The Two Volcano Sprint

Four days, seven hours and six minutes.

This is the exact time it took me to complete the 1100 km and 22 000 m elevation of the last bikepacking race of the season. When you think about it, it’s not long when compared to the free time that unfortunately opened up this year. All the ongoing doubts, all the cancelled and postponed challenges, all the opening and closing of the borders somehow made it feel a short four days.

And yet it was long, and it was certainly intense. A fantastic race, alongside a cast of international and experienced riders, which largely kept its promise of huge volcanoes, exceptional coffees and a range of masterly pizzas.

Napoli. As lively as any melting pot metropolis and the jumping-off point for a chaotic ride to escape; via its suburbs, between rubbish dumps, and on misshapen and rain-soaked cobblestones to arrive at the small town of Ercolano, the ‘real’ starting point at the foot of Monte Vesuvio.

A quiet place with good restaurants which brings reunions with old friends, the registration procedure and an exciting "pizza briefing" to remind us of the main features of the upcoming adventure. Around me are famous riders, at least in this world. The likes of James, Sofiane, Ulrich, Fanny, Adrien, Omar and many more. All of them able to win races, all of them consistently appearing in the top 10 of events. But those who will inhabit the middle and back of the pack are equally interesting. There are more familiar faces, riders that I’ve already ""shared"" several Transcontinental races with or other long-distance adventures. The fight between riders promises to be tight, the tension rises slowly. But the good kind, the kind that makes you want to go forward and overcome all of the inevitable obstacles.

It is still dark when we start. Monte Vesuvio is easy enough but once into the second climb, the Faito, the peloton begins to stretch out a little. No prisoners taken. A high pace from the off and smalls gaps between each rider. Just a stop to fill a bidon could lose 6 or 7 places which are then made up a few kilometres later when the other riders take a break. The big "yoyo" of the classification is constant in that first 24 hours, finally settling down on the second day. The first retirements arrive quickly but then slow down. Those able to go deep into the second day will almost all get to the end. To me it is the sign of a nice adventure and the level of the participants: except in the case of serious accidents, once launched, "scratching is not an option".

I had romanticized Calabria. A lot. Maybe too much.

I expected an irregular and tough terrain, physically hard for the body but I hoped the contrast would be charming roads, welcoming cafes every 10 km and as many pizzerias. It wasn't quite like that.

Calabria is obviously a beautiful region with small roads winding endlessly through the massifs and occasionally leading to the villages I had imagined. But the atmosphere is rough, poor, dirty in places. Stray dogs wandering between upturned bins and adept at hunting cyclists. And the virus has passed through here so few restaurants are open. Pizzas are only available in the evening.

But there are still local smiles when you least expect them. It's already October and yet during the day there are mild temperatures and sunny weather, although you have to deal with the high humidity. And the move between hot and cold depending on whether you're climbing or descending. The endless climbs are gradually demoralizing and can make you sink into a kind of melancholy, this latent enemy that is called ‘doubt’. Familiar to all bikepacking riders it can gnaw away at everyone and the antidote is simply to push on and don’t forget to enjoy all the positives along the way.

Anything you climb, you go down. The dogs? Will make you go faster. The moisture? As usual, I had taken "a little too much" clothing, which in the end, was all used: Not forgetting the panino delicacies, one to eat-in, another in the pocket for later. A fast forming habit. And for coffees, if the bar is shut, locals are often happy to offer them.

Then, almost suddenly, at the end of the third day, it is the last pass of continental Italy and the sea comes back into sight, some 1000 m. lower than last time we saw it. There’s a dizzying descent full gas towards the Strait of Messina, the ferry and the long-awaited promise of Sicily.

Two arancini and three sodas. All I have time to buy on the ferry before attacking the first pass as soon as I arrive, determined to reach the other side of the island before it gets dark. Then a few kilometres by the sea in the evening before the last massifs during the night. All the way until the end, almost.

Everything was there, the light, the villages animated as they woke up, the encouragement during the climb of the volcano, which has been grumbling for a few days with its strange smoke that makes you remain quite humble. It is there, orange at the first glimmer, then raw, black, at its summit. It is exactly as I had dreamed, a gentle villain.

It's south side is brutal, the Giro d'Italia didn't pass through here a few days ago, they took on the other side. Here the ground is torn apart by this mountain of lava, rough, which takes more from you than it gives back. But as you climb it gets softer and smoother, as if to thank you for visiting it.

Any rider will let themself be seduced, and galvanized by the emotion of finishing an immense adventure and by the cinematic vision that is offered to them. In the middle of the descent, sharp rocks to the left, sea to the right, full gas.

So 26th in the end. A proper finish line, screams, beer, jokes and friends. Everything in its place and a feeling that I can't wait for next season.

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