Many of Europe’s mountain roads resemble a labyrinth of tunnels – some short, some terrifyingly lengthy, especially for cyclists. Veteran Audaxer Francis Cooke explains why he, together with his partner Sheila Simpson, are so often drawn to ride these dark and forbidding mountain caverns
Tunnelvisions
Arrivéewinter/spring2020
I love tunnels. A sketch of the Passo di San Boldo in the Dolomites (which was featured in Arrivée 146) hangs in my house. We always thought it looked like a fantastic place – so back in 1994 Sheila and I set off to see it for ourselves. We took the Bike Bus to Venice and then rode north into the Dolomites, aiming to take part in the Dolomite Marathon, a Marmotte-like sportif attracting thousands of riders, 220km over seven big mountain passes. Our
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gateway into the Dolomites, after several hours of flattish cycling, was to be the Passo San Boldo (706m) – no great height but an abrupt climb from near-sea-level. It’s a narrow notch in the cliff, and every hairpin is contained inside a dark semi-circular tunnel, making a crazy-looking staircase up the cliff face. It’s a bit like the back way into Mordor, and any one of the tunnels could easily be Shelob’s lair. The route controlled by traffic lights, top, bottom and centre, to alternate the traffic flow. These lights were an
irrelevance to us. At our climbing pace, by the time we reached midway they had probably changed several times. And we had seen no traffic anyway, having deliberately timed our climb for lunchtime. And so we inched on up. The midway light turning to red as we passed it.
PICTURE: FRANCIS COOKE
THE PASSO DI SAN BOLDO
Like the back way to Mordor… Passo di San Boldo
Suddenly, the narrow gorge was filled with a raucous wailing. Now here’s a thing about cycling in Italy – many of the motorists are quite flamboyant in their driving style. They pass a bit close and fast, and cut in likewise. It takes a day or two to get used to it. Three small red cars had just launched out of the top tunnel and were barrelling down the hairpins toward us. Obviously lunchtime was over. The din as they careered through each tunnel was colossal, megaphone exhausts further amplified and then echoing across the cliffs and back. We could only pull over on a straight bit and be as visible as possible. It was noisy, but it didn’t last long. At the top we popped out through a final short tunnel straight into the welcoming village of San Boldo… panting a little.
