Red River… flat tire!

Che cosa c’è di peggio rispetto a guidare per sei ore sotto la pioggia? Ora lo sappiamo. Bucare una gomma sotto la pioggia, in autostrada, con la prima uscita a due miglia, di notte.

On the way verso Red River. L’autunno è la stagione migliore, pare, e abbiamo intenzione di approfittarne finché si può. L’idea, alquanto ambiziosa, è di scendere in Kentucky almeno tre weekend su quattro, per prepararsi alla settimana con gli amici di inizio novembre. Bisogna arrivare in forma all’appuntamento. Non ho ancora smaltito il jet lag, ma sia io sia Jaco non stiamo nella pelle. Partiamo un po’ più tardi del solito e, dopo la consueta cena a Bowling Green, Ohio, a circa due ore da casa, mi metto al volante alla volta del Kentucky. Piove che dio la manda, o come dicono qui, piove cani e gatti.

Una spia si illumina. E’ la spia del pneumatico. Sarà un po’ sgonfio, ci diciamo. Alla prima sosta gli diamo una gonfiatina.

“Dormo”, mi dice Jaco. “Così poi ti do il cambio.”

Piove e non si vede un accidente, seguo le luci di una macchina davanti a me fino a quando non sento qualcosa di strano. Sbaglio o la macchina tira verso destra? E questo rumore?

“Jaco?”

Jaco si risveglia in stato confusionale.

“Sbaglio o la ruota è a terra?”

“Occazzo, sì!” risponde lui. “Piano, piano, vai piano!”

“Sto già andando piano!” rispondo, piccata.

“Più piano, se no la ruota la buttiamo!”

Abbiamo visto più di una macchina, in questi mesi, correre a tutta velocità su un pneumatico sgonfio, ma preferiamo non tentare l’esperimento.

Luci di emergenza, corsia di destra, velocità ridotta a 20 miglia all’ora. Diluvia. Decidiamo di proseguire fino alla prima uscita e alla prima stazione di servizio. Due miglia. Findlay, Ohio.

Bene, si cambia la ruota. O meglio, Jaco cambia la ruota: il mio compito è informarmi sul modo di sostituirla o ripararla. Parlo inglese meglio, dopotutto.

“Merda”, dice Jaco appena estrae la ruota di scorta dal bagagliaio. “Abbiamo solo il ruotino.” Un bagagliaio grande quanto la camera da letto della vecchia casa in Italia, e non potevano metterci una cavolo di ruota degna di questo nome?

Neanche l’ifon è in grado di tirarci fuori da questo casino. Naso incollato alla piccola diavoleria tecnologica sperando che salti fuori un centro riparazioni 24/7. Non c’è niente di aperto. Non possiamo cambiare la ruota prima di domani mattina. Partire domani mattina significa arrivare a Red River nel pomeriggio, per tornare la domenica. Jaco mi guarda. So che cosa sta pensando, è quello che penso anche io. Nessuno vuole dirlo per primo. Esattamente come quando tornare indietro, su via lunga o in montagna, ha più senso che proseguire, ma per orgoglio tutti stanno zitti.

“Intanto avverto che per stanotte non ci tengano la stanza.”

Mi risponde il motel Lil’Abner.

Spiego la situazione. Abbiamo bucato, stanotte di sicuro non arriviamo.

“E’ tardi”, mi dice la signora. “A quest’ora la stanza non l’affitto più. Non poteva avvertirmi prima?”

Come glielo spiego che non lo sapevo in anticipo? Che non l’avevamo programmato? Mi mordo la lingua, cerco di essere gentile. Se non altro ottengo che non ci carichino la notte sulla carta di credito.

Mogi e ringhiosi (soprattutto io, lo confesso) facciamo retrofront. Ci riproviamo il prossimo weekend. Dopo tre ore di guida a una velocità media di 70 chilometri all’ora, in autostrada, arriviamo a casa. Sono le due di notte.

“Non è male, il Panera Bread di Bowling Green”, conclude Jaco. “Ma un po’ lontanuccio per la cena del venerdì sera…”

Mountains

I don’t want to sound nostalgic, but I am happy that I spent one of my last days climbing in Bardonecchia, at the crag called “Le gare” (The comps). I know, it’s all chipped and cemented, and there is barely a hold that is natural: but come on, this is the place where the first ever international competitions were held, in 1985. I can imagine the stony grounds alive with thousands of people gathered here to watch Glowacz, Godoffe or Moffat climb (although the latter decided not to). There had been nothing like it before, and for a few years, Bardonecchia and Arco were the classic events for the newly born circuit of competitions, that starred all the best rock climbers of the period: Isabelle Patissier, Lynn Hill, Patrick Edlinger, Simon Nadin…

The routes at the crag were not those set by Marco Bernardi, one of the Italian climbing legends of the time, who set the first three events, but date from a little later, 1992, when Marzio Nardi created the routes for the first international youth competition. I find them truly amazing, a work of art in their own right, for you seldom have the feeling you’re climbing on chipped holds. They’re demanding and technical, and require a lot of precise footwork. Very much in the style of the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, obviously.

Last but not least, the scenery is amazing. You breathe the brisk air in the shades of Valle Stretta, while you see the sun - it must be warm, indeed - shining on the ridges on the other side. The sky is a supernatural blue, as always in the mountains. And nobody is ever there. Apart from the cows, I mean.

We hiked in the mountains just before Jaco left, last week. Along the way to the lakes that were our destination, we wondered if all the boulders scattered alongside the trail where ever climbed. The rock looked amazing, beautiful granite, but probably offering just a few, super tiny holds, not enough to lure the normal climber up for an hour walk just to get there. The crack in the picture above was probably the best of all, but it would have required the skills and guts of an highball bouldered…

Simply hiking in the mountains was such a good feeling… When we are in Michigan, where the highest “mountain” is barely a hill 200 metros tall, we sometimes mistake clouds on the horizon with the profile of mountains, and for a moment we delude ourselves.

Mountains are something that we’re so accustomed to seeing here: the city is surrounded by the ridges of the Alps, and as soon as you start driving out of town, you face them, standing still in the distance. This is something we’re missing the landscape that we almost paid no attention to when we lived here.

It won’t be long before we’re back, though…

The world I belong to

Arco. Well, Arco was the first reason why I chose to come back to Italy sooner than I thought. It was an occasion to be finally working at the Rock Master - arguably one of the best climbing events worldwide - not as an employee of the International Federation but as a journalist, and to meet all the people that I had known for years under a different light. No obligations other than watching the comps, and writing about them, something akin to a dream come true. I couldn’t stop smiling. The biggest emotion was perhaps being member of a jury that had to award the best competition and rock climbers of the year, above all because I had the opportunity to meet people who had been in the climbing world for decades; people like Dario Rodiguez, the director of Desnivel, or Igor Koller, the first to free the famous multipitch called “Il pesce”. People whose stories are inspiring because they are stories of passion and commitment, sometimes against all odds. Being a climbing journalist or photographer now is even harder than before, but the passion that people put in it, struggling to juggle between a paying job and climbing journalism - which seldom pays enough - hit me as a reminder that yes, you should try to pursue your dreams.

The jury for the awards (photo D.Rodriguez)

The atmosphere in Arco is always special, and distinct from any other competition. The huge wall of Colodri serving as a backdrop for the competition wall is an amazing setting, but this year the weather seemed for once to work against the organizers: it started raining on Friday, and did not stop until Saturday night, just in time for the Lead finals.

A few things contributed to make the event less brilliant than usual. It was a difficult challenge to set up the Rock Master after last year’s Championship, which had been so flamboyant that any other thing could hardly meet up the expectations; and the calendar was not favorable as well, since in one week or so the World Champs will start in Paris. Many athletes, including some of the strongest, like Anna Stohr and Kilian Fischhuber, chose not to take part in the Rock Master to get to Bercy in the best possible shape.

(La foto è di Giulio Malfer)

Is the prestige of the Rock Master waining? Difficult to say. Certainly all those I had the chance to speak to told me they really enjoyed the competition. Sasha Digiulian, who had to withdraw because of an injury to the tendon, had come on purpose from the States - where she is due to start classes on Tuesday this week! - and had planned to compete in all disciplines; a sign that an event like Arco is a cherished appointment also for the younger athletes, and not just a vestige of another era. But when I interviewed him, Adam Ondra told me he had the feeling that something had changed, since many world class athletes were actually missing. Something that would never have happened in previous years.

With Adam after a 2 hour interview at Bar Pio! (photo d. Rodriguez)

Still, there is something special to the Rock Master. It is so easy to mix with the climbers and occasionally chat with them, and the formulas of the competition make the atmosphere friendly and relaxed. I think the athletes can feel the warmth and enthusiasm of the audience: there is probably no other competition that attracts such a huge public, thanks to the richness of the climbing areas surrounding Arco. It is almost a tradition to plan a climbing holiday in concurrence with the Rock Master, and the athletes can easily feel the warmth of a public who shares their same passion. Not even the rain could keep people away from the stadium. An ovation welcomed Ondra and Ramon when they walked in for the final of the Duel, and nobody could avoid shouting and cheering them up the wall. It was simply overwhelming.

When, on Sunday afternoon, I got in my car for the four-hours drive back home, I still had a big smile on my face.