Riding Euro Style
Saddling Up On Vacation
Words by Cam McRae.
Date: 2008-10-30
This was to be a vacation without bikes. After spending June and July traveling to fantastic riding destinations like Sun Valley, Whistler, Marin County and the South Chilcotins, Italy was to be all about family, friends, food and drink. One side of my wife’s Italian family gathers in a quiet corner of Piemonte during the summer months and that was to be my first stop. 
This was not to be a riding vacation.
A great grandmother purchased a vacant field with the idea that the family could gather and enjoy country life. The land has been calved off over the generations so that now there are cousins with case in each corner of the several hectare plot. Cousins are now distant enough that they can’t identify how they are related but they, as famiglia, act like brothers and sisters. Finishing up nsmb business kept me at home a little longer than Cristina and the kids so that when I arrived Tommaso – one of the cousins - already knew I was a rider. Our conversation went something like this:
I can get you a bike if you’d like to ride.
That would be great. What are the trails like?
They are difficult, challenging.
Wine fuels my response; That’s the only kind I like. Where we live that’s all there is. Will there be Singletrack?
Oh yes – it’s a paradise in this zone.
7:00 am? I’ll throw stones at your window.
Va bene! I say, glancing at my watch and lamenting the last three or four glasses of wine and the prosecco and grappa…
Looks like a good day for a ride.
My watch alarm began to chime at 6:40 and I rose to shake off the cobwebs and down a quick latte and some bread. Thinking I might get invited for a road ride, I had the sense to toss in a chamois but I was otherwise unprepared. Tommaso’s friend Davide arrived shortly after 7:00 with his own bike – a Stumpjumper M4 that was perhaps 3 years old – as well as one borrowed for me from his brother. 
This aging Stumpy (apparently a '91 or '92 model) worked out better than expected - except for on the one rough section of descent.
The age of the bike didn’t scare me as much as the prospect of it being in terrible condition. Fortunately the wheels were straight and the drivetrain and brakes functional. Cantilever brakes work fine in the dry if they are well tuned and I liked the combination of grip shift left and Rapid Fire Plus right. The fork however had perhaps 8mm of travel. I was unfamiliar with the Rock Crasher E1Z9 Pro model but was eager to explore its charms. I put on a pair of street shoes and a borrowed helmet and, without so much as a water bottle, we set off. 
I couldn't figure out who manufacturered the Rock Crasher E1Z9 - but after hearing it creak and moan I was glad to make it home with all my teeth.
I have learned not to expect much from European mountain biking. For me singletrack means narrow and windy and it’s certainly not wide enough to ride an ATV on, but many euros see it differently. The night before Tommaso had responded with an unqualified si, si! when I asked if we could ride singletrack but I remained skeptical. My previous euro rides in Spain, Austria and Italy had me convinced that for many 26” riders on the right side of the Atlantic, mountain biking was pretty much identical to road biking – you just happened to do it on dirt. 
And they're off. Tomasso and Davide set a solid pace to lead out.
We set off through the still-sleeping village of Voltaggio and began to climb right away. We meandered up a one-lane asphalt road before reaching a marbley gravel double track. Up it was for close to two hours, reaching several false summits and short descents until we emerged on a treeless crest, the final destination of our climb clearly visible in the distance. 
Leaving a sleeping Voltaggio behind.
I let Davide and Tomasso grind ahead up the last rough 200 metres while I took a couple of photos with my point and shoot and then saddled up. Everything had been working fine – including the smooth one-sided pedals made for, but lacking, toeclips, and I was enjoying the technical challenge of the last pitch when I performed a classic climbing tumble. Just as I got out of the saddle and drove my weight forward for an essential power surge, the Rock Crasher came in contact with its nemesis; a rock. The front wheel stopped immediately and then rolled backwards as my clumsy upper body continued forward, slamming down in a welcoming rock garden. Before I mustered the strength to rise I looked ahead and was reminded of my wine-fuelled bravado as Tommaso glanced back in time to see me in a pathetic heap. 
Shortly after this I got a real taste of Italian soil. And rock.
Many of the treeless peaks I’ve visited in Italy feature a chiesetta - a small church - at the summit for some reason I’ve never explored, and we used the bench nearby to sit and eat some dry cookies. Time to go down. I don’t know if there is an Italian equivalent to ‘baby heads’ but neither Tommaso nor Davide seemed bothered by my least-favourite trail condition. This first pitch was like riding on a conveyer belt that changed direction every metre or so and I was glad to make it down without losing any more skin. If Tommaso was pleased by my poor form he didn’t let on and we continued our way down the mountain. The next pitch was typical alpine double track and I was happy to bring up the rear. After reaching the treeline we arrived at a small spring to have a drink and Tommaso informed us the next section was bellissimo. As double tracks go it was indeed pretty great; steep and smooth with corners that were generously banked I was able to forget the limitations of Davide’s brother’s aging steed. 
This nasty section of baby heads (trust me it was) challenged the Rock Crasher - and the pilot.
After that it was back to ordinary fireroad with a series of gates until we finally drifted into the centre of Voltaggio – arriving poetically under a centuries-old stone bridge.
For many Europeans mountain biking is essentially road riding - but on dirt.
Mountain biking as I know and love it this was not – but it was a great lesson. Never say no to a ride. A mediochre ride or one out of your element or even on an old beaten up bike is always preferable to giving it a miss. The view, the company and the exercise were each enough to make it worthwhile. Freerider? All mountaineer? DH? Ex country? Put me on a mountain bike and I’m generally happier than not.
Tomasso (left) and Davide (centre) were gracious hosts and they brought a great vibe.
And sometimes even a road bike.
After Voltaggio it was time to visit another branch of the family who spend August in Carasco – a small town 10 kms from the Mediterranean just east of Genoa. 
Carasco's main attraction is its proximity to the beach.
Cristina’s cousin Ettore plays trumpet for the orchestra in Rome and he appears to be mild mannered lad – so when he asked me to go for a ride I wasn’t worried. And then I saw the bikes. He was on a nice carbon Bianchi that weighed a little more than an overweight cat. Luckily I had three bikes to choose from. The first was a pre-war single-speed and the second was an older model. I knew we’d be climbing and that we’d be out for 18 clicks or so and neither of these seemed to fit the bill. The other option was Ettore’s wife’s city bike. It was blessed with 7 cogs and while it was heavy and too small I figured it was the best option. 
Are you kidding? It's perfect!
It was a stinking hot afternoon but at least this time I had a water bottle – sloshing around in the grocery basket. We climbed and climbed on a mellow grade and we eventually hit a turnoff – after 13 kms. It turns out the ride wasn’t 18 k total – it was an 18 click climb followed by a descent of equal length. At first I stayed with Ettore but when the ride got steep for the last 5 I told him to go on ahead. 
After about 15 clicks of the 18 km climb.
I laboured and tried to enjoy the view but the bike was so small I couldn’t sit down at all. I wanted to bail and turn back towards Carasco but my over-sized ego wouldn’t let me. Olive groves, goats and the occasional angry mutt kept the scene interesting as I soldiered on.
I took a short stretch break and talked myself into finishing the climb, finally rejoining Ettore at a small village that is home to the local mineral water bottling plant. After re-filling my bottle and being gawked at by the locals we saddled up again for the coast home. 
In Ettore's line of work you need good lungs.
Endless switchbacks and a vacant road were fun even on the granny bike and I weaved from shoulder to shoulder as the wind dried my sweaty shirt.
This ride had been even more of a suffer fest – on the road to add insult – but I was still happy to have been out on a bike. The cold beer once we rolled in through the gate in Carasco wouldn’t have tasted nearly as sweet without the pain.
With a little luck I'll be able to give both Tommaso and Ettore a taste of their own medicine when they come and visit Vancouver. I think they'll like riding North Shore style.
Would I like to go for a ride?
Va bene.
Ever ridden in an unfamiliar zone? Is your vision of mountain biking flexible? Watcha got to say?
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