A guest post by Andrew Hallam
Fabio leaned forward. At first, I didn’t think he really understood
what Dan was saying. “I want to ride my bike up the Gavia,” Dan repeated, “And
I want it to snow.”
“Not if it snows,” said Fabio. “Nobody wants that.” His response surprised
me. Fabio, a blond haired blue-eyed
Italian ski instructor could probably snowboard with a blindfold; drive a
Ferrari down a mountain after downing a bottle of Campari; steal a man’s wife
during his honeymoon. Fabio had Roman
brass gonads. But just the sound of
Dan’s plan seemed to be shriveling them up.
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| Fabio's Cafe |
Plenty of sporting moments net our imagination. Bob Beamon’s record setting long jump at the
Mexico Olympics; Roger Bannister’s first 4-minute mile; Tonya Harding’s botched job on
Nancy Kerrigan’s knee.
Dan Clements, it seemed, was about to botch
something else.
Inspired by American cyclist, Andy
Hampsten’s snow covered ascent in the 1988 Giro d’Italia, Dan wanted to
replicate the effort. It was a race that
should have been cancelled as snow piled up on the 8,530-foot climb. Hampsten unlocked the door to cycling lore
that day.
Dan, Gerald Libercan and I woke up to cold
rain on September 23, 2015 in Bormio, Italy.
We had planned to climb the Gavia together. An online webcam, however, showed that snow
was piling up on the mountain road. Gerald and I backed out before breakfast. Riding
didn’t make sense. But Dan didn’t care. A few neurons short of a full frontal lobe, he
prepared to go solo.
It was just below freezing in the
valley. Dan left our chalet after taking
careful directions from Gerald. But he
didn’t listen. He passed the turnoff to
the Gavia and started climbing the wrong hill in the freezing rain. An Italian woman set him straight. She motioned for Dan to follow her car back
down the hill. Before pointing him in
the right direction, she pumped a fist on her chest, hugged him, and said,
“You’re a brave man.” At least, that’s
what Dan thought she said. She didn’t
speak English. Dan doesn’t speak
Italian. But it didn’t matter. “I’m in love,” Dan said later.
Dressed in black rain gear and cyclingbooties, Dan started his second climb of the day. It should have been his first. He entered a small village where the road
narrowed and the pavement gave way to smooth cobbles. Shortly after, he was back to pavement.
A few kilometers further, Dan pedaled
through a mountain tunnel. As he emerged
from its shelter, the snow started to dump.
“How are you doing?” I asked, as we pulled alongside in the van. “I’m loving it,” Dan said. “But my feet are really cold.”
Before long, snow started accumulating on
the road. “You want to keep going?” I
asked. “Yeah, I have plenty of
traction,” he replied. Now driving about
100 meters behind him, our van’s tires started to slip on a hairpin. “Dan, get off the bike!” I yelled. We pulled to the side, letting a four-wheel
drive creep past. It was the first vehicle we had seen in ages.
Then our van started sliding backward,
towards a rock wall. It stopped, just
inches from getting the backside crushed.
No longer riding with any kind of traction and needing to help us shove
the van from the wall, Dan abandoned his ride.
I thought of the swashbuckling Fabio,
warning that nobody wants to ride the Gavia in the snow. Hang on to your wives and girlfriends. Dan
Clements isn’t nobody.
Andrew writes a column for the Globe and Mail. He's also the author of the international bestseller, Millionaire Teacher.
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| Andrew |
