I’ve now watched two stages of the Giro d’Italia. I doubt this qualifies me for anything, perhaps not even for the title of tifoso, the designation given to an Italian fan of cycling. I am not short of opinions on how to see the race, however.
As I see things, you have two basic choices for viewing. You can stand on top of a mountain pass, perhaps at the finish, where things slow down considerably. You’ll have to plan well in advance for this, perhaps sitting all day with people whose intelligence might be called into question considering the idiotic costumes they have decided to get decked out in. At the end the riders will be strung out. I mean they will be far apart. You will have many minutes in which to see men racing bicycles this way.
Or you can choose to stand at the side of the road in a place near a village (so that there’s access for your car when they close the road, which they do several hours before the race begins). It is the easy way out. The tourist way.
Few with any respect for the sport do this, of course. You could turn out to be the only person in the universe who has picked a particular spot to stand in—in which case you will be lonely and disappointed. But we are tourists and novices. This is our lot.
Before the race a gaggle of nicely attired but very bored constabulary ply the course on their spiffy motos. Leisurely. I don’t know about you, but these folks have never been of particular interest to me; I, in fact, try hard to avoide them under normal circumstances.
When an undulating line of cars with spare bicycles bolted to the roofs and decals announcing bike parts (and beverages you wouldn’t drink even if someone had shoved into your hand a lager glass full to dilute the poison you had inadvertently swallowed) you should put aside your loneliness for a moment and prepare for the impending arrival of of a pack of sweating cyclists punching a hole in the mountain air. Silently. This is unlikely to be a Sunday outing of the type you took with grandma. Which is why they pass so quickly.
When you finally hear the “chopper” position itself overhead you should be at the very apex of excitement. If you have had the foresight to position yourself on an incline, preferably a near vertical one, you might be in for a real treat as the bulging musculature of the stout-hearted men will be all that much more distinct, and you will be able to see it because they will be slowed by the incline.
Otherwise, especially near the start of a stage, expect about a minute and a half of multicolored, undulating snake. That’s pretty much all you can hope for.
The best thing you can do is to grab an outdoor table at a cafe along the route with other tifosi and a big screen television. Join in their joviality. Revel in their stories. Have several beers. Watch the whole race.
You might have to get there early to get a good seat.
There was no such place outside Poibbico when we went to view the 16th stage of the Giro, so we ended up at the Trattoria La Colombara, a road house restaurant just outside Piobbico dishing up some of the most incredible paparadelle with goat sauce I’ve ever eaten. Lots of tifosi were present. Race workers ate there. The television was on and tuned to the right channel for the giro.
Trouble was, when the race was supposed to start nothing happened. We asked what was up.
“Oh, they’ll pass here around three.”
They were supposed to pass at 2.
Ok, so we left and walked not in the direction of the race, but back into town for a coffee while we waited. There was a bar with a television outside. The folks were discussing when the race would hit Piobbico.
“20 minutes” the woman in the apron said.
“But, look at the television. They haven’t started!” I interjected. (Actually, I probably said something like, “Giro! non go! TV, saw nothing!” but I’d like to cut a more bella figura than reality usually hands me.)
She insisted she was right. A man explained that the television doesn’t show the whole race, and today didn’t show the start. Ooops.
So we jumped into the car and hightailed it to the intersection where the race was supposed to be. The cops on bikes were already coming through. The chopper could be heard.
(“Incoming!” yells Radar.)
And there they were. A small group. Zip…then, minutes later (it seemed like hours) the peloton comes swishing by in a tight pack, followed seconds later by the van announcing “the last bicycle has passed” or some such.
That was it.
Now, if we had wanted a more leisurely experience, we would have climbed the hill were the finish took place. We could have fought for a place about 2km from the end where the idiots in costume usually storm out onto the road and try to touch the butts of the cute guys on the bikes—you know, to urge them on. Or something. We would have been stuck there, of course, because the only road to the top was closed for the bike race.
But there we could have seen the guys wilted from the heat slog up the hill. Carlos Sastre, as it turns out, won. He could hardly hold his hand up for the winner’s salute.
It was exciting. We saw this on television. Thank God.