WORDS: THOMAS OPSTRUP/DAVE JOHNSON
VIDEO PRODUCER: THOMAS OPSTRUP
One of the most beautiful rides in Sicily. The ride to Monte Kalfa takes you to some historic roads. Build by the Allied during the Second World War from where they attacked and fled from the Germans. One day they get caught on the top of Monte Kalfa under heavy bombardment. It is an inferno where many men die. How the story ends I will tell you when you stand on top of Monte Kalfa with me.
VC10 Sicily training camp Day 3 – Monte Kalfa After Il Ritiro dell’Etna, Cheese.
On arrival at the bike shed, which appears to be an old chapel, this morning, two of us had to change tubes due to punctures incurred during the terrible Retreat From Etna. We are genuinely very relieved that no one had to try and change a tyre in that awful storm. Too cold, we would have failed, and at the least, it would have involved mountain rescue services.
Well, what a difference a day makes. Not high summer, to be sure, but bright and sunny. Up to a different and far more benign summit road, at 1000m. Built by the allies in WWII, it winds up to and along a high, sunlit, silent, flower-decked ridge, with magnificent views from either side and on, via a rather gravelly denoument to a summit used, at that time for intelligence gathering on the German coastal defences. The story is that this peak was bombed very heavily, and the soldiers manning it prayed for cessation. Just when it seemed no-one could survive, the bombardment inexplicably ended. Survivors returned some years later to build the current chapel in thanks. Even more interesting to me, is that no scenes whatever from the plodding, sodding Godfather were filmed here (see ” comedy impressions using just two barolo corks”)
A bumpy descent brought us, via the mad village grandmother who, as far as Patterson ‘s holiday Italian could translate, complained bitterly about whippersnapper hells angels (us, we presumed) tearing up her home, to a junction. Sadly, our guide Thomas had completely disappeared. We waited. Then waited some more. Eventually, the most svelt, paperweight climber amongst us, Fitzgerald, volunteered to ride back up in search of our man.
We waited. Then waited some more. The fraternal, mutually supportive bond forged in the death grip of fire and ice of yesterday leapt, as we knew it would, and forever more will, to the fore. “Let’s leave them”, I said, “bastards”
Just as we’d all signed up to this stratagem, however, our heroes appeared on the high horizon. Tomas led us into an unpromising building nearby,, having had to mend 6 holes in his tyres. There were a few plates and a pile of dust on the floor, so he led us out, and this time through the correct door into a little restaurant.
The concept of a light lunch deconstructed itself with astonishing rapidity as cheese arrived. Squelchy, fresh, cooked, sliced, lumpy, limp, lamplit, limpid, lovely cheese. And pasta. With cheese.
And, probably, cheesecake.
Pantani Fitzgerald, as well as the rest of us, expanded, bloated and swelled. Any clothing removed in the warm diner had to be discarded, so much had it shrunk in the warm fug.
Later, so much later, we, a waddling squad of cheese-dazed, burping sumo cyclists climbed back on, and continued the technical, swooping descent. At every majestic corner, brakes went on, groaning bikes slowed, giggling fatties creakingly eased too, but the cheese had its own momentum, sliding undigested and writhing, back out of your dairy -doped heroes, to lie, unloved, on our handlebars and front wheels. Some of it will never, ever come off.
It turns out that Patterson and Christopher are less affected by excessive tonnages of rotting milk than the rest of us, so got back first.
This evening, we ate more food, more cheese and drank some splendid Red. And when I say “some”, I mean “gallons”, in honour of Harris’ birthday. He thrilled us with impressions of Marlon Brando using just two Barolo corks.
Someone prepared to take photos, but just as they quipped “say ch…….”, there was unbridled vomiting.
Rest day tomorrow.
THE CREATION OF A PHOTO AT GIRO D'ITALIA IN CATANIA WORDS: THOMAS OPSTRUP PHOTOGRAPHY: JAMES STARTT AND THOMAS OPSTRUP #GIRO D'ITALIA IN CATANIA Another day at the Giro d’Italia in Sicily. This time the start in Catania. After driving my son to school I went straight to Catania in the morning. I had already thought [...]
MONTE KALFA
WORDS: THOMAS OPSTRUP/DAVE JOHNSON
VIDEO PRODUCER: THOMAS OPSTRUP
One of the most beautiful rides in Sicily. The ride to Monte Kalfa takes you to some historic roads. Build by the Allied during the Second World War from where they attacked and fled from the Germans. One day they get caught on the top of Monte Kalfa under heavy bombardment. It is an inferno where many men die. How the story ends I will tell you when you stand on top of Monte Kalfa with me.
VC10 Sicily training camp
Day 3 – Monte Kalfa
After Il Ritiro dell’Etna, Cheese.
Words: Dave Johnson
From: VC10
On arrival at the bike shed, which appears to be an old chapel, this morning, two of us had to change tubes due to punctures incurred during the terrible Retreat From Etna. We are genuinely very relieved that no one had to try and change a tyre in that awful storm. Too cold, we would have failed, and at the least, it would have involved mountain rescue services.
Well, what a difference a day makes. Not high summer, to be sure, but bright and sunny. Up to a different and far more benign summit road, at 1000m. Built by the allies in WWII, it winds up to and along a high, sunlit, silent, flower-decked ridge, with magnificent views from either side and on, via a rather gravelly denoument to a summit used, at that time for intelligence gathering on the German coastal defences. The story is that this peak was bombed very heavily, and the soldiers manning it prayed for cessation. Just when it seemed no-one could survive, the bombardment inexplicably ended. Survivors returned some years later to build the current chapel in thanks. Even more interesting to me, is that no scenes whatever from the plodding, sodding Godfather were filmed here (see ” comedy impressions using just two barolo corks”)
A bumpy descent brought us, via the mad village grandmother who, as far as Patterson ‘s holiday Italian could translate, complained bitterly about whippersnapper hells angels (us, we presumed) tearing up her home, to a junction. Sadly, our guide Thomas had completely disappeared. We waited. Then waited some more. Eventually, the most svelt, paperweight climber amongst us, Fitzgerald, volunteered to ride back up in search of our man.
We waited. Then waited some more. The fraternal, mutually supportive bond forged in the death grip of fire and ice of yesterday leapt, as we knew it would, and forever more will, to the fore. “Let’s leave them”, I said, “bastards”
Just as we’d all signed up to this stratagem, however, our heroes appeared on the high horizon. Tomas led us into an unpromising building nearby,, having had to mend 6 holes in his tyres. There were a few plates and a pile of dust on the floor, so he led us out, and this time through the correct door into a little restaurant.
The concept of a light lunch deconstructed itself with astonishing rapidity as cheese arrived. Squelchy, fresh, cooked, sliced, lumpy, limp, lamplit, limpid, lovely cheese. And pasta. With cheese.
And, probably, cheesecake.
Pantani Fitzgerald, as well as the rest of us, expanded, bloated and swelled. Any clothing removed in the warm diner had to be discarded, so much had it shrunk in the warm fug.
Later, so much later, we, a waddling squad of cheese-dazed, burping sumo cyclists climbed back on, and continued the technical, swooping descent. At every majestic corner, brakes went on, groaning bikes slowed, giggling fatties creakingly eased too, but the cheese had its own momentum, sliding undigested and writhing, back out of your dairy -doped heroes, to lie, unloved, on our handlebars and front wheels. Some of it will never, ever come off.
It turns out that Patterson and Christopher are less affected by excessive tonnages of rotting milk than the rest of us, so got back first.
This evening, we ate more food, more cheese and drank some splendid Red. And when I say “some”, I mean “gallons”, in honour of Harris’ birthday. He thrilled us with impressions of Marlon Brando using just two Barolo corks.
Someone prepared to take photos, but just as they quipped “say ch…….”, there was unbridled vomiting.
Rest day tomorrow.
Also read: The coastal ride experience
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