Becky and I planned to go to Mallorca. However, the UK government introduced travel restrictions to Spain and the Balearics. ‘A blessing in disguise’ - which forced us to step out of our comfort zone and go on a new adventure.

I still had Strade Bianche ‘on the brain’. The first real (non-indoor) race since lockdown began. Strade Bianche inspired and awoke cyclists around the globe from our slum; with equal measures of beauty and brutality.

The pro peloton kicked up white clouds of dust; unburying the heavy sediment laying on my lockdown brain as I watched the race, transfixed.

I was desperate to swap my four white walls of lockdown for white roads; to follow the wheels of Annemiek van Vleuten and Wout van Aert, figuratively.

After a few days of steady riding and exploring the Tuscan countryside with my friend and host, Gabriele, I have built a strong connection to this fruitful and historic land. The ‘Mangiafagioli’ are kind, generous, welcoming and proud.

Strade Bianche
21/08/2020 - 05:00

The cockerel on the farm next door was fast asleep. I’ll never master the laid back Tuscan lifestyle, not with my 4am internal alarm clock.

The bright moon and faint orange glow of the sun lit up the sky in tandem, as they edged towards opposite horizons.

A flock of small birds flew with like liquid-like fluidity; silhouetted by the warm glow of sunrise. The stars faded away as the rising sun drew long shadows on the road.

The air was noticeably cooler in the valleys where a low mist hung over the arable farmlands.

As I climbed into the hilltop villages, the air grew thicker and warmer around me. “Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face, Stars fill my dream…” - (‘Kashmir’ - Led Zeppelin)

Finally, I was out to fulfil my purpose, to ride the white roads.

After three days of riding a hire bike, I finally had MY BIKE back. Every element of my custom Factor O2 VAM has been carefully considered (seriously obsessed over). Our countless hours of rotational-acquaintance and suffering have bonded us biomechanically and spiritually.

(Why was I using a hire bike? A long story… read my previous road journal).

As I began turning the pedals, I instantly felt at home. Like slipping on a pair of shoes with a custom-molded orthotic sole.

The sensation of being reunited with my ‘other-half’ urged me to ride hard and get to the first gravel sector.

After a few steady days, my legs were screaming: “Press harder.”

I put my head down: “Yes, boss.”

The sight of the first gravel sector broke my pedal trace.

Unlike the pro race, there were no team cars or groups ahead of me choking-up dust. It was just me and the undulating white chalky roads. The pictures I had seen on TV were right there in front of me. I was living my fantasy.

The sensation of effort was non-existent. No matter how hard I pressed, I couldn’t feel a thing.

If it were easy, It would be boring. There’d be no sense of accomplishment.

My new turbo trainer addiction was paying off. The combination of being in top condition (close to the best form of my life), and getting lost in the sensation of the Strade Bianchi formed a state of transcendence.

I have felt this ‘other-worldly’ experience once before. It came from a place of emotion, from losing my grandfather. His spirit came to share the road with me and gave me a wheel to follow. But that is another story.

I felt like a cell pulsating through the heart of Tuscany.

There were no external interruptions: stopping for photos, looking at numbers, sense of time, hunger, thirst or thoughts about un-resolved problems in my life.

I was just me, my bike and the white roads. The experience I felt is unexplainable. I’m sorry that I can’t articulate this for you.

(Perhaps you have your own story or experience of this nature? Please share it with me if you do.)

Becky met me at one of the final gravel sectors, the Colle Pinzuto. Seeing her helped me regain a ‘normal state’ of consciousness. I tried to explain my otherworldly journey, but as I said, It’s unexplainable. All that mattered is that we were on the roadside, next to a small church on the winery estate of San Giorgio a Lapi.

Sharing this moment with Becky was special. We have travelled so far (literally and figuratively) and been through so much this year. We are stronger for it.

I wasn’t over yet. I set off for the final leg of my journey (before my legs turned to lead).

I rode to Siena in my little dream world, pretending I was Annemiek van Vleuten chasing down Margarita Victoria Garcia. I scaled the Via Fontebranda into the Piazza del Campo - solo, like Wout van Aert.

I imagined arriving in Siena wearing a thick mud mask, like my heroin. However, there was no one in front of me, kicking up dust. The final road section polished my dusty-white tyres back to black.

I was disappointed that there was no visual reflection of my ‘epic’ ride, but also relieved that I wouldn’t need to clean and service every bearing on my bike.

Siena was stunning. I almost slipped back into transcendence at the sight of the Cappella di Piazza. We visited the city a few days ago. However, I felt like I was seeing it for the first time.

The sun was spilling blocks of warm rays of light as it crested the buildings and towers.

All the emotions of our trip, and to witness such spiritual, natural and architectural beauty filled my eyes.

It takes a rare and magnificent beauty to distract a cyclist from hunger.

We headed to Nannini for breakfast. We came here on day two for cappuccino e pasticcini. I was treated like a plague-carrying-tourist-zombie (understandably). Why come back? The food and coffee are worth it.

This time was different. I was treated like royalty. Nannini was almost empty. I parked my bike out front and walked in to fill my musette.

He clocked the name on my shoulders. Never underestimate ’the Wiggins effect’. He’s not just a British Cycling hero, winning the hardest race in the world earned the respect of cyclists around the world (especially in Europe). Having a human (sometimes controversial) side won peoples hearts.

Having Sir Brad’s name on my shoulders transformed his perception of me. We were now two cyclists talking, not a tourist and a service provider. Suddenly, his English became fluent. His frown turned into a mischievous smile. When I selected our focaccia’s and pastries I was handed fresh ones from out the back, not the ones on display.

I pulled my Garmin out of my back pocket to show him. He looked shocked and threw a few extra treats into my musette.

He expertly tampered, extracted and steamed two cappuccinos, then walked from behind the counter to inspect my bike.

(Beautiful bike)

Like any cyclist, he examined every element of my bike. My Italian groupset gained his overwhelming approval, and he was shocked by the weight of my bike (or lack of).

We waved, “Addio.” and ate our breakfast in the Piazza del Campo. Bella vista.

Grazie, Strade Bianche.