Ciao Zio Tony fans! Yes, it's time to slip into Uncle Tony's shoes again. As I recounted in my last post, "Obbedisco!" (Zio Tony's Tyrol Campaign), I explored the north-eastern province of Trentino over the second weekend of August. The primary motivation for that trip was to partake in my first "Gran Fondo".
What is a "Gran Fondo"? Well in the warm months, Gran Fondo's are as common place in Italy as 5K Fun Runs are in the States. Roughly translated into "Big Way", a Gran Fondo is a cycling event in which a thousand or more (sometimes many more) bikers done their favorite color of spandex and ride anywhere between 60 to 120 miles along showcase routes through the Italian countryside. Considering that Trentino is home to the rugged Dolomiti Mountains, I choose my first Gran Fondo for the monster 4,700 foot climb that it celebrates.
Specifically, the "Gran Fondo Charly Gaul" comemorates one of those astounding physical feats of sportsmanship that you've probably never heard of ... until you move to place like Italy. Charly Gaul (1932 – 2005) was a professional cyclist who hailed from Luxembourg and earned the nickname "Angel of the Mountains" for his reputation as a climber. Besides a Tour de France Yellow Jersey (1958) to hang in his closet, he also picked up a Gran Fondo to call his own because of how he won the first of his two Giro d' Italia Pink Jerseys (1956 & 1959).
The following re-cap of Gaul's epic 1956 Giro and his climb up Monte Bondone plagarizes from http://velonews.com/article/9244" ... Going into stage 20 from Merano to the Monte Bondone summit, Gaul was lying more than 16 minutes behind race leader Pasquale Fornara with only three days of the race remaining. This was Gaul’s last chance to move up the rankings ... but Fornara and the other top riders ahead of Gaul all looked strong as they headed toward Monte Bondone above the city of Trento.
The weather turned colder and colder, and on the long, steep slopes of the Giro’s final mountain, light snow soon turned to a full blizzard as the temperature dropped to freezing point. Fornara was overcome by the cold and took refuge in a farmhouse. Other race leaders rode to a standstill before keeling over in the ditches. Some stopped to drink hot chocolate or dip their freezing hands in bowls of hot water offered by the spectators. In all, 46 of the day’s 89 starters would pull out. Gaul just kept on going ... riding through the thickening snow in his usual smooth style.
He arrived at the finish almost eight minutes ahead of the second man, Alessandro Fantini, and 12:15 ahead of defending champion Fiorenzo Magni. His face a wrinkled mess, his hands and feet turned blue, Gaul took the pink jersey, and won the Giro two days later by 3:27 over Magni. The young Luxembourger had etched his name into the annals of not only cycling, but all sports with one of the courageous and remarkable upsets in modern times."
Well, I won't be claiming any performances that approach "epic", but in experiencing that climb myself, on a perfect day in August, I can tell you that ole' Charly was one tough nut.
The Gran Fondo Charly doesn't actually follow the entire 1956 Giro route, but start's on Mt Bondone's western slope, runs down to Lake Garda, returns to Trento via the mountain's eastern valley, then makes the "Charly Gaul" climb, back up Mt Bondone to the finish line.Here you see the colored spandex lining up for the start at the little alpine lake of Lagolo (once again, the Slow Food Guide to Italy that Julie & Tim gave me aced the place ... landing me in a B&B just a couple hundred yards from the starting line).
One thing you get used to in Italy are helicopters covering the start of a race, no matter how small, but, especially ones with bikes! Those who've been at a starting line can sense the anticipation in the faces and posture of my fellow cyclists.
I wish I could have snapped a few shots of the "peloton" descending into the valley ... it was one of those, "Wow! I can't believe I'm in the middle of this", first-time moments. But, I hope you can appreciate that I was a little busy careening down a mountain with 1,000 other cyclists.
We descended into the hamlet of Vezzano by Lake Toblino (although I lifted this pic from the website of the restaurant/castle you see at the edge of the lake, it’s the same view we enjoyed in the saddle). This delightful little corner of the “Valle dei Laghi” (Valley of the Lakes) appears to be renown for the Poli family of grappa makers. We literally passed just a few feet from the front door and sweet smells of Giovanni Poli’s artigianal distillery (http://www.poligiovanni.it/) and further along the road I sighted a conglomeration of signs pointing to at least five other Poli’s (I’m sure to return with any of you who want to venture to Trentino).
From Vezzano, we road through the Valle dei Laghi towns, orchards, and vineyards to within sight of Lake Garda. The shot I framed could very well be the same that Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe writes about from his 1786 “Italian Journey”, having traversed the same pass by which we turned back to Trento, “ ... at it’s head lies an enormous rocky ridge which one must cross before descending to the lake ... At the end of the descent one comes to a little village with a harbor ... Its name is Torbole”.
Goethe also described the peculiar wind patterns at this end of Lake Garda, blowing stiffly down from the northern valleys in the morning, then turning around just as forcefully after midday. Well, I’m here to report that over 200 years of global warming hasn’t done me any favors. Turning around at midmorning, we faced a stiff headwind all the way back to Trento, sapping our legs against the big climb ahead.Although our route only passed through its outskirts, I had toured “The Painted City” the day before the race. Trento earns it’s nickname from the frescoed Renaissance facades that flank its streets. You can make one out on the left side of this panoramic of the Piazza del Duomo, which I snapped after having given in to the irresistible temptation of a capucinno and brioche at one of its curbside cafe’s. At this point, I have to interject that despite all the fuss the Bolognese make about their fountain of Neptune, I found this one much more pleasing to the eye and a bit more relevant considering that the Romans had originally founded this city as “Tridentum”. Overall, Trento is definitely worth a full day of exploring; but, with the mountains beckoning all around, to experience the real delights of Trentino, you’ll want to have a car (and a bike).
Which brings us back to the point of this story - the big “Charly Gaul” climb up Monte Bondone. I won’t bore you with a blow by blow description of toiling for almost an hour and three-quarters, hunched over my handle bars with the ground barely moving underneath me; instead, I think it’s sufficient to say that I had 20 km (12 miles) to climb 4,700 feet.
I would like to try to explain that finding enjoyment in that really doesn’t come from each pedal stroke; but, in the sum of them - not just in what it buys you in the end (which you will see soon enough), but also knowing that you managed them all. You can’t reach the top by cutting any of them short.Here I am with most of them behind me and just a few hundred feet of altitude yet to climb. You can see Trento down below; that’s where the climb started. I’m dog tired but in a good mood. After watching the kilometer markers slowly dwindle down from 20, it was nice to see a number as low as 3.
Finally, here’s the view from the top. Here’s what 6,551 laboring pedal strokes buy you. Worth it?
Ciao Zio Tony Fans! I hope that you brought your trans-temporal passport and an extra pair of socks with you; because in this blog, Zio T stuffs you in a time capsule and enlists you under the command of Giuseppe Garibaldi, the colorful Generalissimo of Italy’s “Risorgimento”.
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That is, when plotting my first incursion into Italy’s northeastern province of Trentino (en-route to my first bicycling Gran Fondo), I decided it was better to follow a route out of History’s playbook than the mainline A4 & A22 autostrade, jammed with Italians on their August holiday in this out-door-lover’s paradise of splendid lakes, intimidating mountains, and verdant valleys brimming over with fruit tree orchards and vineyards. To do that, I consulted Garibaldi’s memoir, “My Life”, in which he recounts the 19th Century military campaigns by which Italy cast off the patch-work of foreign “protecturates” that had enveloped it over the preceeding century (yet another reason to consider the Baroque "annoying") and emerged as the sovereign nation we recognize today.
Because that tale is not often told in American classrooms, I’m compelled to drill you in a brief historical boot-camp before I launch you through the time-space continuum and into the fray. Below you see the kaleidoscopic timeline of events that are collectively referred to as the Italian “Risorgimento” (Revival).
Italy 1859 -------> 1860 -------->1861 ------->1870 ------> 1919
As late as 1859, the north-western Kingdom of Piedmont (under the House of Savoy) was the only native sovereign state. Otherwise, Austria dominated the North, France the central Papal states, and the Spainish Bourbons the South and Sicily.
That status quo had been challenged by various “Free Italy” plots and rebellions in the first half of the 19th century. Most notably, 1848 & 1849 had witnessed a wave of revolts in which the Veneto, Tuscany, and Rome declared themselves independent Republics (Garibaldi embossed his patriotic credentials by valiantly garrisoning the short-lived Republic of Rome against the inevitable return of the punted-out pontiff, Pope Pius IX, under the boots of the French Army). But, such ill-fated shenanigans had enjoyed only brief moments under the proverbial Tuscan sun before the foreign overlords quickly re-grouped and snuffed them out.
Nonetheless, those funeral pyres of the Italian Enlightenment provided enough nationalistic kindling to stoke what Garibaldi and his 1000 red-shirted Volunteers started in 1860 as a relatively small brushfire rebellion in Sicily into a peninsula wide campaign 
that consumed all of the Spanish-Bourbon and most of the Austrian and Papal holdings. At it’s conclusion, Garibaldi famously relinquished all of his conquests to the patriarch of the House of Savoy, King Victor Emanual II, and in doing so served midwife to the united Kingdom of Italy and secured his legacy in the countless streets and piazza’s you find bearing his name today.
A few years later, at the onset of the Austro-Prussian War of 1866, Austria still held the Veneto (blue on the map) and the Tyrolean valleys and mountains of present day Trentino and Alto-Adige (the white expanse above the Veneto). Italy allied with Prussia against Austria with the hopes of giving her long time, unwelcomed suitor the boot out of what Italians considered their boot. Truth be told, practically all of the Italian engagements in that conflict were unmitigated disasters; but, Italy would nonetheless receive the Veneto as consolation prize for picking the winning side. “Practically all” excludes Giuseppe’s victorious exploits commanding the Volunteer’s Army (akin to the militia of the American Revolution). However, Garibaldi’s smashing success was not in Italy’s war prize the Veneto, but in the Tyrol. Despite his victorious march into the Austrian underbelly, those northern provinces would remain firmly in Austria’s grip until after the horrors of World War I.
An important footnote, which should help you appreciate the punch-line of this story, is that although the Italian Monarchists had gained the upper hand in the 1860 formation of the Kingdom of Italy, the scent of Republicanism (exuded by the likes of Daniele Manin, who had led the ill-starred Venetian Republic of 1848) still lingered in the politically charged atmosphere of 1866. Both sides considered Garibaldi a wildcard in the balance who, with his wild popularity and knack for military campaigning, could tip the Scales of History in either direction. Would Italy emerge from the crucible of war as a Monarchy or a Republic?
So, you are about to find yourself in the middle of that intrigue and in-between the third and fourth maps, in the year 1866 … on the left-post route around Lake Garda by which Giuseppe Garibaldi will lead you and the rest of his Army of Volunteers into History. You will begin the march at Salo(A) and by way of Anfo(B) and Storo (C) achieve your ultimate objective, Bezzecca (D), a name bound to become as familiar to Italians as Yorktown and Gettysburg have become to us.
Ready? Upon completing the trans-temporal-transformation, you’ll follow the words of your charismatic commander [plus a few “I can read his mind” parenthetical transmissions from ZT back here at time zero].
Now … close your eyes, click your … WAIT! … That won’t work … just, click your heels … and count to three …
…. swirly, swirly … spin, spin … swirly,swirly …
…. spin, spin …. swirly, swirly, swirly ……..
Nearly four years had passed since the day I was shot in Aspromonte. I soon forgot such injuries, as the opportunist - those me who are guided by the utility rather than the morality they employ - were conting on.
Rumours had been circulating for days that we had entered into an alliance with Prussia against Austria; on the tenth of June 1866 my friend General Fabrizi came to Caprera to ask me, on behalf of the Government and our own followers, if I would leave the volunteers who were gathering from every part of Italy. I left for the mainland the very same day and immediately marched to Como where the largest numbers of volunteers had assembled. [But, unfortunately, in my rush, I had forgotten to pack my bicycle. I hear there’s some great riding in the hills above Bellagio] ...
There could have been a hundred thousand volunteers, but our uninspired Government, beset by the usual fears [of me running amock and declaring my own Republic of Italy], limited the force to a third of that number. It promised to be a brilliant campaign, one which would ... rejuvenate the old matron and let her live again as in the early days of Roman glory. Yet, in the hand of Jesuitical army leaders, it all ended in a cesspit of humiliation.
All our regiments were called to the western shore of Lake Garda; according to our orders we were to operate in the Tyrol … Since it was to be Lake Garda, I asked for the flotilla stationed at Salo’ to be placed under my command, a request which was granted straight away.
An entire regiment had to stay behind in Salo’ for the sole purpose of guarding the harbour and the nearby strech of shoreline and the forts which were being built along it for defence [and to protect the heritage of where the world first heard the Violin]
[And lucky them, those who could stay behind to enjoy the bountiful fruits of the lake at places like Osteria di Mezzo ... tasty antipasti of home smoked lake fish ... accompanied by the beloved Chiaretto of Garda (leave it to the Italians to do even Rose' wines right) ... and oh, the magnificent "anguilla dal lago" (eel from the lake) ... I could march a legion to the gates of Vienna on vittles like that!]
On the third of July we left Salo’ at dawn and reached Rocca d’Anfo by midday
An Austrian outpost had been sighted from Rocca d’Anfo, at Sant’Antonio ... I thought a sudden and unexpected assault would be effective ... so decided to go ahead and launch an attack ... For a while it went well and the enemy fell back; but then reinforcements arrived ... the day finished without a decisive outcome ... I had been wounded in the left thigh ...
At dawn we found the enemy had withdrawn ... we went on to take control of Bagolino and Caffaro ...
... finally, we took hold of the Dazio Bridge and of Storo, where I set up my headquarters. Storo is a small village at the point where the Guidicaria and Ampola valleys meet and was a key position for us to gain ... especially the Rocca Pagana, a lofty peak which towers almost vertically above the village ...
We took the fort at Ampola ... and so were able to enter the Ledro valley and advance the head of our right column as far as Tiarno and Bezzecca.
The enemy had mustered its forces at the top of the Conzei valley and was coming down along it ... the Conzei valley comes down from the north and continues into the Ledro valley at Bezecca.
During the night a battalion from the fifth regiment ... was sent to reconnoitre ... when dawn broke they found themselves ... sorrounded by large enemy forces ... Pursued by the enemy the survivors fell a back on the main column occupying Bezecca and the neighbouring villages to the north; a major engagement followed.
I had left Storo at dawn in a carriage as the wound I had received on the third of June was still painful ... When I came near Bezzecca the sound of artillery fire alterted me to the battle ... I called Haug to me ... we both agreed that the battalions of the ninth regiment should occupy the hills to the left ... The taking of these positions by the regiment which was captained, I am proud to say, by my son Menotti, turned out to be a very good decision, and helped to begin to turn the situation around in our favour ... I ordered all of the officers of my staff and as many of those who were in earshot to gather the men together and urge them forward.
Canzio, Ricciotti, Damiani, Ravini and others rushed forward at the head of a small group and, aided by the intrepid ninth regiment on the left, pushed the enemy back ... Their forces made a complete retreat ... up the Conzie valley [pausing at the lovely refugio located at it’s end for some flakey strudel and a cup of proper vienese coffee] and through the mountains to the east.
After the twenty-first the enemy made no further appearance ... The 1866 campaign was so marked by disasters that it’s impossible to know whether to blame fate or those who were in charge of strategy. That fact remains that after all our efforts and all the blood we had shed in reaching the Tyrolean valleys we were ordered to halt our victorious march just as we were about to achieve our goal. This is not an exaggeration: on the very day hostilities were suspended, the twenty-fith, the way to Trento was entirely clear of enemy troops; we knew they were abandoning Riva del Garda, throwing the cannon from their fortress into the lake as they left ... General Khun, Commander-in-Chief of the Austrian troops in the Tyrol, announced officially that since he was unable to defend the Italian Tyrol he was concentrating his forces on the defence of the German side ... All the advantages were on our side ... we would have been ready for any bold undertaking!
Yet here I am recording our misfortunes for posterity to read. I received a dispatch from our supreme command ordering us to begin our withdrawal from the Tyrol: I sent a telegram in reply: “Obbedisco” (I Obey),
... which provoked the usual peevish complaints from the Manninians, who, as always, wanted me to proclaim a republic and march on Vienna, or Florence. [Instead, Italy would not become a republic until 1948]
Ciao Zio Tony fans! As you will see shortly (actually the point is, not so shortly), I've decided to split the story of "My Madonna of Bicycles: A Pilgrimage to the Santuario della Madonna del Ghisallo" into two parts. I'll use this first installment to take you on a historical and somewhat spiritual journey into Italian cycling. As such, this blog entry is rated "Z" for cerebral content of an uncertain nature that may be unsuitable for readers expecting "See Zio Tony have fun" picture-books. But don't worry, you can look forward to the fun & pics in Part II!
First, I need to bring you to the starting line. After I arrived in Italy and had begun training regularly, I asked my friend Max to help me find some good riding. He replied, “I have a special place to take you, we need to ride to the Madonna del Ghisallo.” I had never heard of it and he didn’t explain much, except, because I had just started to get my riding legs back, we’d be sure to go the “easy way”. It didn’t take me long to figure out that my first ride in Italy was going to take me to one of cycling’s most revered places. And when I got there, I realized it was going to take a little more than the “easy way” to appreciate why.
The little chapel is found in the hamlet of Magreglio, along the spine of the peninsula that splits lakes Como and Lecco. It’s really not much to look at. Actually, having given me the lead on the final “easy way” climb, Max nervously called out as we approached, “There it is!”, afraid that I’d ride past it. If you don’t want to wait for “My Madonna of Bicycles, Part II” to see what’s inside, I’m sure you can Google-up a few pics: old bicycles, riding jerseys, and other “relics” strung along the walls and ceiling. And, of course, there’s a small alter with candles and an old frescoed Madonna on the wall behind it. “Neat”, you might say.
But what struck me the most was the way Max walked and talked about the place. I recognized the hesitation as he stepped into the chapel - like somebody getting up to take communion, knowing very well that they hadn’t been to confession in ages. Then back outside, he smiled at the two memorial busts standing where the road drops down the “hard way” climb from Bellagio, and said, “Look, isn’t that nice? Together again.” I looked, and smiled too, and didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about. I knew that I was at the Sanctuary of the Madonna of Ghisallo; but, why was she the Madonna of Bicycles?
Considering that I’m writing from Roman Catholic Italy, I’ll leave the “Madonna” part of that question to a study of the 1,949 years (and 9 months) leading up to Pope Pius XII’s proclamation that Mary has a soft spot for the pedaling types.
Instead, I’ve wondered “Why are the Italians so keen on cyclists?” And, considering that competitive cycling had been around since the turn of the century, “Why was 1949 the year to pick up such a spiritually lucrative sponsorship?” Finally, “Why here?”, at what would seem to be a rather insignificant little chapel on a hilltop. So, I’ve done my best to answer those questions by contemplating the sanctuary’s relics and studying the names they honor; following the string-of-pearl conversations I’ve had with local cyclists; and, using my Zio Tony, superhero, X-ray vision into Italian history and culture.
This being Italy, there isn’t anything especially revealing in a 14th century story about a miraculous delivery of a devout soul from an imminent danger (in this case, a band of good-for-nothing robbers) by appealing to Mary from a mountain top (in this sense, “Virgin Mary” could be considered a really potent superhero crime-fighting name). Instead, the preordained glory of that miracle seems to lay in its choice of location, 1745 ft above Bellagio at the crux of lakes Como and Lecco. Perhaps no more than a foot path when the fabled Count Ghisallo fell to his knees pleading for deliverance, the narrow switch-backed road, at whose crest the commemorating shrine has stood for the last 600 years, is now a permanent fixture on Italy’s Giro di Lombardia. In 1949, it wasn't more than a gravel strewn “strada bianca” (white road).
In 1949, you can imagine that wasn't the only thing gravel strewn in Italy where the post-war years passed in an alternate-universe to America’s baby-boom boon-time. In contrast, I imagine that the post-war Italian psyche suffered from severe economic depression, moral humiliation over Axis complicity and the failures of Fascism, and disillusionment in faltering political reconstruction. [1948 saw Italy usher in a new republican Constitution and it’s first post-war parliamentary elections; but, the historical consensus seems to be a big, “So, what?”, as the Constitution suffered from political expediency and the old guard gridlocked institutional reform in the name of staving off those nasty communists.] Sounds pretty bleak, huh?
But have no fear, from the midst of despair, a pair of wings appeared, named 
Bartali and Coppi, to lift everyday Italians above the ashes; and, just like those millions who were too poor and whose country was too devastated to afford anything else, they rode bicycles. The significance of that communal connection to the bicycle is best exposed through the cinematic lens of Vitorio De Sica and his 1948 time-capsule classic, “Ladri di Biciclette” (The Bicycle Thieves). So, at a time when other headlines were certainly more distressing, the Italian populace reveled in front-page coverage of Gino Bartali (1914-2000) and Fausto Coppi (1919-1960) battling over classic cycling races like Milano-Sanremo [1946(Coppi), 1947(Bartali), 1948(Coppi), 1949(Coppi)] and the Giro d’ Italia [1946(Bartali), 1947(Coppi), 1949(Coppi 1st, Bartali 2nd)]. Perhaps most significantly, Bartali took home the Yellow Jersey at the 1948 Tour de France and as teammates they dominated the 1949 Tour: Coppi 1st and Bartali 2nd, while also taking the top two spots in the climbing category.
In Italy’s “darkest hour”, the hands (or, I should say “piedi”) of popular heroes like Bartali and Coppi transformed the bicycle from a vehicle of despondency to a vessel of honorable patrimony and a mode of quasi-redemption among nations. In doing that, the story of delivery from distress has a familiar ring. So, it seems that 1949 was indeed a very good year to garner the Madonna’s good graces; and, it’s legacy can be felt in the passion for cycling that the Italians hold today.
But, I can’t help having pondered too long on this subject not to discourse on another, less secular theme. Of course, the dichotic concepts of despair/redemption and suffering/salvation which surfaced in the first half of this story are certainly not new territory. They certainly are not 2,008 years new. Nonetheless, they do happen to be somewhat central to the doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church. So, because this story does take place in Roman Catholic Italy, forgive me (and if you don’t at least the priest will) if I explore that theme deeper into the significance of the bicycle and the chapel’s location.
Christ climbed to Calvary. Cyclists climb to Ghisallo. Cycling is, in fact, a multifaceted sport whose specialties range from individual time-trials to indoor team racing. But, it’s the Climber whom the Italians respect the most - the one who suffers the longest, under the most grueling conditions, to achieve a triumphant rapture at the summit. Now, I don’t sit here writing as a Mark or Paul in spandex, butt-padded tights. I'm just saying, as a keen observer of the human spirit, you’ll make as much progress trying to convince a cyclist of the futility in a long suffering climb as you would trying to talk the Pope out of finding salvation in the Crucifixion.
The climb from Bellagio to the Madonna del Ghisallo shrine is not the most difficult in Italy, but, it is arguably the most storied and emotionally charged and is one that aches the legs (and spirit) of any cyclist, professional or amateur. “Il Ghisallo” debuted in the 15th Giro di Lombardia of 1919 and has played a crucial break-away or fade-away point throughout the subsequent 86 editions (suspended in 1943 and 1944 because of the war) and where today the Lombardia, also known as "The Classic of the Falling Leaves", concludes UCI’s World Cup Rankings.
So, the reason why this little chapel on a hilltop became the sanctuary to the Madonna of Cyclists is because the history of Italian cycling had suffered, and would continue to suffer, the climb leading up to it.
POST NOTE: I recently returned to the pilgrim's climb, seeking proof that the passion for Ghisallo is still very much alive: Cadel's Evan 2009 "Maglia Iridata", hanging in a very honerable spot, reflecting his performance as this year's reigning World Champion.
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