‘Jungels there, tongue out like a spaniel on a motorway.’
Sean’s driving may have its disadvantages, but I’m happy on the whole to pass on the responsibility to him. He has his ways and for the most part he is good company in a sort of peaceful partner kind of way. We are like an old married couple. There is not much action but a good deal of respect and warmth. There are some oddities, though: one is that Sean is convinced that it’s possible to get a suntan through a car’s glass windows. He regularly displays his silverback credentials by stripping off while driving to achieve the desired bronzage. So far, his pale Irish complexion is a testament to him being completely wrong. I can also confirm that Sean has a great deal of hair, and not just on top of his head. When that shirt comes off it’s like there are two of him: the inner man and the satellite miasma of deep fuzz that surrounds him. Maybe I’m wrong and it’s that silvery outer shield, not the glass, preventing the tan.
Catso!
I love Italy. Out of all the countries we visit, its mountains, coastline, olive groves and vineyards, not to mention its depth of history, never cease to amaze me. It’s incredible that every part of the Tuscan landscape has been shaped by civilisation over thousands of years. There is no part of it that does not show the touch of human hands, yet it retains a majestic, almost supernatural beauty. So, a stunning, gorgeous country. Unfortunately, it’s blighted by some of the most terrifying and dangerous drivers in the world.
The closest I came to death on its roads was when I was covering the Giro with Dan Lloyd. He was driving and had entered into one of those silly lane wars with another car where two carriageways narrow down to one.
The other car was a brand-new, blacked-out Porsche Cayenne Turbo. It was getting closer and closer and closer, and the guy was clearly getting angry as both he and Dan refused to give the other any space.
‘Knock it off, Dan,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t drive that thing round here from selling olive oil. The guy’s f--king dangerous, can you just let him go?’
Dan thought about it, thought about it again, then said, ‘No. I’m not having it.’ A gap opened up and he shot into it before the Porsche could react. I looked behind and saw the driver reaching across to pick something up. It was probably just his mobile, but I was imagining something far more sinister. We were in deepest Sicily, and in that part of the world there are different rules for the sort of people who can afford to drive a Porsche Cayenne. And those rules are usually written by them. The traffic suddenly cleared and Dan floored it, Mr Corleone chasing after us in close pursuit.
However much damage this chap was about to inflict on us, either physical or mechanical, the chances were that, despite our car’s Giro d’Italia livery, he’d get away with it. We screamed down the road, our Skoda Estate giving everything it had to save our lives, bless it.
Now, I cover motorsport as well as cycling. I have been driven by the greats of endurance racing and rallying. Most people, including Dan Lloyd, mistakenly imagine that they are close to elite level drivers. They are not. But what followed were some of the most skilful pieces of defensive driving I’ve ever seen.
Weaving through the heavy traffic, we entered a roundabout at full speed. Dan flicked the indicator and headed for a ramped exit that went down to the motorway. We must have been travelling at over 100km/h (60mph) with our friend almost glued to our bumper. Then, at the very last moment, Dan pulled hard on the steering wheel, careering us away from the exit, our squealing and plumes of smoke rolling away in the breeze. Our pursuer reacted too late and found himself halfway down the ramp with a queue of cars now behind him. He was unable to back up. He leapt out of the car to hurl abuse at us. More than this, I swear to this day he was waving a handgun at us. No shots were fired, but the message was clear. This was very scary.
That night we were out of Sicily, many miles away from our road rage incident, but we still parked the car in a hidden corner at the back of the hotel. Just in case.
Getting your Ashfelt
If the driving in Italy is frightening, the roads themselves don’t always fare any better. There’s a lot of corruption, and contractors often cut corners to siphon off funding. The road may look okay as soon as it’s finished, but in certain areas, usually in the south, those who have ‘won’ the contract have failed to lay down deep enough foundations. Any road is only as good as its underbelly. It might look fine on top, but the main cost of constructing a highway lies underground. Once the mayor has had his picture taken and cut the ribbon, the sorry story of corruption is often just beginning. The road can quickly degrade and even become downright dangerous.
Dan Lloyd and I often pass by sorry, mouldering towers of an uncompleted viaduct long past its completion date, clearly standing as a monument to corruption and ineptitude. There are regular road slips where a mountain route has simply fallen away. Some landslips are more serious than others, so Dan and I have a debate when we come across yet another Road Closed sign. Do we take a significant detour and add more time to our journey or
