riders all suffering the same—can’t inspire you. And every time the effort gets too much, and the green and blue and brown blur that constitutes your rattling eyes’ best efforts at vision gets dizzying, respite appears. It could be a simple patch of paved road but if you’re really lucky, it’ll be a rest stop, brimming with all off the sugary, salty, hot, cold, alcoholic goodies you can imagine.

It goes without saying: nothing takes a riders mind off the pain quicker than the rapid consumption of calories. And if they come in the guise of fine Chianti wine and delicious home made stews, well then, so much the better. Everyone knows that energy gels and sports drinks are over-rated anyway.

It would be just outside the first stop—two hours after the bolt had slipped—until I found another rider who had a set of brugole, allen keys, to fit the bolt on my broken seat. Of course I could have used my own, if I hadn’t left them on the breakfast table during the inventory check I’d done to avoid precisely this kind of situation.

Cyclists don’t need this sort of mishap explained to them—it hurt, plain and simple. Saddles can dish out the pain at the best of times, so a loose, suede-covered seat bobbing around underneath you as you race over rough roads is always going to be a problem. The famous strade bianche—the white gravel roads that have become so iconic and so intrinsically linked to the event—take no prisoners.

But it could have been worse. Along the gruelling route that day lay every type of cycling calamity. Countless pristine vintage bikes, fallen victim to tubular blow-outs in the middle of 15% climbs, broken spokes, jammed derailleurs, crashes of every description. Harsher still were the human casualties. Not the cuts and the grazes; these heal quickly after all. No, the worst sight along the route are the riders who’ve given up—filthy faces telling tales of woe, of shattered dreams and utter exhaustion. With all of the prep and anticipation that you’d put into an event like this, these wounds leave deep scars.

Even if nothing goes wrong with your bike and you’re the type of rider who eats up rough roads like Roger De Vlaeminck, L’Eroica takes its toll. The strong sun bakes sweat and the Tuscan dirt into a foul crust that covers every inch of your body. Riders pushing bikes up steep inclines in the distance makes the task seem impossible before you’ve even started, killing your confidence. Keeping control on the dusty descents requires every ounce of concentration you have, every Newton of force in your brakes and a gladiatorial grip on the levers. No matter who you are, your hands will hurt. Your back too. And if you doze off on a loose patch, you can be certain that you’ll wind up face-first in the dirt.

So why the hell would anyone want to do it? Well, because it’s a blast, obviously. For every memory I have of gritty and grimy pot-holed hell, I have dozens of foodie and bike-nerd heaven. After all, this is a weekend in Tuscany, where the locals know their way around the kitchen and the vineyard. Even the race time-checks are unreal buffets rather than joyless pitstops. Stews, cakes, cured meats, local wine—and at the last stop there was even Vin Santo, a desert wine,

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