Racing Rivers – Brenner to Lake Garda

So we had cycled to Italy – which still doesn’t seem to ring true. What do you do after hitting a landmark like that? Well, most instantly, after the camera goes back to sleep, it seems that gravity pulls you towards a cold drink.

Pulling out a chair in Brenner’s finest dusty caffé, Will prepared to brush off his equally mothy Italian. As the waitress came to take our order, holding her nose, the word “Bitteschoen?” slipped her lips. Ah – we forgot that this was Tyrol. Stef once more took the conversational handlebars, and Will sat back. Sat up near the border, a number of local police and Caribinieri were walking about, and just to emphasise the regionalism of the Italian republic, we admired the patrol’s rather fancy feathery caps.

Soon enough, we reasoned that we couldn’t simply sit at the top of the mountain forever – we needed to lose some elevation. Swooping on a totally isolated bike path, we got through our own personal tunnels, hairpin bends, and occasional -17% gradient. Dodging turmultuous weather down the mountain, we managed in all to keep good pace ahead of the clouds, and got through the doors of a supermarket in Sterzing. German still the language de rigeur, the only indication we had crossed a border lay in the number plates and the exceptionally broad selection of pasta on offer. We conducted our routine in record time and were back looking for somewhere to sleep.

Wedged between a river, motorway, train line and a main road, our commitment to wild camping was causing us a little bit of an issue. A fenced bike path constraining us to plough ahead, we were soon confronting stormier skies. Having yet to see a spot to camp, we decided to take a time out, set up our stove under a bridge and trolled it out for an hour or so. After a rather delicious powdered pasta carbonara – lucky us – there was no more delay in getting to the heart of the matter – we needed somewhere to sleep. Having eyed one spot around the back of a motorway service station, we reluctantly settled on sticking a tent there…

And then, whilst putting together the poles in the dark…

It rained…

Heavily…

With that instant misery that makes you question what you’re doing and pushes you into later bewildering and baffling decisions, we huddled under our tarp, trying dearly to keep our panniers below us dry.

This, rather inevitably, wasn’t working.

Sodden, we resorted to our previous spot, back below the bridge, but on the other bank of the river. A full 5 meters from the edge of the motorway carriageway. Needing rest after a tough day on the bike, we threw up the tent, towelled ourselves off, blew up our mats and lay down to the whoosh and spray of haulage lorries crossing the Alps overnight. Their un-orchestrated spacing providing our soundscape until our 5am wake up, it goes without commenting upon the quality of our rest.

As with any early rise though, it offered us the opportunity to make some quick ground. Taking breakfast on a hillside with views of the snow dusted mountains, we vegetated as the sun’s rays made apologies for it’s counterpart the night before. We got back onto the bikes and continued onto our descent, and 40 kilometers later, found ourselves in a properly bilingual town – Brixen.

A charming town square with the Italian tricolour flying proudly, things had started to feel a little more like we had arrived in Southern Europe. Still though, Stef’s German was Interchangeable with Will’s Italian on most encounters, which caused great confusion with anyone we ended up speaking to, as our respective languages caused them constantly to switch tongues.

This was particularly the case as we popped into Sportler – a sports shop that got our custom as while covering the final kilometre into town, Stef’s rear rack snapped, requiring some top quality cable tie bodging in order to prevent a Boudicia styled spoke splitting. Whilst chatting to the chaps in the shop, we made clear our plans to maybe tackle a mountain or two in the area, and looking at our bags, the generously warned us not to.

This, we were expecting, and so the conversation turned to where we could leave our bags. Whilst the train station claimed to have a bag deposit, some asking around had led us to discover that this was “once upon a time”. That being the case, we asked if our panniers could spend Saturday in the shop’s storage room – giving us time to explore a mountain and take in the view from Santa Maddalena. The answer was a warm yes – so we had set an appointment with the Dolomites.

That night, we pedalled into the hills to find some spare land to wild camp on. Rising above the cathedral spires of the city floor, we were getting a little way our of town when we harked at a flatter spot, which still came in at something approaching 6% in a field. We went for it, taking good note to set up our tent before any prospective precipitation.

Sliding out of the tent for breakfast after a more restful night’s sleep, we packed up our gear and prepared ourselves for a real road ride – to one of the most spectacular views in the Dolomites.

Dropping off our panniers at 10am, we set off, down the valley to the opening of the Val di Funes. The road immediately swept upwards at 8%, with signs warning us of rock falls among many other hazards. We carried on, relieved by the surprising spriteliness of our respective steeds now freed from the burden of our travelling essentials – we’re fitter than we thought. That though, didn’t mean we didn’t need a little drink stop in San Pietro, and taking on a little extra liquid thanks to a kindly local with his garden hose running, we pushed onwards, and up to the iconic church at Santa Maddalena in the shadows of the Forcelles.

This was simply one of the most beautiful places that we had each of us seen, and it warranted a barrage of pictures, with which we oblige you now:

After hours watching the light change and the rocks transform in shape, we made our way back down, shredding rubber from the brake blocks and sending our rims seething with heat from the steep 13km downhill.

Pedalling back to Sportler to collect our bags for 5pm, we made sure to scope out a spot or two for camping later, but as events transpired, we were kindly welcomed by a Warm Showers host into an apartment in the former hotel in which he lived – after our personal camping disasters of the previous two days – this was absolute heaven.

Two beds, a kitchenette, a shower and even a little table and television, we had the greatest of luxuries around us.

We cooked ourselves a little one pot dinner and sat down, watching some people kick a ball about on the telly, with some very enthusiastic Italian commentary, whilst screams from outside the open window celebrated Germany’s last minute score. Our host having made it clear that we were welcome to stay for the weekend, we could relax and spread out.

Having conquered our mountain the day before, we now found ourselves with a Sunday to spend. Wanting some time away from the bike, we took a stroll into town to see what was open on a Sunday. Stopping by the bus station, we contemplated a little jaunt around the Gardena Pass, but unable to tie two services together, we abandoned our aspirations and instead, ended up once more in a bar, this time watching some English people kick a ball about. Stopping by the cathedral on our way back to the apartment, we revelled in the sheer geostatic location, got ourselves an early night and woke up fresh, ready for a morning espresso with our host before he ran off to work.

And so we returned once more to our ragtag lifestyle. Finding ourselves already something in the region of 80km from where we entered Italy, we fell further down the valley, drifting on our plaited bike path past the meandering river, the weaving road and the declining railway track. Making a lunch stop in Bolzano, we quickly got ourselves back on the road, and were somewhere 40kms shy of Trento when we encountered a Cornish couple also tackling the Dolomites. Sharing words and tips on what we’d just ridden, we put another 20kms away in chatter and nattering.

Parting ways, we pushed on to Trento, eager to make some ground after standing still in Brixen. Arriving in town as a sound check for a festival took place, we decided to keep moving, and finished the day on the outskirts of Roveretto, nesteled between mountains and just 25 kilometers shy of Lake Garda.

Waking on the 26th was another landmark in and of itself – Will’s 25th birthday, outside the tent on our riverbank camp, Stef had laid out a Straciatella cake, balloons, candles and party hats. An impressive feat considering that we had spent pretty much 24/7 together since leaving London a month previously. After chomping through cake rather than the anticipated porridge, we started to tackle the little rise that lay between us and Lake Garda. With road cyclists blasting past us, we continued onwards, and finally caught a glimpse of the cliffs lunging over the lake, and the terracotta texture of roofs rising slowly from the shores.

This was Italy for sure.