I start up the mountain. Slow and steady. Step by step. I’m going as far as my feet will take me. I’m heading up the mountain, in the afternoon heat, with no regard for how I will get back down. This is what I came for—to see Lance Armstrong in a mountain-top finish at a Grand Tour. So I just keep walking up and up. It’s May 2009.
Back at my real estate office in LA, I joked that I would make it to that finish line if I had to walk all the way up Mt. Vesuvius. I have seen Lance in the Pyrenees, on the Champs Elysees, at book signings. I’ve seen sprint finishes and time trials, but never a mountain-top finish. This is my chance to see the master in his element, maybe for the last time. So I traveled from LA to Italy, Rome to Naples, Pompeii to Mt. Vesuvius. This is the day, and I am actually walking it.
This morning, I began at the ruins of Pompeii. Broken-down stone buildings hide little gems, like perfect tile mosaics and elaborately painted dining rooms. It’s not much to look at, but as you cross the stone streets, it is easy to relate to people who lived here so long ago. Like them, I am distracted by the lovely green and blue mountain in the distance. With only a few hours to get there, I gotta go.
An absence of taxis does not bother the other tourists, but I’m headed where buses are banned today. No service because of the bicycle race. After asking every local I can find, I jump into a van with some guy and cross my fingers that he is a gypsy cab driver. The guy thinks I’m nuts to travel so far to see a bike race. I’ll never get back to Naples on my own, he warns. He wishes me luck and drops me at the base of mountain. A little past the first traffic barricades, the race markers read 10K to the finish. I start walking.
The afternoon heat is beginning to build. Most Italians are having a siesta right now. I’m climbing this mountain in 95 degree heat. As the road winds back and forth, I enjoy the cool shade where I can find it. Vesuvius is lush and green here. Sometimes I am trekking through a cool forest of tall trees. Keep going, and the trees are replaced by short bushes with wildflowers and sweeping views of Naples below. 8K to the finish.
This is quite a work-out. The steep incline limits my pace, and I can’t imagine riding a bike for five hours before hitting this. My face reddens, and I feel the heat building in my core. Better slow down or I’ll pass out. I reapply sunscreen and watch the other fans walking with me. Mostly men: grandfathers with kids, guys with their girlfriends. Everyone looks Italian, except for a few hard-core fans. They stand out in their team kits and Texas caps, walking their bikes up the mountain. We’re all heading the same direction: up.
In a patch of forest about 7K to go, I follow the curving road to meet a huge banner of Lance’s face. “Hope rides again,” it reads, and I know I’ve found a friend. A middle-aged man in full Livestrong cycling gear gives me a big smile when I say hello. He is a cancer survivor of nine years, and with his wife, raised over $30,000 for Lance’s foundation. They followed Lance at the Tour de France for years as their annual vacation and were excited to mix it up in Italy this time. They have staked out a great viewing spot: in the shade, following a sharp turn, at a high incline that will slow the cyclists. They’re cheerful and enthusiastic, and I’m tempted to stay put. But I’m here for the finish, so I keep on walking.
I take a picture at the 5K banner, in case I can’t go much further. If I don’t get crushed by the heat, I’m expecting intimidating crowds. I wish I could have joined them, camping out and drinking for days in anticipation of today’s exciting finish. But on my own today, I’m wary of the drunks and limiting my water intake to minimize pit-stops behind the bushes. Expecting to see a crush of fans after every turn, I’m surprised by the empty viewing spots and subdued spectators.
It’s got to be 110 degrees by now. My face is red as a beet, my Livestrong t-shirt is soaked with sweat. At 3K to go, I refuse to quit. Now it’s a matter of principle. I will keep going as long as my body will let me. Forget about the way back. I did not haul my ass across the world to miss the finish by a measly few kilometers. Like those bigshots nearing the summit of Everest, I cannot imagine explaining that almost-made-it story back at the office. I told them I would walk it, and I keep walking. Step by step.
The sight of the 1K banner is a joy. I imagine Phil and Paul in my ear: She’s gonna make it! She dug deep and found the inner strength to conquer this beast of a mountain! This American has shown the Italians how it’s done! At 500 meters to the finish, the barricades are up, and I’m moving faster through each turn of the road. My feet are so light, as if I had just started walking. Is this how the cyclists feel at the end of the day? At 200 meters, I make the 90-degree right hand turn and see the final banner. I made it.
The crowds are lighter than I expected. The mood is strangely quiet, like for a funeral procession rather than a great bike race. The last 100 meters are lined with drunk, shirtless Italian men who are surprisingly well behaved. There is a polite little tunnel between a row of sweaty bare backs and a second row of sweaty hairy chests. I wiggle my way through to touch the finish. I made it. I made it! I walked up Mt. Vesuvius and touched a mountain-top finish of the Giro d’Italia. One of the sweaty Italians takes my picture and gives me a thumbs-up.
Then a passenger van zips up the barricaded road and drops off a group of spectators. Excuse me? They head different directions to find a good viewing spot. Are you telling me I could have gotten a ride? From within the sweaty man tunnel, hot and red-faced, I burst out laughing. Oh well.
Time to find a good spot to view the cyclists as they come in. I settle in with two Kansas law students clad in pink Giro t-shirts and drinking red wine straight from the bottle. These guys stand out in the crowd because they are actually excited to see the race. They are chatting with Franco Pellizoti’s father, who is wearing a t-shirt with his son’s face on it. Even Pellizoti Senior is surprised by their enthusiasm. All the other spectators in sight look like they’re on a TV set to mute.
Finally the cyclists start to come in. First Sastre and Pellizoti, and only the Kansas boys and I are shouting. Di Luca, Menchov, Basso. How can you keep quiet when you think about what these cyclists have done just today? Stage 19 out of 21, that’s 164 kilometers of riding this afternoon, the last 13 up the steep roads of Vesuvius. Then Levi comes around the bend. The boys go nuts. The Italians around us are laughing, completely ignoring the race and just laughing at us tourists. Undeterred, I’m thrilled that my Kansas boys recognize the cyclists quickly, giving me time to prep my camera and the proper cheer. Go Levi, go!
A few more riders come through. Now here comes Lance and his black socks. He’s riding well today.
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| Lance Armstrong |
Go get ‘em, Lance! Go get ‘em!
In a heartbeat, he’s gone. We cheer the remaining riders as they finish, applauding their efforts. An amazing athletic achievement. Inspiring.
Suddenly the air is cooler. The cyclists head back down the mountain to their team buses, and the spectators follow by foot. Back past the 1K banner, 2K, 3K. The Livestrong couple packed up their bikes and their banner and headed to head to the next stage. The sun is setting. The Kansas boys watch out for me, and we slip through mobs for a few precious spots on a shuttle to the train station. We are all smiles.
By the time I get back to my Naples hotel, it is 10 p.m., and I am exhausted. Time for the a cold shot of the local limoncello. I will venture to tomorrow’s stage start and the time trial in Rome, but I have already accomplished what I came to do. My journey of 6,505 miles—10,469 kilometers—was complete with that mountain finish. Vesuvius: 2009—I was there.
