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Facing Fear: New Depths in Adventure Travel

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi chentrate.This epithet notoriously carved above theentrance gates to Dantes Inferno initiated theZoncolan climb: a narrow road with an average 15%grade for 10 kilometers. The top of the climbreaches 1700 m with stunning views over the valley.A few weeks ago I wrote about scouting theZoncolan here. It would be a futile attempt in thisblog post to express in detail each painful meter,each dragging foot of elevation gain, every achingrotation of the pedals. Oh reader! I would like toquench your curiosity with an amazing tale about our heros relentless battle to reach the heavenlysummit. It would be a privilege to relate an epic tale of courageously facing ones fears with the ecstaticonlookers cheering on our protagonist to new heights. To which end he presses further, out of thesaddle, to a climactic victory up high.

Dear reader, I would like to relate all this, but I cant. Dantes journey into hell is by all accountsa descent. It is the spiraling ascent through Purgatory that is physically exhausting, emotionallydraining, yet redemption awaits for those who are true of heart. For this tale, by the fourth kilometer,the mountain had gotten the better of our two-wheeled pilgrim, who descended from his bicycle towalk quite a distance. There is nothing to pen about this journey. In fact, there is no story here.For had our hero not been witness to the most stunning interplay of human determination andelemental wrath, it would otherwise be impossible to believe. It was a stunning display of our meagerexistence interlaced with powers greater than we imagine.

The early afternoon scorched. Clear skies

gave way to blazing temperatures. Our cyclistsmoved slowly up the hill, burdened with backpacksequipped with supplies for whatever adverseelements lay in store for the afternoon. Morningtelevision reported possible late thunderstorms. Yet, it was due in part to this heat that our heroesstepped off from their bicycles and began to walk. The climb was an unbearable furnace.

But as Dantes Inferno is a mix of fire and ice, so is this mountain. Lo Zoncolan is high enough towield freezing temperatures and gale-force winds. After hours of walking, our weary travelers made it towithin 350 m of the finish line, where over 100,000 damned souls screamed and wailed in expectation of a great finish. Their moans reflected an agony of almost having been exiled to this mountain top forhours if not days, waiting for he big finish to arrive. After hours of inebriation in the blazing sun, thesefaceless shadows had lost their wits, teetering on the brink of insanity. Our cyclists stayed focused,climbing out of the girone that was the small mountain road and onto the grassy knoll just before the100m sign to the finish.

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The deafening loudspeaker reportsannouncing the pelotons proximity rivaledheavens trumpeting archangels. The crowdwhistled and screamed in drunken mists, spinningthemselves dizzy within the mountain fog thatsettled. At every numerical countdown 8 km fromthe finish, now 5 km, now 3 km these spectershowled and roared. Helicopters mimicked Satansminions, soaring overhead like black demons,beating the air with a million anxious heartbeats.The ground shook as the wind stirred the mountainsides, bringing an icy end to the days scorchingheat.

One glance over the shoulder revealed what lay in the hours to come: black clouds grew withinthe eastern valley of Zoncolan. That wrath is headed this way, they thought. At the same moment, adistant thunder roll, then another, and the masses voiced everyones inner tension. The mobs gathered

around the narrow asphalt path, as flashes of light lit up the crowd. Some believed they were merelyearly camera flashes, but far away an angry deity was aroused in a fury. The light and sound initiallyseemed unable to find a perfect rhythm: first a flash than a grumbling moan about half a minute later.But little by little, the two lovers slowly embraced until they were dancing directly over our heads.

Suddenly a collective scream overtook the mountain side, growing in intensity: the first ridersappeared from the dark forest below. The guardians along the path locked arms and held the possessedand inebriated spirits from tearing apart the first cyclists: released like fresh souls into this unforgivingunderworld. With 200 m to go, the first drops of rain fell on the racers, the road, the podium and thespectators. As Igor Anton made his way to the 50 m mark, the rain fell in diagonal sheets, riveting theprotective plastic covers of the bierhaus and softening the grassy hillsides.

By the time the second racer, Alberto Contador, came to that same mark, the weather changedto bitter cold. The rain became pea- sized hail, bouncing off the Spaniards helmet and the pavement.Lightning continued to streak and snap overhead, as the thunder that followed its steps muffled thecrazed and infuriated loudspeaker, which screamed in vain to commentate meter by meter the outcomeof this awesome spectacle.

Fearful and tired, the spectators dashed for shelter. What little cover there was at this altitudefound itself bursting with four to five-times the number of people it was constructed to hold. Anothertorrent of hail and rain scattered these lost souls and created mud pits and slippery paths through thefields.

Since the road was closed to the racers, the only remaining option was to wait out the stormwith no cover, or hike through the treacherous, murky goat paths to get to the other side of themountain. Our heroes threw their bikes over their shoulders, and began climbing up. They advancedtowards the mayhem at the top of the mountain, which was compounded by over 100,00 peoplemoving all at once.

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Scaling muddy mountain sides and straddling aluminumfences, our travelers stumbled upon the last member of the group(quite miraculously) at the top of the climb. Dressed as best aspossible for foul weather, the three began to descend the mountainin a torrential thunderstorm. Lightning crashed on the hillside as theskies rumbled and cracked with discontent. Every car looking to fleethe chaos maneuvered its way along the harrowing narrow roads withdropping cliffs on either side. A veritable exodus out of hell, the carswere backed up and honking, with their hazards flashing. Ourtravelers threaded the necessary needles to get away from this chaosand down to warmer altitudes. At a bar in the valley, Charon thevan drove our journeymen out from the rings of hell and into awarm hotel for the evening.

Dear reader, I would have liked to have written about my personalsuccesses on Zoncolan. In a way, I believe I just did.