before attempting the former
No Italian sportive would be complete without the thump-thump-thump of Euro-dance at the start line. It’s early in the morning and the historic streets of Bagno di Romagna are being blasted with noise while riders slowly gather beneath the gantry for the start of the Gran Fondo del Capitano. As a sun-bleached Alfa Romeo reverses towards us ahead of the controlled rollout, the DJ shouts, ‘ Su le mani!’ and we all dutifully raise our hands in the air.
The whole town is buzzing and the locals are out in force to support the race beneath a pure blue sky broken only by the occasional flutter of tiny yellow birds and confetti. By 8am it’s already 25°C.
As a journalist I’m ushered into the front row alongside riders that look to be a lot fitter (and, dare I say it, less hungover) than myself. It’s not my fault – I was invited into a local wine-tasting session the previous evening and things got a little out of hand. I am aptly placed somewhere between professional cyclist Matteo Montaguti of AG2R La Mondiale and a 69-year-old female rider from the coastal flatlands of Milwaukee.
Before I know it the countdown is underway and I can feel riders pushing at my back wheel as they jostle for position. The DJ shrieks what I presume to be ‘Go!’, at which point the Alfa Romeo pulls away and I’m practically flattened by riders surging forward with UCI points in their eyes.
Marshals stand on traffic islands frantically whistling and waving flags, and the feel is more like that of a football match than a sportive. It’s supposed to be a controlled start, but Italian sportives have a reputation for being as spicy as homemade arrabbiata. This one lives up to it.
The streets are smooth and wide and the first few kilometres are on a 2% downhill gradient, which lends itself to some high-speed group riding straight off the bat. It’s a far cry from the wine-fuelled cafe saunters I’ve become accustomed to while exploring the region during the week. I take one look at the peloton’s fresh, determined faces and, with the taste of ouzo still at the back of my throat, wisely decide to squeeze to the side of the road and let them fly by in a blur of fluorescent kit and carbon wheels.
The group stretches out into the distance as it heads for the first climb, the Passo della Consuma. The entry to the climb is a sharp right-hand turn off the main road that sees
The DJ shrieks what I presume to be ‘Go!’ and I’m practically flattened by riders surging forward
the gradient spike straight up to 6%, and the sudden change of tempo catches a few riders out. As I pass, I see one rider fumbling with a wheel and inner tube at the side of the road, while another is stood in bewilderment next to his bike clutching a crank arm in his hand.
Attack and release
Nearly 50km in, the medio course riders fork left to complete their 75km loop over the Monte Fumaiolo, a 1,407m mountain I had the pleasure of tackling two days prior. It has a gentle 3% gradient that lulls you into a false sense of comfort before the last 3km, which ranges from 6-11% – the perfect place to launch an attack, just as Vincenzo Nibali did during the 2017 Giro d’italia, leaving Geraint Thomas in his dust. Two of my English-speaking comrades make a similar attack for the shorter loop, leaving me and my ride companion, former pro Alessandro Malaguti, alone at the back of the long loop. Traitors.
Ahead is the Passo Mandrioli, a climb of 12km with 700m of ascent to its 1,173m peak. The views to the left are nothing short of stunning. The mountains are like crinkle-cut ridges covered head-to-toe with bottle green trees, taking on the appearance of a well-worn bobbled green jumper. There are no signs of civilisation on the horizon, only the occasional cluster of riders on the dark tarmac ribbon that
The mountains are like cut ridges, taking on the appearance of a worn bobbled green jumper
skirts around the contours of the mountains in a lazy and indirect fashion.
I tap out a rhythm until I arrive at the top, where a feed station awaits with some water, fruit and bruschetta. I grab some snacks, have a quick comfort break and head quickly down into Badio Prataglia, a brief suburban affair before we’re released back into the wild to climb up to Camaldoli. At 850m this mountain would be considered a sturdy climb in the UK, but it barely registers on the profile of this event.
Alessandro and I slog to the top and cruise down the other side, with views to the horizon completely open for me to marvel at. I’ve seen enough wine bottle labels from my previous evening’s research to know that I’m entering Tuscany. Ahead of me a small green hill juts out from the main town with a castle and a handful of terracotta-roofed villas nestled on top of it.
As we approach the bustle of the town, a black cat darts out into the road, forcing a Piaggio to brake hard and leaving a Fiat Panda
I’ve seen enough wine bottle labels from my research to know that I’m entering Tuscany
nowhere to go but into the back of the tiny three-wheeled truck. The occupants clamber out of their vehicles and shout and gesticulate in a manner that only Italian men can. I leave them to it. I’ve got my own battle to think about – a 16km flat and windy road to Poppi.
Pain and glory
The headwind means my ride companion and I have switched into two-up time-trial mode. Alessandro is an ex-pro rider formerly of Unieuro-wilier. He moans he is ‘fat’, having gained 12kg since his racing days, but he still looks svelte and has the legs of a German track sprinter. As such, I have no qualms about hiding in his lee, but even with my slipstream advantage I find it hard to keep up with him.
I try to take my mind off the pain of holding his wheel by admiring the Tuscan views. Misty blue mountains set a contrasting backdrop for golden fields of corn dotted with red poppies that dance in the wind. They seem to be having a good time, but I’m not so sure I am any more.
Waiting impatiently ahead is the Passo della Calla. I hit the bottom and work my way into the shelter of its beech tree woodlands with 16km of 5-8% gradients ahead of me. Alessandro brings the hill to life with stories of racing here in the