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Como Tour Stage 1: Muro di Sormano and Ghisallo

Writer's picture: Matt FantasticMatt Fantastic

Updated: Nov 10, 2019

Thursday May 2nd was a day of travel. Close to 40 souls journeyed across land, sea, mountains - and in one case, an ocean - for the sixth edition of the Waldy Wheelers annual tour.


A combination of trains, planes monorails got me from Twickenham to the glamorous-sounding, but-less-than salubrious surroundings of Milan Malpensa airport. A needlessly early flight from Gashwick resulted in an hour of snacking with Andy Green and Jon Burchell as we waited for the majority of the other tourists to arrive from Heathrow. Soon we were on a coach bound for Menaggio and an emotional reunion with the brave souls of the advance party, who had selflessly been checking the wine was OK since mid-morning.


Our first sight of the Lago di Como drew appreciative gasps from the team; despite fading light and persistent rain the scenery looked magnificent. This would be our playground for the next three days. Molto Buono.


After rooms were allocated and bikes were set-up ready for an early start the following morning, it was time to start preparing body and mind for the first day. Like serious, well-honed athletes, we approached this with a strategy of quick and slow release carbs, and some form of antioxidant. We went for beer, pizza and wine.


Special hat tip to Mr Stephen. Much like Martine McCutcheon, this was his moment. A decade of promising local establishments that one day he'd bring his cycling club to Menaggio - here we were, and just as hungry and thirsty as he’d promised. And after years lobbying for a tour in Italy, similarly we were now in Tim's adopted back yard. The food and hospitality were as promised. But what about the cycling?


Suitably sustained, it was time for bed. But not before some last ditch hydration... In the hotel bar. Then to bed, minds racing at what lay in store tomorrow...

After a top drawer breakfast of juice, pastries, coffee and the ubiquitous ham, cheese and bread it was time to saddle up and descend to the ferry. It was at this point that I became acutely aware that I'd not had my morning shit. As Tim Stoller, road captain extraordinaire, wrapped-up warm in leggings and long jersey, delivered the pre-ride briefing I scouted the area for a suitable facility to evacuate my bowel. But there was no time. The ferry was here.


Once aboard the ferry I quickly and joyously desecrated a toilet, only to then encounter a new phenomenon, and a term I was unaware of but that roomie Tom later informed me is a genuine thing: The Infinite Wipe. For the unknowing, this is a scenario where one is tidying up post-poo, but become confused and confounded as to the cleanliness of one’s undercarriage because of a healthy slathering of chamois cream. The infinite wipe. Moral of the story: shit at home, pre lube.


On arrival in Bellagio, and after the yellow jersey was gifted to Simon Bricknell for crimes against forgetting his helmet, we were off. After 7km or so of glorious lakeside riding it was time for the climbing to begin. 21km and 1 hour and 20 mins later we'd done 900m of 'up' though tree-lined switchbacks and with occasional views to the lake. That's a lot of up, and few people opted to send Super Domestique Fred back to the van with unwanted layers.


Excited to be in Italy, keen to soft launch my new persona - 'Holiday Phil' (a happy, out-going, friendly counterpoint to my actual personality) - and determined in this time of Brexit apocalypse to showcase the British as friendly non-xenophobes, I made it my mission to greet absolutely everyone we rode by with a wave of the hand a chipper call of 'Ciao!' or 'Buongiorno!' Old ladies in doorways, blokes building walls, dog walkers, other cyclists; they all received the pro-European treatment from Holiday Phil. And to start with, it was warmly received and reciprocated. I felt suitably smug, until the doubts crept in. I remembered that hand gestures in Italy are a complex language in their own right, and after a few of my nonchalant waves and flicks of the hand met stony faces I became convinced I was guilty of a Farage-esque cultural faux pas and that my hands were actually saying 'You there! I have had trouser relations with your mother. And her goats!', and 'You, Sir, are a homosexual'.


After a coffee stop and drop into Lecco (where Stoller received a now sweaty yellow jersey for over-dressing for the first stint) we were at lake-level and thoughts turned to the centrepiece of Day 1, and possibly the standout moment of the tour: The Muro di Sormano. Less than 2km but with an average gradient of 17% and capping out with ramps of 25% the Muro is a savage thing.


My personal experience of it? Well, I rode it all which I was pleased with, though there was an undignified unclipping moment where me and Ocean-hopping Andy Shute took a tactical breather. The meter-markers were a great incentive and would have been better had I known how many there were! Somehow we were in amongst the last to start the ascent from wherever that dusty car park/ piss stop was, as a result we climbed the Muro in drizzle, then rain. For me this was a blessing as the wet took the heat of over-exertion out of me, making the climb doable. At the top I pleased to have completed it and even more pleased by the prospect of a sit and some lunch. The group buzzed as we spoke of our personal interface with the climb. Some made it, some walked it, some had a very literal interface as their faces ploughed into trees.

Lunch and wine and beer and coffee all despatched it was time to face the reality that is was shedding it down, wasn't going to stop and we'd have to brave it. Stoller was now revelling in is previously ridiculed kit choices, and handed the yellow jersey over to Richard Barker. His crime? Falling off at 3kmph on the Muro.


The weather made the last part of the day a bit on the chilly side. The descent after lunch was chilly and damp, but damn good fun. We started to warm up again as we began the steady climb up to the Madonna del Ghisallo. Now, I’d not heard of this famous ecclesiastical monument to cycling, but was informed it was a pilgrimage I needed to make.

With our respects paid at the tiny church full of old bikes, mementos and memories of the famous and fallen we popped into the museum/ shop, and shifted around pretending to browse but really just keeping dry ahead of the descent back to Bellagio.


Conditions had worsened, and much like a Bon Jovi album, the roads were indeed slippery when wet. So much so that Fred took a tumble on the first bend after the church. But for those who still fancied it, the road back down to the lake was a glorious, fast and twisting ride. We interrupted it so say hello to the nice bike rental people - part of the on-going Tim Stephen local outreach programme.


Once in Bellagio there was just enough time for hot chocolate and beer in a rather swanky looking cafe which we emptied of normal punters within minutes of arriving. By this stage we looked and smelled sub-optimal and were not perhaps the most appealing company to the usual clientele. Lucky for them our stay was short as the ferry was imminent.


The eternal question of how many middle aged men it takes to create a sauna in a small lakeside waiting room was finally answered, as 23 borderline hypothermic souls bounced in unison while desperately seeking body heat until the ferry docked.


And that was it. Day 1, done. Well, there was the ferry ride when we all looked for heaters that were on. Then the short schlep up to the hotel. The beers. The food. The war stories at dinner. The healing elixir of Zizou’s miraculous limoncello.


And, of course, the promise of a 160km lap of the lake to look forward to tomorrow.


Phil Holland

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