Sylvester Stallone did it over a series of years in six movies. I did it over a series of days on one motorcycle!
As many of you readers know, late this past summer, I toured the Alps as part of a motorcycle group tour sponsored by an American motorcycle magazine, RoadRunner (www.roadrunner.travel). I have not written an overview or summary critique about it yet. There is so much to say and it should be easy to say it but I have found that not to be the case. Others have written their say, verbally capturing their ideas and expressing them with emotion and spirit. Some readers would say, they have done justice to those rocky peaks. I am not about to critique what they have said or how they have said it but I still feel I have not been able to verbalize what I experienced. I have not been able to find the words to describe what I felt and what I saw. To just write a cursory descriptive list of the passes, the pastoral scenes would be an injustice to the majesty of what I saw. However, I am at the point where the freshness of the experience must be recorded before it begins to fade into the memory. 
I rode Canada’s Rockies as part of another group ride a year ago (www.rockymtnmoto.com) and I loved the riding. The Rocky Mountains far surpass the Alps in grandeur, in height, in their reach to the skies. The skies were seemed bluer there, the peaks were grander, the expanses wider and the roadways faster. But saying all that is like saying Rocky Marciano was the best fighter of all time because of his indomitable determination, or that Joe Louis was the epitome of pugilistic power or that Mohammed Ali was the apex of ringside bravado. All phrases are arguably correct, but does any one capture what the writer is really trying to say. The Alps took my breath away, not once, not momentarily, but daily, repeatedly, all day long. They knocked the Rockies out, unequivocally, no TKO, but a full 10 count!
It was like being in the ring with Ali, never a single moment without a damaging punch hitting the mark, not a moment of relief, reprieve, or respite. Every swing, a hit, every roadway, a jab, hitting its mark fully. Never a moment to catch a breath, every instant, the full Monty, unrelenting excitement. Bobbing, weaving, riding, swooping, bending, balancing, on the right pedal, on the right bar, on the left pedal, the left bar, no let up. Let up and the Alps knock you down, knock you out.
This is not a lament, but a tribute, homage to the majestic artistry created by nature. It is an accolade to what nature has created through eons of chiseling, sculpting, etching out of rock and stone. No Da Vinci, Bernini, Cellini, or Rodin, no Degas, Enk and Mokujiki, all sculptors renowned, from long ago to closer contemporary times, all artists of fame and recognition but none capable of the majestic mastery that nature has created in the Alps.
Every pass, another work of Rocky art (I couldn’t resist that one !). Again, I continue my lament of inadequacy in expressing the grandeur of these craggy peaks, awe inspiring rocky crags of beauty. I can list some of the regions through which I rode. I can post some of the photos which I took trying to encapsulate the beauty of what I saw. But these are feeble endeavours, failing counterpunches displaying human frailty and inadequacy.
There is no way to prioritize the beauty of these mountain passes, the incredible ridability of these roads. There is no way to compare roadways or rides. It would be like comparing one’s children or comparing one’s parents. How can one be better than the other? Each is unique; each different; each special; each to be loved for their uniqueness.
I can name the passes so easily: Stelvio, Vrisicpass, Predilpass, Sella Nevea, Passo Promollo, Passo di Giau, Arabba…the names mean little to me except for Stelvio, that Italian prima donna of the Alps, a heart stopper. She had 60 hairpin turns in less than 40 kms. She knocked out Stirling Moss. She has knocked many of the Giro d’Italia cyclists to the mat. There are many road warriors, car and bicycle riders, who have challenged her driver/rider skill testing roads. She has lashed back relentlessly, in every season, bicyclists and motorcyclists in the summer, automobile racers when no snow, but with snows, she has challenged downhill skiers in world cup racing, defeating many. I cannot even imagine skiing down the pass without the mechanical assistance of my R1200RT’s brakes. Moto Guzzi finally paid tribute to the pass producing a Stelvio model, as they should have. Italy’s glacial majesty at its peak.
A number of the rocky passes decked many of us, every one but one rider knocked to the mat, from innocent parking lot incidents, to more damaging transmission seizures after riders rode more aggressively, more blatantly, challenging the mountain roads with their personal riding skills. But the pass was victorious, over and over again. All but one of the riders experienced defeat but thankfully, not one suffered a serious mishap. Each rose and rode again. Thwarted by the mountainous challenges of the rock-sided roadways, each rode on. The indomitable spirit of man!
Vinegar versus honey, Stelvio versus the valleys that came after Fluelapass, Ofenpass, Reschenpass, and Serfaus. The valleys lulled us with their idyllic beauty. Such sweet riding. The rides became more languid, more serene, and more tranquil. The grazing cattle, the goat flocks, the pastoral scenes unsurpassed, anywhere.
Undoubtedly, there is no single group member who would eschew another opportunity to repeat this tour. I speak for each, I am certain, when I say, the budgetary challenge not withstanding, I will return. Like riding the ‘Rock,’ Canada’s Newfoundland, one is drawn back, as iron is drawn to a magnet. The Alps are Europe’s motorcycle seductress, beckoning every rider who has tasted their charms, seducing each, so that unreservedly, each rider’s words echo in the craggy canyons, “I’ll be back !”Visit back !
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