Tim Moore first
came to my attention in 2003 as the author of the excellent French Revolutions, a book that
frequently features in many lists of top 10 cycling-related books covering his
attempt to cycle the full Tour route in 2000.
This book about the Giro is a
highly entertaining account of an unnecessarily difficult journey on an
unsuitable bike by an ill-equipped rider – but it is exactly those factors that
provide the stories that make the book what it is. It has to be that way to
provide the sense of adventure and the extreme fluctuations in fortune, so that
we can join him in wondering at the “ludicrous enormity of the task”.
What inspires
anyone to undertake such a project you wonder as you start reading his journey beyond
the desire to gain enough material to write a book.
The journey involved riding the route of the 1914 edition of the
Giro d’Italia, which was chosen because a Google search convinced Tim that it
was the hardest ever cycling Grand Tour. The statistics would certainly support
that, eighty-one riders started the
1,964-mile race. A 36-hour rainstorm
erupted soon after the start, washing out roads. Eight appalling stages later,
the average length of each being roughly the distance from Lake District to
London, eight riders crossed the finish line.
The race set records for the longest ever single stage distance
and stage time amongst others, but there were plenty of other hardships: road
conditions, team rivalries, weather conditions, injuries, and locals putting
nails on the road. The cyclist-hating
public threw tacks on the road, although cycling fans weren’t much better: They
threw vegetables at racers they didn’t like. Riders, meanwhile, rode across
Italy on a network of white gravel roads astride rudimentary machines
ill-suited to swift mountain descents and without the benefit of today’s
understanding of nutrition or technology.
Once the year had
been determined, the task was to find an appropriate and authentic old school
machine to complete the picture of “old fashioned grit and old-fashioned kit”.
The story of Moore acquiring his initial choice of bike makes for great
reading, but eventually he does take a slightly easier option and plumps for a
more complete Hirondelle No.7 Course sur
Route. However, there are still plenty of opportunities for
mechanical mishaps and running repairs.
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| Tim Moore in period dress |
Not content to merely write about it,
Moore assembled his period-correct bicycle and rode the route himself,
chronicling his beleaguered progress as he chased the ghost of Alfonso
Calzolari, the workhorse cyclist who won the 1914 Giro. (And then lived to the
age of 95.) This is not merely about
suffering, but about reclaiming the lost pure heart of road racing, the one
before energy gels, titanium and coldly efficient pacing of the modern-day
peloton.
Those of us made of less stern stuff would have baulked at the prospect
of recreating Calzolari’s 1914 victory, but Moore opted to coerce his period Hirondelle into some semblance of life,
encouraged by the authenticity of the time.
Resplendent in a wool jersey, wool shorts, ancient leather shoes, white
cap and a pair of goggles he set about his task, ready for all the trials and
tribulations that would follow.
One such example
comes from the cork brake pads that are required for the wooden rims: they
don’t really work, and they don’t last long on mountain descents. One solution
was to create new brake blocks along the way from the corks of Prosecco
bottles. The book is full of little anecdotes like this, repairs ‘on the go’ as
Moore had to find innovative ways to keep his bike going and roadworthy.
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| The bike...before it was built by the author |
From the Alps to the Adriatic the pair relive the bike race in all its misery and glory, on an adventure that is by turns bold, beautiful and recklessly incompetent.
