14/11/24
We hadn’t bought any coffee the day before, idiotically thinking we wouldn’t be bothered in the morning. But we were. It’s not long in Italy before you’re completely obsessed. A quick trip for some coffee and we were firing up the gas hob under the Bialetti. Only the larger hob worked so a little bit of a balancing act. Worth it. Two coffees and some bread and jam later we were wheeling the bikes out of the garage.
We needed to make up for yesterday’s failure to make progress and we felt ambitious. We set our eyes on being the other side of Bergamo. First we needed to find the route we’d detoured from to find our lodgings. We’d checked out a couple of alternatives and decided to plot the google maps route to the Garmin. It was to take us across to the river Adda and then over a bridge where it rejoined the cycle path towards Bergamo.
Yes, it was sunny. The journey took us down some beaten up old roads, we almost regretted our choice at the sight of a ford but there was a bridge. Phew. We started to see lots of MAMIL’s. They were pleased to see us and waved furiously. We were pleased to see them because it meant we weren’t going to be the crazy oddballs on bikes, cars would probably allow our existence.
We passed a magnificent church and then flew downhill towards the river bank. This was a beautiful spot. You never know where is going to be idyllic until you get there but this was one of those places. Wide river, wooded banks, mist rising over the water and the occasional heron meandering over the water. We raced along the lightly gravelled track. Briefly alone, wondering if we should even be cycling here and then seeing many a cyclist. All men though of course. This wasn’t Switzerland.
One such cyclist said hello and entered conversation. But with Jonathan. Though he did say the obligatory ‘ciao’ to Frankie. He had lived in Cambridge for 9 years, obviously knowing of Ely. He chatted for slightly too long, distracting from the beauty of ‘one of the best bits’, his words. We decided to pause and he continued.
The river was suddenly being savaged, by what was presumably hydroelectric. The river was dammed and a stream of extremely fast flowing water peeled off in a canal. So fast it was terrifying to look at. It was hard not to wonder what it would be like to be overcome by those currents.
We would soon arrive at Ponte San Michele, a notable bridge, at least according to the fact it had a google maps icon. As we approached it we looked downstream for an old stone bridge. Then we saw it. A huge metal structure about 80m above us. A couple of cyclists stopped to help us as we were clearly trying to navigate and told us we’d need to go up the road we’d just passed.
This was a steep road. A steady 12% for almost half a mile. We walked the second half. All we needed to do was remember Obersays. Nothing was harder than that. Riding over the bridge was glorious, there was too much traffic to stop for a picture, but the view down the river was magnificent.
The rest of the ride to Bergamo was uneventful, save for the creak from the Green Surly. We stopped and messed around with the left hand crank screws hoping to resolve it but to no avail. It was a mildly annoying noise, but also a little bit haunting. Would something eventually give and stop us in our tracks?
As we approached Bergamo we found a quiet road and decided to do some more invasive treatment of the bottom bracket with some grease. It didn’t take more than ten minutes and had zero effect whatsoever. Another 500m and we had to have another look. Under deeper inspection we found that of course the cause wasn’t the bottom bracket. It was the cassette. Once the wheel was off you could cause the creaking noise simply by turning the cassette with your hands.
We dismantled the wheel, cleaned and greased the cassette. A man came onto his balcony to see if we were okay after about 10 minutes. As we set off again there was a noticeable improvement but the creak soon returned. When we’d reassembled the wheel, we did realise that obtaining 40Nm of torque (that’s 40kg on the end of a metre) was impossible with a 20cm ratchet wrench.
Bergamo was busy, and flush with students it seemed. Young people outnumbered everyone by 5 to 1. We tried to buy some more viscous grease in a bike shop but they didn’t have any and we didn’t really want to wait until 3pm for another one to open. We had too many miles to cover.
We cycled through many pretty towns, occasionally overlooked by a welcoming castle. The route was well signposted and often segregated or on minor roads. It was a pleasing experience after the difficulty of the day before. The only annoyance were the Italian barriers. For some reason they seem to place not one, or even two metal hoops, but three. It makes getting through very difficult with panniers.
We were excited by the possibility of getting to Iseo. As we were getting closer the Sun was getting lower. We were near another utilised river, this time the flow of the water was even faster we were sure. Obstacles to our progress kept appearing. First a steep hill with an absurd number of cars given the size of the road. Then we were hurled onto a rocky single track that got steeper and bumpier round every corner. We felt ourselves getting slower and anxiously checked the time of the last ferry to Monte Isola from Iseo. 17:35, just after darkness would fully take hold.
We left the planned cycle route for Iseo just after we reached the lake. It looked mystical at this time of day. The light was bathing the water in a pretty sequence of pinks and oranges. We were mashing it down the road in the dark soon enough. Lights on. Fortunately there was a well marked cycle path along the busy road for this final 5km. In Italy, the north at least, every road is busy, every hour of the day.
As we arrived in Iseo we quickly found the waterfront, travelling along a sequence of boardwalks that felt as though they wouldn’t lead anywhere but delivered us round the buildings. We saw the ferry! Like a bus it had a digital display indicating its destination. We rode straight up enthusiastically and boarded, the conductor directing us to put our bikes at the front.
We were soon ploughing through the water and the cold air, we had to put our jackets on. It felt quite victorious as we saw the lights around us on the water. The island of Monte Isola straight in front of us. We quickly booked the hotel, having held off till we were sure to make it. It seemed affordable at €64 and we didn’t question being able to leave our bikes safely. We’d find a way.
Stepping off the ferry only 100m from the hotel, we didn’t even need to mount our saddles. We poked our heads through the doors, greeted by a group of staff having their evening drink. Surprised by the fact we had made a reservation, they made us worry for a second that our journey was for nothing. We soon had our room, and requested a kettle. We couldn’t see anything yet but it felt like the view must be worthwhile.
Surly They Won't Make It 