On the roads of Fausto Coppi

I’m Piedmontese. I wouldn’t say I’m proud of it as such, because I can’t very well brag about something I neither chose nor created with my own hands. However I’m very happy to be it. It may be a platitude, but if I think of myself as a young boy, I have to say that I wouldn’t have seen myself anywhere else in Italy. And, if I think of the current me, even less so. As is often the case, however, it is easy to know a place hundreds of kilometres away from your home inside out, rather than the neighbourhood that borders the one where you’ve lived for 20 years. It was therefore time to go there, right there.
Choosing a travelling companion on the other hand is not a triviality, even when it’s not really a choice. When you imagine a route, you have already made it clear in your mind who will be the person accompanying you, it is as if the partner is an integral part of the trip. I knew Davide would be the perfect co-pilot; we have the same passions, the same vision of cycling, the same post-ride aptitude that willingly indulges in good food and fine wine. The fact that we knew these places very little piqued our curiosity. Although personally, what caught my attention most was the name of the route — The Roads of Coppi.

We know almost everything about Fausto and his brother Serse. If you’re someone who grinds out kilometre after kilometre on a bike, you cannot fail to be aware of Il Campionissimo’s story. To be honest, even non-cyclists know it. Let me explain. In sport, figures who trascend their own sphere of success are very rare. I’m thinking of Alberto Tomba, who thrilled even those who had never put a pair of skis on their feet, or Valentino Rossi and his army of fans who had never even sat on a moped. In cycling it was the same with Marco Pantani, but almost half a century earlier, Fausto Coppi set the standard. Here, when I think of the first pop sports figure, I think of Coppi.
In short, the time had come to learn more about what I had only ever read about, what I had only ever heard about.

The route doesn’t appear to be a walk in the park. It’s a 270 kilometre mixed-terrain loop — but since we’re talking about the winner of two Tours, a Grande Boucle — with almost 4,000 metres of elevation gain. Playtime is never too much, so we choose to split the route into two stages. There will be some hard riding to be done, and a lot of it, but we’re sure it will make us feel a little closer to the cycling of yesteryear. Few frills and a lot of sacrifice.
Alessandria is the perfect place to start and finish. We are undecided whether to reach it by car or by train, but in the end we opt for the latter — partly for that vintage feel and partly because it’s so convenient to have no other thoughts than to catch a train on time.
A hot espresso, a couple of baci di dama, and a few minutes after 8 a.m. our adventure begins.

It’s not a lucky year from an environmental point of view. It hasn’t rained for months, the rivers are dry, and the plants and fields are as thirsty as a cyclist on a sun-beaten Alp. We exchange a few words about the situation, but just a few. There is little to add on the subject except a silence that betrays genuine concern. These thoughts still surround us as we approach the first climb that takes us into the hills behind Alessandria. The view of the city is incredible, and still more so given that we've travelled less than two kilometres from the centre to enjoy this great panorama.
Back on the flatland, we spend the first two hours cycling along the Po embankment. From the top of the cycle path, we have the best perspective on our surroundings. The Great Plain is work, work and more work. It's as if we'd been preparing ourselves for the meeting that awaits us.

There are photos, paintings and images that are printed in our minds from childhood. Some are personal and lead back to treasured memories, like a black and white photograph in grandma’s house. Others are universal, so famous that we’ve seen them reproduced time and time again. I’m thinking of The Last Supper, Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, or a picture of Marilyn Monroe. One such picture is Giuseppe Pellizza da Volpedo’s The Fourth Estate.
The power of this painting has always fascinated me, and of course I know I’m not the only one to feel this way. That’s why the stop at Volpedo, in Piazza Castello, the very setting of the painting, was an essential goal of our journey.
“In my great-aunt Matilde’s house there was a print of this painting hanging”— Davide tells me, laughing — “and I didn’t even remember it anymore! Amazing what came back to my mind!” When I say that travelling companions are part of the project from its embryonic phase, this is exactly what I mean.
But now the time has come to start sweating. Let’s start dealing with the Tortona hills.

Up and down through forests, vineyards and hazelnut groves. Occasionally we thread our way through long, shady tunnels of vegetation that provide a welcome chill; at other times the road crests to reveal the view beyond, where our gaze opens towards the mountains that envelop us. The heat is making itself increasingly noticeable, but luckily we know where to find drinking fountains to fill our water bottles. When you move between small villages, there are two options: the fountain is either in the churchyard — and in this case you just have to look for the bell tower — or in the cemetery.

Most of the kilometres planned for this first day are now behind us. It is time to enter the most remote area of our tour: the Borbera valley. The first puncture is greeted with the usual epithets, but it doesn’t take long to realise that it is, after all, luck. So we take a little rest and freshen ourselves up before the final exertions.
But what is fatigue when a landscape like this reveals itself to you? A small climb and then down the narrows of the Borbera, a place that you wouldn’t believe if you heard about it. It is hard to compare it to some famous film scene, because I swear a valley like this is almost impossible to find. A narrow gorge and at the bottom, the river, which although they tell us is less lush with water than usual, flows sinuously between rapids and secluded little beaches among the rocks and greenery.

A quick shower, just a few minutes to relax. We are cooked, there is nothing more to add. The person who welcomes us at the B&B starts talking about a wine that we have never heard of before. He repeats the name several times while Davide and I exchange glances of embarrassment and amusement, we are not understanding anything. Everything becomes clear at the restaurant when the host, with the attitude of someone who knows what he is talking about, offers us two glasses... of Timorasso! In complete awe, we are all ears: “Timorasso is a historic vine from our area. It is very fragile, so over the years it was gradually replaced by more resistant grapes until, after the phylloxera invasion, it disappeared. A few years ago, a few producers took a gamble on this ancient grape and started growing it again. For us, it is a source of pride.”
There are those who claim that in the water bottles of the old cycling champions there was fine wine. I am certainly no champion, but my spirit of emulation is at an all-time high right now. It may be the lower temperature of the night or the two bottles of Timorasso, but when we wake up we feel better than ever. It’s time to go, the Roads of Coppi are calling us.

It’s strange really, because it doesn’t take much effort to imagine what these roads and mountains were like 70 or 80 years ago, when Il Campionissimo was training to win everything he could. I don’t know if I’m making myself clear, but the context, the tranquillity, the silences, the near absence of cars. It’s easy to feel transported back to that era.
I make these considerations to myself as Davide pushes on the pedals and doesn’t utter a word. He is tense, shy — I don’t quite understand why. I try to list the possible reasons in my head when, without even realising it, I read the Castellania sign. This is it. Here, in this tiny hamlet, everything speaks of him; it's practically an open-air museum. Photographs everywhere of all sizes, murals, famous phrases written everywhere to celebrate Coppi.
A stop at the cemetery is a must, and so too a few minutes of contemplation before the tomb of the two brothers.
“Can I have a picture? I have an identical one at home of my grandfather sitting right here. I would like to have it just like that,” Davide asks me. I pick up my phone and as I am about to take it, it dawns on me: “Do you mean to tell me that your father, Fausto, is named after Coppi?”
“Of course! My grandfather told my grandmother, either Gino or Fausto, you choose. And so she chose Fausto.”
I smile, take the photo, and Davide thanks me sincerely. It could only have been him. Once again, the perfect companion for this journey.

It may be the emotion, it may be that it was easy to identify with his exploits, but as we get back in the saddle, our legs spin as never before. The landscape changes and the woods slowly give way to vineyards. We are galvanised, but after a quick passage through Novi Ligure, we opt for a brief stop at Gavi. The castle at the top and the narrow alleyways of the town centre give us a much-needed sense of calm, while the hand-written blackboards hanging outside each restaurant make our mouths water. “It must be pretty good living here, huh?” we ask each other — answering with a laugh tinged with a touch of envy.
It’s a little early for lunch, so we opt to ride towards the Bormida valley. We would like to enjoy the last few kilometres of this journey at a more leisurely speed, but we are so entranced that enjoyment at this point means full gas. We’re enjoying ourselves a lot.
The stage to Acqui Terme cannot be skipped. We realise that we are very close to Liguria partly because of the language, which is very different from what we are used to, but above all because we eat the best farinata I have ever tasted. And yes, I admit it, we have also had a chilled glass of Gavi.
We’re ready for the last climb of the day, one that takes us to Alice Bel Colle. If it is called that, there must be a reason. In fact, the view is incredible and we manage to appreciate it despite the 30 degree heat beating down on our faces.

Just enough time to take a breather, fill the water bottle yet again and off we go for the last hour of the journey. The route tells us that there are exclusively plains ahead of us, and we all know that it’s no fun at all to spend an hour on a flat, straight road when you’re exhausted. One bend, another bend, we leave the tarmac road and in an instant we are in a different dimension to those we have faced so far.
A gravel road through cornfields, passing through small, quaint villages: it’s anything but boring! Far from boring! What we thought was a simple transfer turns into yet another adventure within our journey. Partly out of amazement, partly out of exhaustion, we slow down and even opt for a stop in the middle of nowhere, in the shade of the only tree.

The last train home is late, but not too late, and we want to arrive in time to enjoy a beer in Alessandria. Although the trip is almost over, the last few pedal strokes are pleasant and there is no time to be sad. It has been two days full of sensations, as well as good company, a glass of wine, good laughs, a bike with a couple of bikepacking bags and the Roads of Coppi.
I don’t want to be banal, but it takes very little to be happy.