"Man, I should be there by now!" I fumed to myself inside my motorcycle helmet. Somewhere north of Genova on the A26, I hustled my gold Harley through the valley, curve after curve, tunnel after tunnel, weary from the engine vibrations and wind blast, as the sun sank over the tops of the hills all around me. My plan had been to arrive at my hotel in Vado Ligure around 4 pm, which would allow me to find the hotel in daylight and to stroll around a bit before night came; However, I had left later than I'd intended, made a few wrong turns, stopped more frequently than Google Maps assumed I would, and overall the plan had turned to crap. As I exited the Autostrada, I thought I was close - and I would have been, but I made another wrong turn, and was now headed away from Savona to the north again. The longest 9km are the ones covered in the cold, in the opposite direction, knowing you have to cover another 9km back the other way just to get to where you are now. Allora... Welcome to my not-yet-perfected method of seeing bicycle races in Italy. Oh, after my initial good fortune traveling by car to Gorizia for the finish of the Giro del Friuli where I was able to 1) park close and 2) find a cozy bar for lunch and caffe' and 3) see the race action, I had subsequently screwed the pooch most completely in doing a day-trip on the motorcycle to Toscana (Tuscany) to see the Montepaschi Strade Bianche peloton pass through Buonconvento. That time, I arrived way too late to see anything in the sleepy little town (The line of team cars headed in the other direction should have been a clue I suppose) and so I could do nothing more than have a panino and caffe', warm up my tired body a little, and gear back up and slog through rain and snow for a cold, miserable two-wheeled torture-test back to Mestrino. It wasn't until the next day when I watched the TV coverage of that race that I appreciated what I'd done - I said to LeAnn, "Hey, look how beautiful that was! I saw that, you know! Well, not the racers, but the countryside-! It really was pretty, and the roads were wonderful!" (Funny how that is - A ride that was simply horrid can become, less than twenty-four hours later, an accomplishment to be proud of and no longer a complete waste of time. Your Badge of Stupidity becomes a Badge of Honor. You realize that you were still able to travel to Tuscany for lunch, and that's got to be pretty cool, regardless of the logistical challenges, right? Lunch in Toscana, with a side of Character-Building!)
Anyway, with those races as backdrop, I had decided (at LeAnn's suggestion) to get a hotel room the night before Milano-San Remo, so that I would wake much closer to where I wanted to be to see the race action, arriving at my selected viewing spot on-time and better-rested. So! After correcting my latest navigational mistake and arriving in the proper town, a quick phone call to the hotel staff zeroed me in on my destination. And it was a good thing, too, since the Sea Art Hotel doesn't have a sign out front indicating the building's name or function! Fortunately I recognized the structure from the photo on the website, so I knew it wasn't an office building, apartments, or condo's.
Checked-in and showered and dressed, I walked out to scope out the recommended eateries, and selected a quaint little family joint called Luca's, which served Brazilian steakhouse fare as well as local Italian dishes. Dinner was fantastic, after my piatto primo of spaghetti carbonara (basically a breakfast of eggs and nicely salty ham with spaghetti) I had truly memorable piatto secondo consisting of Orata done Ligurian style. The Orata (Gilt head Bream, I later found out) arrived whole, baked in aluminum foil in butter, olive oil, capers, garlic, halved cherry tomatoes, tart black olives (more tart than Kalamata), and with a sprig of rosemary inside its mouth. Due to my allergy to pine-nuts, those were left out, but still - What a dish! I love eating in Italy, if you pick a local place, it's family-run and their friends come in to eat and to visit and hang out. The vibe is so very comforting! The woman who waited on me had her 7 or 8 year old daughter there along with Nonna who worked in the kitchen, and while I ate, Nonna set up the little girl with a plate of something that looked like gelato, only it was flat like a chicken cutlet, with what appeared to be a diagonal latticework of chocolate syrup on it. The girl would eat a bite or two, then get up from her kitchenside table and stamp around the restaurant in her boots, come back for more food, repeat. She finished by swirling the leftover gelato and chocolate syrup around in her plate with her teaspoon, turning from diner to artist as kids love to do. She seemed very happy doing what she was doing - I suppose there's something to be said for being able to put on your comfy boots and wander around here and there and see what you want to see - whether it's a restaurant, or Northern Italy chasing after a famed bicycle race.
Saturday morning came and it was time to get my stuff together - literally and figuratively - and find the famed Poggio climb. I had already looked at a route map of the race, as well as reading up on how this particular race usually developed, and all signs pointed to the climb of the Poggio di San Remo being THE place to be. Never having been there before, I wasn't sure how the logistics would work out. All I knew was that I wanted to get there, find a place to park the motorcycle, have a nice lunch, stay for the race, and overall to soak in the experience to the fullest extent possible.
Before I checked out of the hotel, I decided to walk next door to the small grocery store and pickup 2 or 3 water bottles for the trip. I found exactly what I wanted - three small water bottles - and proceeded to the cashier. The cashier pointed out to me that purchasing a six-pack of bottles was more economical than purchasing three singles. "But I'm on a motorcycle", I explained. She responded by putting my three single bottles back on the shelf, and taking down the six-pack instead, as she gave me the "Mama knows best" nod and wink that said, "Here, you want these". I figured I'd make it work somehow.
My next errand was to find somewhere to purchase additional minutes for my pay-as-you-go cell phone, as I was very low. I checked out of the hotel, packed up the bike (Yes, I fit all the water bottles on the bike -"Mama" was right after all!) and set out for a nearby electronics store that I was pretty sure would be able to help me. Well... they couldn't. My carrier (Wind) was the one major cell phone carrier they didn't carry, so I was stymied. As I walked out of the store, a gentleman was admiring my bike, and he complimented me on it. I thanked him, and we chatted a bit (at this point in my Italian language development, my chatting is pretty cumbersome), soon switching to English. We talked motorcycles for a bit (The gentleman used to work for Triumph in England as it turned out) and for a time I forgot that I was on a schedule. Well, I had intended to have a wander up the coast all the way to Poggio, but I had already decided that I'd adjust my use of the Autostrada based on how long it took me to get on my way. We ended our conversation when it made sense to do so, not based on any external schedule but rather based on our internal clocks - the best way to live, I think - and in parting he recommended that I ride westward along the coast for about 15 km then go to the Autostrada - stating that that particular area of the coast from Vado Ligure reminded him very much of the Amalfi coast and that I would enjoy the ride. Well, I did, and I did! All along the route, bicyclists were out in force riding in the direction of San Remo, either because it was a beautiful day, or they wanted to see the race, or both. I rode through several little seaside towns, then followed the green signs to the Autostrada to make some time. By this time the weather was warming up nicely, and it was a quickly becoming a fantastic day to be on two wheels. In keeping with my tradition of missing turns, I blew past the "San Remo est" exit, slowing down to consider it briefly but deciding against it at the last minute. As soon as I entered a tunnel named "Poggio" I knew I had messed up again, so I pressed on to San Remo ovest, exited the Autostrada, U-turned and immediately got back on. I must say, the road signs once I exited at San Remo est were not the clearest, and at one point after trying to follow a sign that said "Poggio" I was headed for somewhere far beneath the elevated Autostrada through what looked like a construction site! Fortunately I realized that I needed to head toward the water instead, which I did, and found myself on SS1 headed toward San Remo, which is what I needed to do. Soon I came to a sign indicating the upcoming right-turn would take me to Poggio di San Remo, and I knew I was close! Then up ahead I recognized a sight that I had seen in past Milano-San Remo footage - the little step to the right in between the signature stone walls that marked the road to Poggio di San Remo.
It was just past midday on the Poggio, and there was a steady stream of bicyclists grinding
their way up the Poggio. The road is narrow, about one-and-a-half european car widths across. I carefully chugged up the road on the Harley, feathering the clutch in each of the very-tight switchbacks. There were bedsheet-signs and road-paintings of encouragement for favorite riders, as well as the familiar continuous advertising banners at street level (that a crew was still assembling, higher up on the climb). I managed to steal a quick scenic glance here and there. At one point some cars were stopped in a line, but since I wasn't a car, I was able to thread my way past them and have the climb to myself with the cyclists. It was an incredible thrill to BE HERE! I imagined the circus of activity that was to arrive in a few hours as I rode up the Poggio, thinking of what it must be like to ride in the peloton through such a setting. It was like being in a famous cathedral and feeling the incredible weight of the history of the place.
their way up the Poggio. The road is narrow, about one-and-a-half european car widths across. I carefully chugged up the road on the Harley, feathering the clutch in each of the very-tight switchbacks. There were bedsheet-signs and road-paintings of encouragement for favorite riders, as well as the familiar continuous advertising banners at street level (that a crew was still assembling, higher up on the climb). I managed to steal a quick scenic glance here and there. At one point some cars were stopped in a line, but since I wasn't a car, I was able to thread my way past them and have the climb to myself with the cyclists. It was an incredible thrill to BE HERE! I imagined the circus of activity that was to arrive in a few hours as I rode up the Poggio, thinking of what it must be like to ride in the peloton through such a setting. It was like being in a famous cathedral and feeling the incredible weight of the history of the place.
Eventually I reached what appeared to be a plateau of sorts, even though it wasn't the end of the climb. On my left was a red pork-sandwich catering van fronting a small line of campers along a side road leading to a church. To my right was a small attractive-looking restaurant with a generously-sized outdoor patio and a menu board out front. I quickly decided that this was the place! I parked the motorcycle across the street and looked at the menu board. They had a special "Milano-San Remo" prezzo fisso race day menu! I spoke to one of the staff, and stated that I wanted to lunch here, and to stay for the race, and where would he recommend I park my motorcycle? He thought for a moment, then said, "this way". I followed him outside into the courtyard and he pointed out a spot next to a tree, just inside the access gate. "would this be ok?" he asked me. Holy cow! "Yes, that's fine, thank you very much!" I said. He went to get the key to open the gate, and I restrained myself from running full-speed out the front door hooting and hollering "OHBOYOHBOYOHBOY!" in my excitement, choosing instead to stroll out at a normal pace to get the bike. We
accomplished the parking task, I stashed some of my gear on the bike (cover-pants, spine protector, helmet, gloves) and walked back in to have lunch. They actually had two menu's - a meat menu and a fish menu. For the record, I chose the meat menu, Clenbuterol-be-damned, as I was not expecting any out-of-competition controls to occur anytime soon. Plus, I'd had fish the night before, and I thought the meat would be better energy for my long motorcycle ride home. As I sat at my table inside the restaurant looking out the window at the bicyclists streaming by and the beautiful scenery and the sea below, I realized I was having another one of those "pinch me / so beautiful I could cry" moments that I have been experiencing now and then, ever since I came to Italy. I was sitting in a cozy restaurant on the Poggio climb, having a fantastic lunch (home-made everything!), on the day of Milano-San Remo!I had arrived at my table at approximately 1230. About an hour later at 1330 the police began congregating outside, followed later on by a truck carrying the ubiquitous metal crowd barriers, which were unloaded and put into place. By about 1430 the scene outside was pretty much locked down. In the restaurant, the lunch crowd - whose collective con
versing had earlier raised the noise level to something resembling a beehive - started leaving, creating a small lull in the activity until more cycling fans came in, in anticipation of the action to come. Even so, I don't think the restaurant was ever at more than 2/3 capacity. During the entire time, however, there were many, many cyclists climbing the Poggio, some looked to be affiliated with tour groups, others just out on their own, but pretty much right up until the road was closed, there were cyclists. It was amazing to see, and to appreciate.
versing had earlier raised the noise level to something resembling a beehive - started leaving, creating a small lull in the activity until more cycling fans came in, in anticipation of the action to come. Even so, I don't think the restaurant was ever at more than 2/3 capacity. During the entire time, however, there were many, many cyclists climbing the Poggio, some looked to be affiliated with tour groups, others just out on their own, but pretty much right up until the road was closed, there were cyclists. It was amazing to see, and to appreciate. 
After my leisurely lunch, I wandered outside into the courtyard to admire the view and to observe the gathering crowd and the gradually-increasing activity level along the route. One nice feature was that from my vantage point, I and the rest of the crowd could see a portion of the seaside road below, so we would be able to tell when the peloton would be arriving. Inside the restaurant, the old-style 25" TV was tuned to one of the RAI channels, at first it had news on, but every so often there were some race updates, when the conversation inside toned down and we all paid close attention to what was going on. Apparently there had been some rain along the route, and there were a good number of crashers, one of those "clog up the road and delay the peloton" type situations. Still, the race coverage was not continuous, so we'd watch what was on, then some of us would wander back outside. I did just that, finally staying outside watching the road below and a plane that was lazily circling the area. Finally around 1615 we started seeing cars and motorcycles on the road below. then more motorcycles. then more cars. We all were getting anxious, thinking and saying among ourselves, "when will see BIKES?" Finally about 1625 we saw what appeared to be 4 or 5 breakaway riders, followed closely by a group that at first looked to be the peloton, but turned out to be a chasing group. Not long after we saw the riders way down there on the road, the leading Race Marshal's car came through, along with the police on their BMW R-bikes, with photo bikes and official's bikes. We also heard gradually increasing cheering and yelling working its way up the mountain, until we saw the riders turning one of the last corners just down from our location. The drone of the low-flying photo helicopter grew louder until it was right THERE! above us. Then, finally, to complete the circus-has-come-to-town effect, here were the riders! What I scene! At this point the BMC rider (van Avermaet) was still out on his own, being pursued by the two FdJ riders and a LAY-o-Pard rider (legendary hardman Stuart O'Grady). Then here came the chasing group! What a scene! I stood on a concrete planter behind the restaurant's fence and waved my black Sidi baseball cap in the air and yelled but for some reason my voice was already hoarse, so I sounded like a 13-year-old whose voice hadn't yet changed. Ugh. Anyway, it was crazy, did I say that already?!? And after about a minute or two, here came the main peloton! They didn't look happy. And after that, it was pretty much over. Elapsed time of the circus arriving and departing was less than ten minutes. all told.At this point, all of us out in the courtyard dashed inside! It was time to watch the rest of the race on the TV!!!
I went inside to find a group of about 25 or so with their eyes glued to the TV. Every time a rider made a move, there were cheers and shouts. "It's Pozzato!" "Pippo, Pippo, Forza Pippo!!" Then it might be Gilbert! "Jeel-Bear! Jeel-Bear!" Then Nibali again! (I later found he had first attacked out of the chase group immediately outside our restaurant!) "Nibali! Nibali! NEEEBA-LEEE!" Then "Cancellara!!!" Finally it came down to the final sprint, and...
and...
AND...
who is that? Chi e'? Murmurs throughout the crowd inside the restaurant. "Akka Tee Chi? Goss-eh?" Matthew Harley Goss had won, and no one knew who the hell he was! All the previously-palpable excitement in the room simply evaporated.
The tifosi dutifully gathered their jackets. Some walked to the bar for un altra caffe' for the road. The restaurant staff cleared tables and stacked up the chairs. A few folks stayed to watch the interviews and podium ceremony on TV, but for many there that day, it was an extremely anticlimactic finish. It was singularly strange to see.
Outside, the sky toward Genoa had turned very dark and a chill wind was starting to pick up. I thanked the restaurant folks again profusely for making my day so perfect. I had envisioned my day being EXACTLY like this! (Well, except for the rain to ride home in, I would have definitely ordered sunshine.) I suited up for my return ride, and took my place in the now-thinning line of traffic headed back down the Poggio climb.
I rode home through very strong winds, varying rain, lightning strikes (some dangerously close!), finally making it home around half-past midnight. A soak in a hot bath and a very late dinner (Wife is awesome!) capped the evening. The next night (Sunday) I watched the coverage that LeAnn had recorded for me, and was elated to see, just before Nibali attacked in front of the Mirador restaurant, an arm waving back and forth what looked like a black panty in the air. Hey, that's my hat! "Hey, Honey! My hat made it on TV-!!!"
In the bedroom, LeAnn was sleeping like crazy, pinned down by two Havana Brown cats. I would have woken her up, but she doesn't understand this bike-racing thing. I mean, both her bikes have baskets! I thought briefly of possibly invoking the "in sickness and in health" clause of our marriage vows (since riding for 10 hours on a Dyna Glide just to see 10 minutes of bicycle racing might be considered by some a sign of illness), but I remembered that she DID run me a bath the night before... Anyway, I'm now over the initial thrill of seeing my disembodied baseball cap on TV.
The thrill of my Milano-San Remo day out, though, will stay with me for a long time.
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