Passo di Mendola
(conclusion)

Hungry, soaked, cold—and shivering—I sought refuge inside one of the many cafés at the summit. I quickly ordered a hot cup of coffee to stop the onset of hypothermia and to restore some warmth in me (well, some of those who know me might argue that nothing could ever warm me, but that’s another story…).

A bemused, kind-hearted signora (the proprietor), upon discovering, as I responded to her inquiry as to what brought me to Sudtirol, that I had been cycling up and down the hills, gave me a nice, warm bowl of vegetable soup. She looked after me so well, and in doing so made me miss my grandma, that I must plug her establishment to those of you who may be thinking of going up Passo di Mendola. I think the name of the place was Caffe del Moro (or something to that effect—in any case, there’s a "Moro" in the name). It’s one of the first establishments to the right as one reaches the pass from the east.

Alas, much like my late grandma, she excitedly told the barflies who were there for their mid-afternoon spirits -–I reckoned construction workers of some sort as they were wearing those bright, reflective orange vests--that I had been riding up these impossibly(!) steep hills. Which proclamation was received with gasps of disbelief and widespread shaking of the head. I could tell they were talking about me, not in any disrespectful manner, more the way a group of people would talk about a beached whale that they stumbled into. Anyway, they pretty much stared at me all the while, triggering within me further internal warming, though of the variety brought about by self-consciousness and blushing.

Still the rain kept falling, as in the Credence Clearwater Revival song. Ominous sounds of thunder insinuated themselves through the shut doors and windows (and which also triggered a unitary turning of orange-vested heads in my direction). After waiting the rain out for an hour, I came to the despairing realization that the wet weather was not going to give way to balmy sunshine and blindingly blue skies (at least not anytime soon). I slowly got up (several pairs of eyes followed), asked for old giornali to stuff inside my jersey for insulation against the cold of the descent ahead (can anything faze this young man?), then walked out into the grey, still-wet, miserable road (one guy actually pressed his face against the shut door to report on what I was doing).

I decided to ham it up: I sighed heavily, and with a Homeric wave of goodbye that more became someone about to embark on the twelve Heraclean labors, or a doomed sailor about to navigate the mythological cliffs harboring Scylla and Charybdis. But cold the descent was. The sensation of damp shorts and damp jersey clinging to my skin, made the worse by the downhill breeze, set my teeth a-chattering. I pulled hard on my brakes to minimize momentum and to force me to pedal and keep the circulation in my legs going. Rarely have I more looked forward to the bottom and the start of the next climb.

Cold as I was, I still looked around to appreciate the beauty of the scenery around me. Like the eastern side, the western, too, was mostly covered, though the western side did not seem as long. Near Fondo, the view opened up to reveal breathtaking views of Gruppo di Brenta’s snow-capped peaks.

After a right turn at a steeply downhill connecting road to Fondo, I bottomed out. At this point the rain had stopped. I had sufficiently warmed up to resume riding in my usual manner.

I picked up the SS238, the road through Passo delle Palade, in Fondo. As this road rose steeply out of Fondo, I marvelled at the classic Tyrolean landscape of a town dominated by the towering spire of a gothic church, collectively set against cloud-covered Alpine mountains.

I quickly left Fondo and its modest sprawl behind, and approached another serene, wooded stretch of road. I caught occasional glimpses of the not-too-distant Stelvio peaks. The road and its surroundings turned progressively more peaceful the higher I got. A good part of the road was along the deliciously green and lush slopes of the Palú Longia Nature Reserve. I also rode over a couple of high bridges that spanned deep and rugged gorges.

And the climbing was not too strenuous. Fondo (920 meters) and Passo delle Palade (1,518 meters) were separated by 11 kilometers of evenly graded road. I comfortably rode with no more than a 39x19 at the steepest sections. On gentle climbs like this, reaching the summit tends to be an anti-climactic, foregone conclusion. Passo delle Palade was no exception. There wasn’t much to do at the summit—there were no distant views to be had (obscured by hills and trees), and no opened cafés in which to hang around.

If the climb up Passo delle Palade was enjoyable, the ride down the other side was even better. The turns were widely banked and, save for the short, unlit tunnel (with a grooved surface presumably for winter driving), trouble free. Looking back, I could say that there are two primary reasons for riding Palade from south to north: (1) south appeared the much easier climb, and (2) the view on the north-side descent was fabulous. For about eight fast kilometers, one could see breathtaking views of the Adige river and the fertile plains adjacent to it, of the many small Sudtirolean settlements, of medieval castles tucked away or perched on a cliff, and of the Dolomite mountains far beyond. Bolzano, 15 kilometers away, was likewise visible--it stood out as far and away the largest settlement in the area.

Two-thirds of the way down, just past Tesimo, the road turned quite a bit steeper, a fact that was not surprising considering that this section of the road was built on the cliff.

Though the area was well within the Italian border, many of the small towns that I passed—Prissian, Nals, Andrian—were quintessentially Austrian (German). The bilingual order of the street signs, for example, was reversed: the main, larger letterings were in German, with smaller, Italian subnames. The architecture, the town layout, and the inhabitants were likewise more Germanic than anything.

Another fascinating feature of this area was the presence of several medieval castles. I counted at least six along the ten-kilometer stretch from Tesimo to Missiano. I was sure that there were several others obscured by the thick hillside tree coverings rendering the castles invisible from the valley floor. In any case my map seemed to suggest that there were a few more of these castles.

The last 10 kilometers presented yet another change of scenery. Following the course of the river, the road passed through quite a number of apple orchards and prosperous-looking villages, reminiscent of the Napa Valley (except, of course, for the apple orchards instead of grapevines).

Shortly thereafter, the road joined up with the S12 for the five-kilometer rush back to Bolzano.

(Follow this link to view boring pictures of Bolzano (use your browser's back arrow to return)).

Fini.

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