The high Italian passes

[Looking back over our ascent of the Stelvio Pass]

The first couple of switchbacks on our way up the Stelvio Pass were scary but I soon learned that it is a quiet road in October and mercifully the opposing traffic was light. Also, I quickly mastered the tight corners, enough to stay in my own lane anyhow. The necessary slow speeds were too low for Adam's taste but we both agreed that the scenery was breathtaking and were pleased that we'd chosen this route to cross the Alps from Germany through Austria and onward to Italy.

[Some Stelvio scenery]

The lesser Alpen passes proved more psychologically challenging as many of these are without guardrails. Where there are trees alongside the route, I am able to fool my brain into ignoring the sharp drop at the side of the roadway though a little voice squeaks to remind me that I am looking at tree crowns and not trunks as would be normal, but the valley below is well obscured so the fear lays low. The fear comes to the fore above the tree line though. On one harrowing section, the road was but a single lane wide and meant to accommodate two-way traffic around blind bends and switch backs. I fell well behind Adam as I steeled myself to continue along this stretch of road until we dropped below the tree line and the road again widened.

[Folded rock in the Tyrolean Alps]

Adam's GPS had a few tricks in store for us in the small towns that populated the steep slopes of the passes. On one unnecessary diversion through a village, it led us into a maze of cobbled lanes that narrowed to the width of our loaded bikes and into a twisty stretch that must have exceeded a slope of 30º. With very shiny polished cobbles under the wheels. I was ever so grateful when we rejoined the main road rather than having to perform a u-turn which sometimes happens when we misread the scale of the map and take a wrong turning. But no, that day it was merely the perversity of the GPS that wanted to test my mettle.

[Lakeside campsite on the Lago d'Idro]

We ended our crossing of the Alps at a quiet campsite on the shore of the Lago d'Idro, a wonderfully picturesque spot, and were saddened to leave it and the picture-perfect scenery for the Italian plains the next day. Even Lake Garda was a bit disappointing with the tacky hustle and bustle that encircles its shores.

[Another enchanting view of the Lago d'Idro]

I don't think either Adam or I expected to find the Apennine Mountains amounting to much as we worked our way from the northern plains of Italy to the Ligurian coast. So with the sun on our backs, we climbed into the foothills around mid-afternoon one day in mid-October. The squiggles on the map might have been a clue that we were about to tackle some high passes but we blithely motored on even when an ominous sky reared up ahead. Soon, we climbed into a foggy cloud bank. I couldn't make out Adam's tail-light twenty-five feet in front of me and my visor wouldn't clear so, up went the face shield and in came the wet and cold.

[This day's ride in the Apennines is about to get a great deal less pleasant]

Added to my worries was a low fuel light. Though my fuel light is alarmist, coming on many kilometres before Adam's deigns to warn him, I've experienced a few instances when fuel wouldn't transfer from my reserve tanks to the main, with the result in that horrible cough and splutter and stop at the side of the road until fuel can be coaxed to flow or more laboriously transferred manually. On one occasion, it coincided with the freak failure of my starter clutch so I am now petrified at the thought of running out of fuel. Adam just tuts and mutters as I start chattering in his ear ever more persistently about stopping for fuel but on this day as we headed higher into the Apennines and into more remote territory, I insisted on stopping at a single dilapidated cardlock pump on the side of the road to add 20€ of pricey (and precious) fuel into my tank. Onward we continued in worsening wet and cold until we reached 'town' which turned out to be no more than a collection of a few houses along a ridge. At least my worries about fuel were quelled, although I was then faced with the dilemma of whether to share my fuel with Adam when he inevitably ran out.

It was now six o'clock in the evening with darkness closing in and hunger starting to gnaw away. We had a choice to make: make a run for the Mediterranean coast along twisty switchbacks and sodden leaf-strewn roads after hunching to cook a hot meal by the side of the road, or continue on the few miles to a high peak and our original destination campsite for the night. We opted for the campsite. We might have been able to sate our hunger but we were too wet and too cold to contemplate the dash for the coast. We must have appeared as spectres out of the gloomy fog as we pulled up to the gate of the campground where mercifully, staff still populated the reception office. Our request for a tent site was quickly nixed and we were instead offered, in dense Italian, either a wooden A-frame 'tent' wide enough for two but little larger than a long dog house, or RV with lights and heat and running water. The RV won handily and we were left to get ourselves settled in with a promise of returning to the office in the morning to complete the paperwork formalities. No sooner had I put the pasta water on to boil than hail began to fall outside. And then the thunder and lightning came. It crashed all around us until 4 o'clock in the morning. And never had I been so grateful at those chances of fate that had led us to a warm dry RV bed for the night.

[Leaving camp, the morning after the storm]

By morning, the air had cleared and we had a delightful view of the hills. Adam never did run out of fuel on our way to La Spezia on the Ligurian coast though he did take the first opportunity that presented itself to fill his tanks. For the record: of course I would have shared mine.

[Bidding adieu to the Apennine Mountains]