On the motorway heading north we read on the traffic signs: "Exits closed from 10 am: Giro d'Italia". Aha. Firstly, I don't really understand the Italian signs and secondly, I have no idea what they mean by Giro. Current account?
But my sports-loving husband enlightens me: Here are "Gümmeler" on the road, cyclist. "This is the Tour de France of Italy." I see. There you go. My interest remains at zero.
But as they are now somehow blocking the exits and we want to head towards the Dolomites, we have to act. I quickly research the cyclists' route and navigate us to a place that I think might be a good spectator spot.
What I couldn't have foreseen was that we would be standing in THAT spot. We park our Felix in a meadow (and hope we don't get drenched in the rain) and trudge to a slope. Here we are greeted by the local police and a crowd of people from the festival. Because: The climb is one of the steepest of today's stage: 15 % gradient over several kilometres. Food stalls, party music and rows of folding chairs to the right and left of the road. Everything in pink, the Giro d'Italia is tutti-kompletti in pink.
So we trudge up this hill (I'm already suffering with the cyclists), munch our way through chip shops and other unhealthy fairground fare and wait. After about an hour and a half, the rain shows its persistent side, they arrive and trudge up the hill.
I remember my only Tour de France years ago, when there was a kind of festival at the side of the road, and the peloton was over in just 3.5 seconds.
But this time we can watch, cheer and observe for a whole three minutes because of the mountain. They are really struggling up here, the group is nicely disorganised and you can really see every single rider. And yet I think they come up faster than we would ever whizz down.
And I have to say: it was great! It really was a great change of scenery, having wandered in completely without a plan and also a great pleasure to see all the children and friends coming together, cheering on the Velölers and celebrating together. We walk to our Felix in high spirits. Elated? Perhaps also because it's downhill.
Of course, as soon as the race is over and the riders are looking forward to another 150 mountainous kilometres to Bassano del Grappa, it stops raining and we are glad to get our Felix out of the meadow in one piece. Now it's off to the Dolos, as we connoisseurs say!
On a side note: kind of strange, the first time it's rained in months. And thinking about what to wear. And swapping our now wet Birkis for sturdy shoes for the first time. Apparently we are back "at home".
Merci for "travelling with us
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