Middle Earth - The Apennines - Cyclist Magazine
Apennines - Cyclist Magazine Words: Mark Bailey Photography: Pete Goding
Deep in the heart of central Italy lie the wild mountains and isolated roads of the Apennines where epic new cycling adventures await
A swift left turn near the solitary Italian shepherd selling plump wheels of Pecorino cheese at a fork in the road delivers us into the wind-whipped mountain amphitheatre of Campo Imperatore (Emperor’s Field). We’re in the Gran Sasso e Monti della Laga National Park – a 2,014 square kilometre arena of brooding limestone and dolomite peaks, slithering glaciers and seductively silent roads in the Apennines of central Italy – but this particular canvas of high mountain meadows framed by jagged pinnacles and scudding rain clouds the colour of Roman chainmail is known to locals as ‘Piccolo Tibet’ (Little Tibet). The mountains here may not be Himalayan in stature but their spiritual silence and aristocratic grandeur is enough to make any cyclist stop pedalling and stare.
A swift left turn near the solitary Italian shepherd selling plump wheels of Pecorino cheese at a fork in the road delivers us into the wind-whipped mountain amphitheatre of Campo Imperatore (Emperor’s Field). We’re in the Gran Sasso e Monti della Laga National Park – a 2,014 square kilometre arena of brooding limestone and dolomite peaks, slithering glaciers and seductively silent roads in the Apennines of central Italy – but this particular canvas of high mountain meadows framed by jagged pinnacles and scudding rain clouds the colour of Roman chainmail is known to locals as ‘Piccolo Tibet’ (Little Tibet). The mountains here may not be Himalayan in stature but their spiritual silence and aristocratic grandeur is enough to make any cyclist stop pedalling and stare.
“Chi si fa pecorella, i lupi la mangiano,” (Make yourself a sheep and the wolves will eat you) is a popular adage in rural Italy. It’s a fitting aphorism for travelling road cyclists who wish to sample the rugged terrain of the Apennines. Stare too long at the swirling mountain road that rises ominously towards the mist-wreathed peak of Gran Sasso (literally, Big Rock) and you’d soon flee downhill to the nearest village for a hot bowl of risotto instead. Better to drop down a gear, crank up the watts and bite back. When we complete the meandering 1,263m ascent to the highest paved road on Gran Sasso at 2,130m, the clouds dissipate and the primeval landscape of Campo Imperatore opens up beneath us.
“My bottom feels like ice cream,” says Gianluca Di Renzo, the cycling guide, bricklayer, guitarist and published author who is my cycling companion for the day. Channelling Marco ‘Il Pirato’ Pantani with his earring, beard and bandana, Gianluca guides me to a solitary stall selling bottles of Peroni and hot sausage and prosciutto ciabattas. On encountering Gran Sasso during the 1999 edition of the Giro d’Italia (the climb has featured in the race four times) the leonine Italian sprinter Mario Cipollini said: “I hope when they give us our race numbers they also give us our ski passes.” It is indeed colder than a bowl of gelato up here, but this is a view worth savouring.
With its eerie emptiness and raw beauty Gran Sasso and the atmospheric hilltop villages nearby have featured in a range of movies, from the deadly mysteries of medieval Franciscan friars in The Name of the Rose (1986) with Sean Connery, to the treacherous world of assassins in The American (2010) with George Clooney. But 74 years ago the mountain was the scene of true historic drama.
After his arrest in July 1943, the Italian dictator Benito Mussolini was secretly imprisoned at the Campo Imperatore Hotel, a stark red building which today sits opposite the sparkling white domes of the Campo Imperatore Observatory. But in a raid in September of the same year known as Operation Eiche (Oak) a team of German paratroopers and SS commandos intercepted coded radio signals which revealed Mussolini’s location and, under direct orders from Adolf Hitler himself, arrived in planes and gliders to rescue Mussolini. Il Duce was understandably relieved, until 18 months later he was re-captured and shot near Lake Como. His body was hung upside down at a service station forecourt in Milan for all to see.
A LOST WORLD
In the solitude of the mountain it is easy to imagine Gran Sasso as the isolated sanctuary for the thirteenth century hermits that used to shelter here or the twentieth century dictator once imprisoned here. This is a raw and hostile terrain, where Apennine wolves, Marsican bears and wild boar still roam, watched by golden eagles and peregrine falcons. It is this sense of remoteness that makes the Apennines, sandwiched between Pescara in the east and Rome in the west, such a unique place to cycle.
Our mountainous 138km ride began in the maze of medieval streets and stylish piazzas of L’Aquila, the capital of the Abruzzo region. Wherever there are mountains there are dangers and the historic city was badly damaged by an earthquake in 2009. In early 2017 an avalanche on the opposite side of Gran Sasso to our route tragically killed 25 people. But when I meet my ride companion Gianluca and our experienced guide Angelo Bandini of Italian cycle tour specialists ABCycle (both of whom joined us for our previous Apennine adventure in issue 46) at La Fontana delle 99 Cannelle (the Fountain of 99 Spouts), the trickling tranquillity of the water only strengthens the sunny optimism of this dazzling Italian morning.
Gianluca leads the way while Angelo, who provides route planning, guided rides and logistical support for visiting cyclists, trails in his red support van with our photographer Pete Goding. Immediately after riding through the Porta Rivera arch in the city’s walls the soft green hills of Abruzzo come into view. We spin past the gurgling River Aterno and pass through the towns of Coppito and San Vittorino before heading north-east to a gentle climb, averaging 4%, along the flanks of Colle della Croce to a height of 1,450m.
The road is paved with smooth, grey tarmac and only a few wheezing Fiats glide past. For the first 20km of the day I glance at the green, brown and purple patchwork quilt of fields below but on the climb along Colle della Croce the views are replaced by towering fir trees, their chaotic roots visible through the mounds of earth at the sides of the road.
At the Passo delle Capannelle – a mountain junction used since Roman times – we enjoy 15km of refreshing descent, beginning with four swirling switchbacks and a long straight dash along a rocky plateau. The peaks of Monte Stabiata and Monte di Aragno loom to our right as we descend. The landscape here is a rustic blend of open fields, rust-coloured patches of rock, stony meadows and wildflowers. It is devoid of any signs of human life except for a few shepherds’ huts, some dusty hiking trails and a sprinkling of religious monuments like the Cappella Di San Vincenzo.
GRAN DESIGNS
At the town of Fonte Cerreto we take a break before starting the Gran Sasso ascent. I offer Gianluca a caffeine gel but, as a native Italian, he is appalled at the inauthentic coffee taste. A fan of The Who and the Rolling Stones, and armed with a Pink Floyd ringtone, Gianluca tells me he likes gritty cyclists like Felice Gimondi and Mark Cavendish. “They are like soldiers,” he says. “They always fight.”
Some of that gladiatorial spirit will be required to tackle Gran Sasso which involves 1,263m of vertical ascent. Although the gradient averages 4.1% with highs of 8.2%, it is the length that hurts: the climb continues on and off for a draining 31.1km. Fortunately Angelo is on hand to pass us bananas and cereal bars and cheer us on with his playful encouragement. “Like Wiggins!” he shouts, as I crawl uphill.
The summit of Gran Sasso is the 2,913m Corno Grande – the highest peak in the Apennines - but the highest accessible road to cyclists is the one that leads through Campo Imperatore to the hotel and observatory at 2,130m. The climb starts with a steady ascent through forests of beech, fir and chestnuts as the late morning sunshine dapples the road ahead. When we climb above the treeline, views of mountain pastures open up around us. The boulder-flecked plains stretch out to the mountains beyond, whose dramatic creases and folds are accentuated by the shifting battle between the sun and the gathering clouds. After 16km there is a steep ramp which yanks us out of the saddle but after 24km we enjoy a 5km downhill dash along a narrow road etched into the side of the mountain. With near-perfect visibility, I crank up the speed to 70kph then let gravity take over, occasionally pumping the pedals to keep up with Gianluca in front.
Around 60km into our ride we reach the Pecorino-selling shepherd standing with his shaggy white Abruzzo sheepdog at a fork in the road. This junction marks the start of the final ascent through Campo Imperatore to the summit road. I savour the satisfying card-fanning flicker of a freewheeling hub while I soak up the views. A sudden sprinkle of rain leaves us reaching for gilets and jackets but it’s over in a few minutes. Angelo has seen worse rain than this before: he once cycled from Edinburgh to London.
The ominous grey clouds seem to threaten a biblical downpour but it never comes. The lingering menace of the weather only adds to the raw beauty of the scene. A thin ribbon of tarmac leads straight towards the cloud-covered peaks ahead. Rivers of white scree spill down the slopes like tears. The presence of limestone and dolomite are what give the mountain its unusual ash colour but in the foreground are dark green fields which rise and fall in a riot of hills and hollows. To our right is Laghetto Pietranzoni, a mirrored lake which today is the colour of thick black ink. As the wind claws at my carbon-fibre Pinarello and the clouds darken I feel the electrical charge of excitement that comes from cycling into an unknown terrain.
In the final 5km the road kicks up with a series of hairpins at six, nine and 11 per cent. Gianluca, a super-fit triathlete not averse to the odd three kilometre ocean swim at weekends, peels ahead. It’s a good time to reflect on what’s going on beneath my wheels. Buried under the mountain is the 10km tunnel of the A24 highway which links Rome with the Adriatic Sea. Also hiding beneath the mountain is the Laboratori Nazionali del Gran Sasso, an underground particle physics laboratory where international experts research neutrinos, high-energy cosmic rays, dark matter and nuclear science.
How I could do with my own supplementary energy source right now. Some of the peaks surrounding me seem to rise up almost vertically. But I know I am drawing close to the summit when I see the lifts of the Gran Sasso ski resort – a popular holiday spot of the late Pope John Paul II - and the white domes of the observatory where scientists working on the CINEOS (Campo Imperatore Near-Earth Object Survey) study the movement of fast-moving asteroids and comets. The expensive telescopes are unlikely to register the slow-moving cyclists who have just arrived, heaving and panting, outside.
After a short lunch break for those sausage ciabattas and celebratory bottles of Peroni we enjoy the reward of dashing back down the road we just climbed to return to the fork in the road. My Strava file suggests we dropped 300m in a tenth of a kilometre but none of us can remember falling off a cliff so I suspect the GPS system had a snooze. The gritty road is like sandpaper: I wouldn’t want to kiss the tarmac up here, but it means you can sweep around the hairpins at speed.
BACK IN TIME
The final part of our ride takes us into a greener landscape filled with crumbling medieval castles and ancient mountain-top villages once ruled by the Medicis. But first we must complete a short drag over a high-mountain pasture which is strangely bleached of colour. It is so desolate I would feel as though I were riding through a desert, were it not for the cold shadows beneath the twisted crags that leave my fingers shaking on the handlebars.
The terrain bears the traces of ancient and modern grazing practices. The slopes are populated in spring, summer and autumn by flocks of sheep as well as herds of cattle and semi-wild horses. The ascent is short but I can feel lactic acid flaming my legs but we have been climbing for over 50km of our 85km journey so far. Gianluca leans over his shoulder to tell me that it’s pretty much downhill or flat all the way home.
After a long descent, featuring fast roads interspersed with tight hairpins, we crest a short hill and a softer, sunnier landscape appears, dotted with bundles of houses and neatly packaged segments of farm land. Not far from here is the tenth century castle of Rocca Calascio, the highest fortress in the Apennines, and the 13th century citadel of Castel Del Monte. The sun reappears and it is hard to believe we are only a few kilometres from the apocalyptic clouds of Campo Imperatore.
We cycle into the medieval village of Santo Stefano di Sessanio, a charming cluster of stone houses, artisanal shops and labyrinthine staircases which is popular with tourists for its art galleries and gourmet lentils. Those stairs mean it is not a particularly bike-friendly destination but it’s worth the waddle. We unclip and walk with our bikes through the streets with the stiletto clatter of cleats echoing through the ancient passageways. Angelo orders beers at a café and I’m heartened to see Gianluca swap his American stars and stripes bandana for a Union Jack version.
After a short rest we ride along a scenic balcony road. We’re still descending so we enjoy bursts of free speed which soothes my rapidly solidifying leg muscles. We dash past the ruins of the Castello di Barisciano, which is perched on the side of the Selva mountain near the village of Barisciano, on our way to San Demetrio ne’ Vestini. The road here, which weaves through farms and orchards bordered by stone walls, is narrow and quiet like an English country lane.
As we approach San Demetrio ne Vestini the road gets busier so, prompted by Angelo who has accumulated an intimate knowledge of every lane and track, we swing left onto a quieter road towards the hamlet of Sant Eusanio Forconese. We keep pedalling to Monticchio, a small town surrounded by volcanic lakes, which became a shelter for brigands during the Italian unification process of the nineteenth century. This is an agricultural landscape and I can smell the warm earth from the fields as I pedal past.
Eight hours after leaving L’Aquila we arrive back in the town and shelter in the cool shade beneath the imposing double doors of the basilica of Santa Maria di Collemaggio. This elegant building, which dates back to 1287, is decorated with a bright pattern of pink and white stones. It’s been an epic ride, taking in wild mountains, wind-raked mountain pastures and ancient hilltop villages. Gialunca grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a hearty Italian double-peck on the cheeks.
Our trip to L’Aquila has coincided with the annual Festival of La Perdonanza Celestiniana (Festival of Forgiveness) which commemorates the Papal Bull of Pope Celestine V. Issued in 1294, the Bull granted indulgence to everyone who confessed at the basilica of Santa Maria di Collemaggio and walked through those imposing double doors beneath which we are now sitting. As evening draws in, the colourful streets are soon filled with men dressed as knights, women in medieval dresses, belly dancers, musical celebrations and commemorative sword-fighting contests. But whether you arrive at the basilica out of religious devotion or at the end of a 138km cycling odyssey, this is one pilgrimage worth making.
(C) Cyclist Magazine