August 26, 2006
Mustair - Bormio[I]
Again, we awoke to another sparkling morning. After breakfast we set out back up the valley to Santa Maria, where we were to turn south for the Umbrail pass. Barbara had another moan about having to backtrack uphill, but it was only 4km or so and not steep. My over-tightened headset made handling my now loaded bike slightly unnerving. The road out of Santa Maria was uphill straight away, 16km to go. The first few kilometres consisted of hairpin bends, some engineered, through the forest on the valley side. We were accompanied, for a while, if not closely, by a young German couple on unloaded machines. At first, I could hear a conversation going on behind me, in which the guy asked Barbara something in German, then immediately switched to English to ask where we were from, where we going etc? They moved on ahead of us and we were on our own, except, it being Saturday, for the procession of f*cking motorcyclists, who had finally dragged their fat, lazy arses out of bed in order to bombard our eardrums with their racetrack noise, while ramming petrol fumes up our noses, in case we got to like that pure alpine air. Do I have an 'issue' here? Actually no, that was just a reaction after two adult boy racers, on racing rather than touring machines, tore it up between two bends.
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Where the road broke out of the trees and into the higher more open landscape, the asphalt ran out. The surface was comfortable enough for cycling. On this stretch, we were caught up by another German cyclist, Roland from Bavaria, his machine also unfettered by luggage. We talked for a while and then made to set off again, at which point Barbara missed her footing on the pedals and fell off. She was unhurt, but a little shaken. After she had sorted herself out, Roland and I rode ahead for a short distance. We crossed a bridge over the high valley stream and were riding side by side, when the driver of a car [with German plates] leaned on his horn for us to get out of the way, then angrily passed us [me] at close quarters. Without thinking, I loudly instructed him to go and f*ck himself and suggested he might care to sit on my raised finger. Roland was quiet, a neutral reaction. 'Die Sprache des Maurers.' I said. Bricklayer's language. It's hard to understand why anyone would want to bring rush-hour rancour to such a remote and beautiful place. Thankfully, it's rare.
Roland and I continued our conversation until he rode ahead to meet his wife, at the top of the pass. He said he might see us there.
I waited for Barbara to catch me up, knowing, after the talk with Roland that the distance to the summit of the Umbrail was not as far as I had thought, another misreading of the map on my part. We passed a disused restaurant, not yet derelict, on a bend with perhaps 2km to go. There is an open restaurant at the top, a last piece of Switzerland. Roland and his wife, Rita were there, at an outside table. Barbara arrived. I bought her a hot chocolate and treated myself to a beer. We ate some bread, cheese and fruit.
Before we left I had planned in some way or other to climb the Stelvio Pass. Having ascended the Cime de la Bonnête in France in 2003, I had a mind to tackle Italy's highest road too. From Müstair, we could have continued down the valley to Glorenza in Italy then turned south to climb the pass from the South Tyrol side. I decided against that, but now we could still go up the extra distance, retrace and head for Bormio. Roland was keen that we should. In fact Roland was about to top that. He said that there's a hotel even higher at around 3000m. He intended to climb the access road.*
I spent the last of my Swiss change on chocolate and energy bars. We sat and talked for a while, exchanged e-mail addresses, then Roland got back on his bike and Rita back in her car and they moved off. Rita had said that on a bike the down-hills made her nervous. In response, Barbara said she would be equally nervous in a car.
We got up, photographed each other by the sign, shortly after which the German couple from earlier in the day turned up, heading back down the Umbrail. 'Hello London,' said the guy. I didn't know where he was from. Barbara hadn't told me. [Hello Duisburg, Mönchengladbach, Kaiserslautern] They'd been up the Stelvio and had a meal in the restaurant. 'There's a lot of motorbikes up there," said the girl. That finally decided our direction. Now in Italy, at the junction with the Bormio road we turned downhill. This was no easy cruise. There are hairpins, galleries and short tunnels all the way down. On the tight hairpin bends, my bike with its over-tightened headset was handling like a bag of bananas. Barbara claimed she found it harder than going up, but talk is cheap.
We arrived in Bormio and made our way to the town centre. It was busy with shoppers and sightseers. We sat on a bench to collect our thoughts, compared to where we'd come from it was bustling, its good-humoured Italian exuberance a long way from Switzerland, if not in actual distance. We rode a short way out of town and found a hotel. I parked the bikes in the underground car park. We took showers and walked back into town. Barbara bought a new memory card for her camera and a UK/Italy power adaptor for our phone chargers. We strolled around, had a coffee/beer in a café/bar. 'Look Barb, This is Italy, they've got bars here.' I said. We went back to the hotel for dinner.
After an unmemorable meal, we went back out into town. We happened across a table set up in the street as the temporary ticket office for a wine-tasting event. People of all ages were enthusiastically queuing. I paid €10 for a ticket, with a list of venues around the old town offering local wine and liqueurs from the Valtellina. I was also given a glass for tasting and a cloth pouch to hang round my neck for the glass to sit in when not in use. The streets were thronged with people moving from one venue to another. A loud and lively brass band suddenly appeared on the street and equally suddenly, disappeared. The milling crowd cheered them on. We took in most of what was on offer, but the wine was universally sour and thin, the liqueurs, acquired tastes. I guess they don't give away the good stuff. One advantage was that it allowed us into some of the old town buildings, the interiors of which we would not otherwise have seen. In some, there was space for animals and harvested crops to be kept during the winter. Although the tasting samples were mere mouthfuls, by the time I'd been through most of the itinerary, I was ready for bed.
*Roland's pictures are below.
Today's ride: 39 km (24 miles)
Total: 403 km (250 miles)
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