Report: Italy Divide – The Origins 2026

Now running for over a decade, Italy Divide is an off-road bikepacking event inspired by the OG of the genre, the US Tour Divide.

Featuring a roll-call of iconic Italian cities – Rome, Florence, Siena, Bologna, Verona – and dangling the promise of exploring off-road in the Appenines en route to a finish at the northern tip of Lake Garda, it’s an irresistible prospect. Locked in an endless Irish winter, I duly signed up on New Year’s Eve for the 2026 edition.

Originally following a 700km course from Rome to Torbole on the northern shores of Lake Garda, there are now three versions: the Origins route that I’d entered; the Classic (1250km, 22,000m climbing) which starts in Naples; and, for 2026, a new XL route at 1650km with 29,000m climbing starting in Bari.  

The starts are staggered, with the XL riders beginning 30 April, the Classic riders on 1 May, and the Origins on 2 May. Always one to leave things to the last-minute, I landed into Rome Fiumicino airport at 8pm on 1 May, the eve of the ride.

I’d booked a room at the event start, a campsite on the beach at Fiumicino. Arriving just before reception closed, I was allocated a shared chalet with another rider, Michael Stueffler from Austria.

Michael was just turning in for the night when I arrived. We had a quick chat and I promised not to be too noisy when building up my bike. I headed for the site bar. The kitchen had closed, but I was offered a plate of lasagne and a beer.

Building up the bike took a good 90 minutes. Both my tyres had come unseated in transit and I needed to use one of my CO2 canisters to get them reseated on the rims. With the race set to start at 10am, I went to bed well after midnight leaving the final prep for the morning.

Day 1: Rome – Montefiascone (172km)

8:00 on Saturday morning, I had just got up when there was a rap on the door: my room-mate.

“Ah, you’re awake. We start in one hour,” he told me. We do?!

Apparently, it had been decided at the race briefing the previous evening to begin an hour early. Breakfast plans went out the window as I rushed to get bags packed and fitted, collect my event pack, hand over my bike box for transport to the finish and double check I’d got everything.

Not the ideal start, but I guess this can happen when you miss the race briefing.

Riders mustered in bright morning sunshine. After a few brief words from the organiser, Giacomo, we rolled off en masse for the 9am departure. As I clipped in, I overheard an English voice behind me say humorously: “Right then: coffee? Might as well start as we mean to go on!”

For a half second I thought of turning around to join them for breakfast – maybe they had missed the memo about the early start too? But the wheels were turning, and instead I left along with the convoy of fellow riders headed for Rome city centre.

Is there any better feeling than riding along on the opening few km of a bikepacking event on a sunny morning? Well, maybe riding along having had coffee and breakfast. Still, I was in high spirits as we cruised along the dusty track for Rome.

The 30km flew by, and by late morning we were at the Colosseum. I stopped along with a couple of other riders to grab a photo and eat one of the energy bars provided at registration. After one mouthful I had to double check the wrapper: it said “collagen” and, judging by the taste, I genuinely thought I’d accidentally eaten a bar of soap or some kind of cosmetic product.

The Colosseum concourse was bustling, and as I wheeled the bike through the throng I was brought to a halt with an abrupt jerk. My bars had snagged on the oversize handles of a dapper Italian’s man-bag, and the abrupt jerk in question was not happy. “Cazzo!” he swore.

“Gesundheit. And maybe tuck in your stupid handbag,” I muttered to myself when he was safely out of earshot.

There were four or five of us now riding in a loose convoy, following the course through central Rome, dodging traffic and at one point ducking erratically down several steep flights of stairs to the Tiber’s banks, before clambering back up another flight of stairs to street level a hundred metres later.

Thankfully the course soon joined a cycle path, and we were quickly whisked out of the city and delivered into the rural outskirts of Rome.

I stopped at a shop in the town of Formello around 4h in. Here I picked up a couple of yoghurts, banana, Haribo crocodiles, orange soda… a decent breakfast, although sadly lacking in carbs. It all came to €5: a pleasant change to last year’s Hope 1000, where every stop seemed to cost a minimum 20CHF.

I got chatting to another rider outside the shop, Franki Schmidt from Stuttgart, and an Italian rider who pulled up and offered us each an ice cream from his multipack. 

I rode off with Franki, chatting for a while. He’d ridden Sicily Divide the summer previous, bikepacking with friends. This was his first ultra race. As we talked, Franki casually mentioned the total distance we’d be riding was more than 800km. I did a double-take: really? The event website said 700km. 

I wasn’t convinced – surely the official website couldn’t be that wrong. But maybe this explained the early start?

Unfortunately, I hadn’t thought to ride at 150km/h for that first hour to make up the difference – if only I’d known. But, if true, this extra 20% in distance would make catching my Wednesday flight a little challenging.

Shortly before 4pm we stopped at another small shop in Monterosi. Franki bought another tin of beans. Being mostly vegan, he found it tricky to eat out in Italy – “I ask them to make pasta with beans but they say no”. Normally he would take paprika and other seasonings as part of his camp kitchen, but he’d sacrificed the spice rack this time to save weight.

You can pick up useful tips from other riders on these events. Apart from acquiring a craving for beans that would last the entire ride, Franki also left me with a nugget of info in the shape of the website OnRouteMap.de: a German site that lets you upload a GPX file, then shows you resupply points – shops, hotels etc – within a specified distance of your route.

For now, free of the burden of knowledge, I was loving the Italy Divide. Open countryside was followed by a cracking bit of singletrack through a forest before emerging into the picturesque town of Capranica.

Cobbled steps led up and into the old town, then it was onto the first serious climb of the day: a gravel track leading up into the forested hillside to the west of Lake Vico.

Franki had fallen behind on the singletrack before Capranica, and I now found myself on the heels of a pair of Italian riders, steadily closing them down as we climbed very slowly towards a summit that took forever to arrive. Near the top my front wheel hit a rock and I toppled sideways with all the finesse of a sack of spanners to the ground. The clatter alerted the pair in front to my presence; I remounted, blood trickling from my knee, and we rode on together for a bit.

I got ahead of the Italians on the next short climb, but soon after found myself running afoul of the GPX for the first time. I was in some sort of forest park, with an obvious track leading up a short climb – but the GPX on my computer distinctly showed the route as veering to the right of this track through what appeared to be a dense thicket of vines, brambles and small trees.

“Trust the GPX” has been a reliable mantra on every ultra I’ve ridden, so I forced myself into the thicket and tried to find a path through. The thicket turned into a jungle, tangled in vines and growing increasingly denser; every time i tried to follow what looked like the beginnings of a possible track it would peter out in a dead end. Eventually, frustrated after 20 minutes getting nowhere, I hacked my way back onto the track I’d originally been on. Two minutes later I was back on route, applying my new-found Italian to the GPX file. Cazzo!

It was pushing 8pm by this point and I’d still not eaten a proper meal all day. I arrived on the outskirts of Viterbo and pulled up at a small pizza takeaway that had a couple of bikes parked up outside. It was my Italian friends from earlier.

I ordered four slices of pizza and stood eating. One of the Italians asked if I wanted to ride with them – they were headed for his home town of Orvieto that night – but when I said I’d be another 20 minutes they decided to push on.

Franki pulled up just as I was finishing off my last slice. We chatted for a couple of minutes. He planned to stay in Viterbo for the night. He’d found nothing online so was going to ask around the train station for offers.

It was tempting, sort of, but we were sitting on 150km and I wanted to get a few more miles under my belt. We said our goodbyes and I headed off again into the fading light.

I didn’t make it very much further. About 20km later a steep, unpaved climb brought me through the gates of Montefiascone. I rolled through the quiet night streets, getting my bearings after a family holiday here two years ago.

I thought I’d see if there were any rooms locally on Booking.com. It was 22:30 so I didn’t hold much hope, but was surprised to find the Ristorante Albergo Dante just down the street had a room. I booked it and paid, then went to check in. A waiter taking a cigarette break offered to mind my bike in the doorway while I climbed the stairs to the dining room. The manager, when I found him, told me that the room I’d booked was not available. But he let me charge my phone and connect to wifi while walking me through the cancellation process.

“Now, where will you sleep?” he asked when it was done and refunded. I told him I’d camping kit, but he jotted down the names of a couple of hotels to try. 

I ducked into the restaurant bathroom and gave the cut on my knee a wash before leaving.

As I was leaving down the main street I passed one of the hotels the manager had suggested, the Urbano V, and thought it was worth a shot. A night warden eating oranges in front of the TV lifted himself heavily from the sofa and trudged to the reception desk.

“Ahh…una camera?” I tried. He fixed me with a baleful stare. “No,” he said flatly.

So much for plan V; but I had a plan B. We’d stayed in a rental about a mile out of town, and I recalled a bike shop at the top of the little road that led to the house. There had been a dreamy bit of waste ground nearby that seemed a discreet spot to bed down for a few hours. 

The shop was where I remembered, and alongside it a small terrace with a table and a few chairs. There was a hedge to the rear, with maybe a foot gap between it and the wall: just about the right size of nook to hide myself.

I inflated the mat and my new luxury – an Alpkit blow-up pillow – unrolled the bivy and sleeping bag, and was soon asleep.  

Day 2: Montefiascone – Siena, 207km

Inflatable pillows: the unexpected revelation of Italy Divide.

Before, I’d just stuff my seat pack with spare clothing and use it as a lumpy, often smelly, prop for my head. But an actual pillow, inflated with a single breath, will take your street sleeping game to the next level. Also gives you something to sob into if your day hasn’t gone to plan. Riding as a duo? Spice up your night with a pre-bus-shelter-nap pillow fight with your fellow racer!

Six hours later, with day breaking, I was striking camp and back on the bike headed north.

A few km out of Montefiascone the course cut off the main road down a farm track. I followed this in the early morning light, blowing on chilly fingers to warm up, then realised my GPX was saying I’d missed a turn to the right. I turned back to the top of the field, and looked where the map was guiding me: a narrow earth ditch, overgrown with wet foliage, ran along the top edge of the ploughed field – apparently this was the route?

It was completely unrideable, but I pushed the bike along on foot for a couple of minutes, then stopped and zoomed out. I remembered my experience of the day before in the jungle. Abandoning the ditch, I headed back to the farm track and followed it until it, too, degenerated into a tangle of long grass then dense bushes. A cat, busy in its hunt, fled into the undergrowth at the sight of me.

I could see from trampled swathes of grass that at least one cyclist might have recently attempted to pass – but, with brambles tearing at my down jacket and no visible path to be seen, I decided to beat a retreat. I could see from my bike computer that I was very close to a road, and that the route followed this road, so I decided to cut my losses and retrace.

Heading back the way I’d come along the farm track, I met a fellow bikepacker and waved as we passed each other.

Rolling along, I remembered the oath we’d had to swear on signing up, not to share the Italy Divide route with anyone. I laughed to myself; maybe the route was in fact so secret that Giacomo didn’t even fully divulge it to participants.

Back on the road, it was a few km of smooth tarmac before I came to the junction where I’d abandoned the course some 40 minutes earlier. I couldn’t have been more than 50 metres from the road when I’d turned back. What a waste of time, but I shrugged it off: like the cat, I was now on the hunt for breakfast.

Not long after I reached the small town of Bagnoregio. This had been another day trip on our Montefiascone holiday. The Civita di Bagnioregio is a spectacular old town perched on top of a rocky outcrop accessible only via a long causeway. Unfortunately the route didn’t detour to the citadel, but I made do with a breakfast stop in the village bakery.

I rolled on, under blue skies and picturesque farm tracks, until at 9:30 I finally reached Orvieto at the 212km mark. I wondered if the Italian duo from the day before had made it this far before stopping for the night; probably yes, I guessed. With local knowledge and the spur of home comforts awaiting, the 40km from Montefiascone would have passed a lot faster.

Orvieto is another impressive walled hilltop town, looming over the valley below. The climb to the town is a forbiddingly steep one and this set the tone for the day, which was essentially a rollercoaster of ever-prettier hilltop towns, connected by dusty stretches of remote strade bianche.

I didn’t dally in Orvieto and cracked on without stopping, but it turned out to be a long and hard stretch – much of it off-road – until the next town. I was out of water and hungry by the time Radicofano appeared like a mirage on the horizon.

I was almost there when I spotted a tap by the side of the track, and a woman sitting next to it. We got chatting while I filled my bottles. I’d not seen another cyclist since that fleeting fly-by outside Montefiascone, so it was nice to speak to someone other than myself.

It turned out Francine was a pilgrim from Amsterdam. She was hiking the Via Francigena in reverse – from Rome to Luca. (The official end point is Canterbury, but, as she observed ruefully, work and her husband would only permit her three weeks off.)

I’d spotted a few signs for the Via Francigena while cycling, it seems the Italy Divide route overlaps the path in this region. Radicofani was her destination for the day; we were both looking forward to lunch – and, in her case at least, a glass of wine – so I rode on up the final stretch of climb to enter the town.

I stopped at the first square I came to, which had a single open restaurant with some tables outside. The young waiter warned me it might be 20 minutes, but I couldn’t see any other options so sat down under a parasol to rest and wait.

Time ticked by, eventually the waiter returned; I tried to order a pizza. Pizza was not available on the lunch menu. I was offered some pasta instead – the local speciality, pici: “like spaghetti but fatter,” he explained, with a garlic sauce.

I was still waiting for my food when Francine, my pilgrim friend, appeared. She took a seat at the next table and we picked up the conversation. She asked where I was heading to that day, and after a look at the route I guessed maybe Buonconvento? I had no idea how far away that was, it just seemed around half as far again as I’d travelled so far.

“Buonconvento! I will be there in, let’s see… “ Francine counted the days mentally. A pilgrim’s progress is a lot faster by bike.

Bikepacking Tips: Never eat anywhere that has proper table linen. The service will be slow, portions small, prices high – and you’re under-dressed.

Also operating at a leisurely pace was the restaurant kitchen. Finally, an hour after I’d arrived in town, my food appeared: a tiny bowl of what did indeed appear to be fat spaghetti dredged in a garlicky tomato sauce.

I disappeared it in about three bites – “Hey pesto!” – exchanged well wishes with Francine, and was off.

Oh yes – as I was packing up the bike, my roomie from Rome, Michael, appeared in the square. He looked a bit the worse for heat and didn’t hang about to chat; when I looked up again he’d disappeared somewhere, presumably in search of a cold drink and thimbleful of spaghetti.

For myself, I was feeling well refreshed after the stop – as much for the chat as for the snifter of pasta – and felt good. We were now in the beautiful rolling green countryside of Tuscany, and progress was rapid and scenic on the region’s classic white gravel roads.

An hour and a half later I reached Pienza. I was starting to run out of fresh wows for gorgeous old hilltop towns with main streets thick with tourists. I stopped for a toasted sandwich and gelato and watched as people ambled past the many enticing shops. I was so happy to be on a bike, just passing through – this is much more my idea of a holiday.

“Keep on the tear and you won’t have a care,” as an old traveller song goes. Like van-lifers or boat people, I suspect most bikepackers suffer from wanderlust: a restless spirit that mandates the occasional quest like this to ward off twitchiness.

As is the way, the exit from Pienza was a bumpy, high-speed affair as the route delivered us down a steep chute and hurtling back into the countryside.

It was late afternoon, and after a short stretch of tarmac highway the course turned left onto a primo ribbon of the white stuff. Earlier in the day, cyclists and pilgrims had these gravel roads to ourselves, but this track seemed firmly on the tourist trail: a dozen or so cars were parked by the verge with people lined up taking golden hour photos of the countryside and Pienza, resplendent on its hill, in the background.

It was 7:30pm and cooling nicely when I reached Buonconvento (343km). The town seemed more modern, less picturesque than others I’d passed through that day. In any case, I wasn’t inclined to stop for the day yet. Could I push on for Siena, I wondered? I found a hotel in the centre of town on Booking.com and made a reservation.

Jacket and lights on, I pressed onwards. The track was more of that fine dusty gravel, rolling but no major climbs. About 40km and 2.5 hours I hit the outskirts of Siena.

I was fully expecting to be routed into town up Via Santa Catarina – the decisive final climb in the Strade Bianche classic – but we approached from the east instead, spared the 14% gradients.

Siena is an enchanting city, ancient and crackling with life even at 10:30pm. As I rolled through the dark streets towards my hotel I could not resist stopping at a couple of eateries. Laden with takeaway bags, and already stuffing my face with incredible pizza from a place right on the corner of Piazza del Campo, Siena’s iconic heart, I found my hotel and was met at the door.

I dumped my bike in the cellar and followed the friendly owner up about a dozen flights of stairs to the very top and my room, magnificently decorated in Giro-pink stickers and curtains. I showered and hopped into bed. Luxury. 208km done; it had been a very decent day.

Day 3: Siena – Burzanella, 184km

One of Giacomo’s parting words at Fiumicino (the only part I’d caught, anyway), had been a warning to avoid riding the Apennines alone at night. Something about remote with long distances between resupply.

I didn’t have any idea where exactly the Appenines were going to kick in, but assumed they were still to come. Sure enough, this is the day I’d discover why some people might choose a MTB instead of gravel bike.

I was packed up and rolling out of Siena by around 6:30am. There’d been no sign of breakfast at the hotel – it was more of a BYOB sort of place – but I was still full after my midnight feast, and happy to get a few km done before stopping for a coffee.

It was a beautiful morning’s cycling. We were now in Chianti country, and the route climbed through vineyards either side like heads of neatly combed green hair. It was steep going; on one rough cobbled climb, a small bird crashed with a soft feathery floomp into my throat as I laboured up a tree-lined track. After a few seconds panting on the track, it flew off, dipping erratically as it disappeared into the vineyards.

I’d imagined I was climbing into remote mountainside, so it was a surprise when the farm track emerged into a neatly kept village square a few hundred metres later. A lemon tree in a large earthen pot sat outside what looked like a well-kept vineyard restaurant; all was quiet at this early hour.

It was three and a half hours, around 10am, before I finally entered a town with signs of life (ie coffee). Greve in Chianti had a large central square lined on one side with a colonnade of shops. A local pointed me to the cafe, where I ordered a cappuccino and one of their exquisite NSFW display of pastries.

The next major port of call was Florence, but there was plenty of riding to be done before then – and, as the morning turned into afternoon, my appreciation of Giacomo’s route increased. There was some proper off-road stuff here, including some hike-a-bike up smooth rock slabs and dry mud tracks which I was grateful to be encountering after a spell of dry weather.

Rain was forecast for the next day, and I could easily imagine how much slower this section would be if the packed earth turned to mud. I trudged along, alone apart from a cuckoo calling in the woods.

Florence, when it arrived, was a bit of an anti-climax. I think I’d been rewilded and was done with cities for now. The approach was beautiful, looking down over the rooftops at the famous duomo, but any thoughts I’d had of stopping to take in the sights were quickly quashed: after a brief glimpse of the town centre the route was already funnelling us out, northwest along the river Arno via a dusty-feeling park and into the suburbs.

It was late lunchtime now. More out of duty than hunger I stopped at a rundown little corner cafe and took an ice cream to eat in the midday sun. What felt like a five-minute pit stop turned into 20 minutes.

An hour later I was stopping again when a fellow rider – the first I’d spoken to since day one – invited me for an ice cream. Roberto was from Parma and had ridden the Divide a couple of times before. He was busy on his phone while we finished our ice creams (proper gelato this time), liaising with his girlfriend about weather and accommodation options for the night ahead.

“A storm – tempesto – is coming tonight,” he informed me. He shook his head ruefully. “Apennino… tempesto… disastro!”

We were about to enter the mountains, with two big climbs ahead. But Roberto didn’t fancy tackling them in a storm. He outlined two options: one was to stay at a rifugio located halfway up the second climb; the other was to stay overnight in the town of Vernio, located after the descent of the first climb and right before the second climb began.

Roberto’s DS was feeding him intel: apparently the rifugio was closed, so his course was settled: “We stay in Vernio,” he told me.

It still seemed a bit early in the day to be thinking of stopping, but with no idea of what lay ahead I’d play it by ear. We rode on together, and soon hit a steep road climb. I’d swapped in a 10-44 cassette before the trip, paired with my 38T chainring, and was quickly in my bottom gear. Roberto on his mountain bike had easier but slower gearing, and he dropped behind as the climb twisted and doubled back on itself. When the route turned off the road onto a gravel track I stopped to wait, and had just about straightened out my face by the time Roberto cruised serenely into view.

The opening section was pretty rocky, mainly a steep singletrack path through overgrown woodland. It was the sort of thing you could possibly ride on a MTB, if you were just out for a few hours – but on a loaded gravel bike, after a couple day’s bikepacking, I was on foot and pushing for a lot of it.

Roberto and I exchanged places at the front as we climbed: sometimes I’d get ahead on a rideable section, only for him to catch me up when I dismounted. After a while – we had passed the summit, though I didn’t realise it – I stopped in a clearing to eat something and pump up my back tyre, which was slowly losing pressure all day. I waved Roberto on when he appeared, and set off maybe 5-10 minutes behind him.

The climb topped out around 930m. It had taken us 3h with plenty of hiking, but the reward was a 15km descent which I polished off in 40 minutes. It was now approaching 8:00 in the evening, dusk, and I was expecting to reach Vernio any minute for dinner and a decision on whether to stay or press on.

While I was thinking of a big plate of pasta, the road started to climb and next thing I was halfway up another set of switchbacks. I pulled over to consult the map. Ah. The route didn’t actually pass through Vernio, the town being situated maybe 1km off the course at the bottom of the valley I’d just climbed out of. 

I looked at the sky: it was a mild evening, a bit cloudy, but all seemed calm, no sign of tempesto disastro. I could see another town, Cavarzano, was coming up so decided to push on. It wasn’t quite dark, I felt relatively fresh and it would be good to get over these mountains today if possible.

Cavarzano when I reached it was smaller than expected. The course guided me off the road and up an impossibly steep rough cement path into the village via a beautiful mural of a Palestinian Bedouin crouched amid the ruins of his homeland. Pushing my bike on into the village, everything seemed eerily deserted. I asked the only person I could see if there were any restaurants around?

Everything was closed; but he pointed out the water pump. While I was filling my bottles, a second man approached with good English and we chatted briefly; I told him I’d come from Rome and was headed for Lake Garda. They raised their eyebrows when I said I was pushing on into the mountains tonight.

“Coraggio!” He pointed out the site of the rifugio, marked by a distant light in the gloaming on the darkly wooded mountainside across the valley. I zipped up my jacket and rolled out into the last of the light.

My phone map suggested the rifugio was in fact located some distance off the course, so unless it was an emergency it didn’t make sense to detour to it. I pressed on up the climb instead, now in pitch darkness apart from the light of my trusty Son Ladelux and Petzl headlamp, and was soon trudging up a rocky trail.

A snorting ahead, and three wild piglets barrelled across the track in front of me and plunged into the forest. A few seconds later I saw mama pig, a muscular black keg of a beast, crash into the bushes after her hoglets. I wouldn’t fancy getting between that and wherever she wanted to go.

Alone in the Apennines at night, my thoughts turned to other wildlife that might be lurking in the woods. I was pretty sure there were wolves in the wilder corners of Italy. What else… bears? I began talking aloud to myself, recounting the kids’ favourite bedtime story about the Black Pig. Hopefully it would lull any watchful eyes in the darkness to sleep… 

The climb is only 12km, but it took me two hours – much of it on foot. It’s hard to know whether it’s worth pressing on in the night, especially off-road, given that progress can be so much slower. But 6km/h is still faster than 0km/h in a hotel bedroom. There is a psychological boost from keeping on moving, and besides there’s something magical about traveling by night. Encounters with wildlife – alongside the boar I also spotted a hare skipping along the path at dawn – are just one of the bonuses bestowed on travellers outside of regular business hours.

I got over the climb without any drama, and was relieved when the track turned downhill again. Descending from 1115m, it was cool but not cold and there was still no sign of rain, let alone Roberto’s tempesto. Approaching midnight I paused by a lake; a camper van was parked up, in what looked like an amenity area – albeit the only amenity was a single streetlight.

Rashly I used my second and final CO2 cartridge to top up my back tyre under the light, then rolled on looking for somewhere to crash for the night.

On the outskirts of a village called Burzanella I came to a lone house near a fork in the road. To the side of the house was a logpile on a small patch of concrete. There would be no shelter from the rain if it arrived; but it was late and I was ready for a rest. As I lay down in my bivy bag I could hear the scritch, scritch of termites chewing on the firewood next to my ear. Pulling my head inside the bag to avoid being mistaken for the dessert course, I fell asleep.

Day 4: Burzanella – Verona, 214km

This was right up there with my toughest days on a bike: the sort where you begin to question your holiday choices.

Tuesday started shortly after 4:00am with an alarm call of rain drops plopping on my face. I tried to ignore it and go back to sleep, but the drops grew heavier and more persistent. I scrambled out of my makeshift bed and stuffed my mat, sleeping bag and bivy into the saddle bag as quickly as I could as the rain got heavier. Bizarrely I found myself mentally narrating the entire process in the style of a detached TV drama voiceover, before telling myself to shut up and get a move on.

It was still dark when I rolled off along the hard-packed gravel track. Unfortunately in the four hours I’d been stopped, my back tyre had gone soft again so I stopped by the next house under a hedge to pump it up. As I mounted up I saw a headlamp appearing in the dark, and another rider pulled alongside.

It was another Italy Divide rider, of course, who introduced himself as Štěpán “Wolfman” Stránský, a Czech. He was riding the XL distance.

Our conversation was entertaining but surreal. He asked what my name meant, and when I gave him the gist (from Irish mythology, son of the giant Finn MacCool) he replied that he had been having visions of my father. He went on to tell me about the elemental giants he’d been hallucinating – it emerged that he’d been riding on around 40 minutes sleep per day since Bari. This explained a lot, I thought.

The route had taken us onto a muddy track at this point and he volunteered a few pointers on how to cycle on mud, explaining the technique was similar to snow: you have to pedal through the complete circle. “I only say because it looks like you have muscles to pedal,” he added, kindly.

Then, watching me unclip after failing to apply his teaching: “Hmm, you might find the alpine sections difficult,” he mused as if to himself. There was no edge or slight in his tone, it was simply an observation and I accepted it in that spirit – forewarned is forearmed.

The Wolfman powered ahead, having left me with plenty to mull over after our brief chat. But soon after, as I entered a small village who did I see but my trippy friend – standing at the roadside, arms outstretched, holding out a hot drink and a croissant.

“Take it!” he beamed as I pulled over. I rubbed my eyes and took his offering; the croissant was half eaten and it took me a moment to realise this was his breakfast. I ate the croissant anyway, but gave him back his hot milk and we went into the cafe together for a quick breakfast standing at the counter.

A couple of early-bird patrons quietly took stock of our dishevelled presence; I distinctly heard one comment on our “profumo” to his friend and self-consciously zipped up my jacket over the damp merino base I’d slept in.

We chatted as we ate, Wolfman telling me that he is an ultra cycling coach, and also runs a bikepacking event in his native Czechia – called The Wolfman, of course. We also spoke about the state of ultra racing, a hot topic after the controversy at this year’s Traka. Cheating is rife, he said – of all kinds, from course cutting, to outside support, to doping – but organisers are unable or unwilling to drugs test riders. Riders with some military experience, where use of “go pills” is not unheard of, seem to adapt particularly well to ultra cycling, he had noticed. He himself had experimented on going without sleep and could manage two days, but not three – and that was just in normal life, not cycling around the clock. 

I called, with some guilt, for a second hit of espresso, and after filling up my water bottle we rode out together into the overcast early morning light.

It was a nice stretch of smooth tarmac, but less than 15 minutes later the first disastro struck. I heard a metallic rattling from my front wheel, and pulled over for a look as Wolfman disappeared, oblivious around the corner. The problem was quickly identified: my front brake rotor had sheared in two, leaving an outer ring totally separated and rattling around the axle.

I had replaced my brake pads before the trip, which I’d been congratulating myself on (I’m seldom that well prepared). But apparently the new pads were made of some sort of kryptonite that had chewed through my weight-weenie rotor in record time. This was a problem.

Since I was stopped anyway, I decided to sort out my leaky back tyre at the same time. I popped off the tyre along one side of the rim and started to fit the inner tube I’d brought along. This was when the second problem manifested: I had taken a MTB tube, and the valve stem was about 0.5cm too short for my gravel rim. Try as I might, I couldn’t get the pump head to clamp onto the valve to inflate the tyre. 

I paused to assess the situation. I now had one brake (rear) and one wheel (front). It was 7:45am, and raining. I was somewhere in the Apennines, 260km from the finish. Things weren’t looking good.

I pulled out my phone, on 5% battery, and typed “bike shop” into Google Maps. I was already half resigned to scratching, but amazingly, it turned out there was a bike shop not far away: well, relatively – just 8.5km off the course, in a town called Vergato. Wiping the rain off my phone and plugging it into my power bank to recharge, I set off on foot.

Vergato turned out to be located in a valley down a very steep and long hill. Over the course of the hour-long walk, I mused on many things – including the possibility that the “bike shop” would turn out to be a motorbike rental centre – and then, realising I’d have to climb this endless hill to rejoin the course, half wishing this would be the case.

I reached Mezzini Bike Center just as it was opening, and conveyed my “due problemo” to the proprietor. He listened, nodded, then proceeded to wheel a dozen bikes out of his shop into a gazebo that he erected on his forecourt.

That done, he turned his attention to his early-morning customer. First the rotor: I was given a choice of two options, one priced €30 and one at €104. We both laughed at the very idea, and he took my wheel to fit the non-crazy price disc.

Next, the tyre. While Mr Mezzini carefully cleaned and prepped the rim, I browsed the well-stocked shop and picked up a couple of spare co2 canisters and a bottle of chain wax. From a back room I heard the sound of a compressor hissing, and soon he emerged with my wheel, the tyre pumped up to a rock-solid 2000psi.

The bill came to €72 including €20 labour, and Mr Mezzini even rounded it down to €70 for me – an absolute gent. His shop is a bit of a detour from the route, but if you find yourself needing mechanical assistance it’s a lifesaver.

I rolled out of town and back up the long climb to rejoin the course. I’d lost almost four hours, but that didn’t matter: the ride was saved, and I was delighted to be moving again.

The course now led up a green mountainside and I stopped by an information board and large iron cross overlooking the valleys below. The board, I read, commemorated the 1944 Monte Sole massacre, when Nazi German forces killed some 770 local civilians in the space of a few days between 29 September and 5 October. It put my morning into perspective.

If I tell you the next 8km took two hours, that’s only half the story. Scrambling along a muddy ribbon of precipitous singletrack, blocked in several parts by significant rockslides, and in others by unfeasibly large snails, it was mostly unrideable.

And then I hit the mud.

I’d heard about peanut butter mud before, but this was my first experience of it. Inescapable, it instantly rendered the bike immobile as heavy dollops of sticky clay piled up around the chain and seatstays, front fork and everywhere else. Progress was reduced to a standstill as I had to stop every few steps to clear massive handfuls of mud from every crevice of the bike: I couldn’t even wheel the bike along, as the mud jammed the wheels fast, and had to carry it instead which was tricky in shoes that quickly gained several kilos in weight. I was out of water too, so couldn’t even resort to my bottle to attempt to clean the bike.

At last I emerged onto a gravel track and after a final wipe down of the tyres using handfuls of grass, I was rolling again.

Joy was short-lived. Ten minutes later, on a muddy and rutted descent, came the icing on the cake. I lost control of the front wheel, turned it sideways into the centre ridge, and before I could blink found myself somersaulting over the bars and landing with a cracking thump on the track.

I lay there on my back, staring up at the overcast sky, trying to work out if I was alive or dead. I wiggled fingers and toes… movement, good. Numb in my lower back and hip. But I could stand. No cuts. I’d landed so heavily that my last gel had exploded in my jersey pocket, leaving a sticky mess across my back.

The stupid bike was of course totally fine. I got back on it and started pedalling. Maybe I should have taken the hint earlier with those mechanicals? I quickly shut down that line of thought. 

In normal life I’m an incurable procrastinator, but bikepacking requires an endless series of small decisions. It’s fascinating to watch as each decision cascades into a consequence – often unexpected, occasionally disastrous – which in turn presents the next decision. One of the addictive thrills of ultra cycling is seeing the story you’re writing unfold in front of you like a Choose Your Own Adventure book.

At this exact moment I wasn’t thrilled with plot developments, but there’s no flipping back to the previous page. On the plus side, it’s Italy: every chapter has pizza, gelato, coffee…you just have to keep going.

I’d done the bare minimum of research ahead of Italy Divide (to help enhance the adventure of course), but I did know that the next major town was Bologna. I’d not eaten a hot meal since the street pizza in Siena on Sunday night, and all I wanted now was some spaghetti bolognese in Bologna.

Oh, and some water. But, try as I might, I didn’t spot a single tap or shop for the next two hours as the course followed a high, rolling road through the lush countryside of Emilia Romagna.

A magnificently grand colonnade, on a scale that screams “royal vanity project”, runs all the way from the hillside overlooking Bologna into the city centre, offering residents a covered walkway into town. I followed it down the hill until I came to the Stadio Renato Dall’Ara, home of Bologna FC, with its distinctive brick tower (England fans may recall David Platt’s winning goal against Belgium was scored here at Italia 90 World Cup). 

I trundled into the town centre, clothes and bike still crusted in drying mud, trying to sniff out some pasta. It was around 3pm, a little late for lunch, so I settled for a pizza place in a central square and ordered a couple of slices. At the table outside, I ate and checked the tracker. As far as I could tell, my morning’s misadventures hadn’t cost me too dearly: I’d worked out I was in 4th place the previous evening, and now looked to be 5th or 6th.

Two riders on the Origins distance were a long way in front and closing in on the finish, as were a couple of the Classic and XL leaders. Behind us, a long tail of riders across all three routes were strung out for hundreds of km down through Italy as far back as Rome.

I sent a quick message to Daniele, my friend from Veneto Trail, and his family who live not far from Bologna in Reggio Emilia. He quickly messaged back, with good news: “Now a nice stretch of plain awaits you, so you can rest” … followed, a few minutes later, by a warning that a long climb awaited after Verona, “so try to recover your strength”.

He was 100% right on both counts. Before leaving town, I ducked into a cafe for a quick espresso and piece of cake, then set about the “recovery leg” of the ride. My goal was to make Verona that night.

On the outskirts of town, I pulled up at a traffic light behind another bikepacker. He looked over his shoulder, not seeming too thrilled to find me there, but we got talking and when I said I was on the Origins route he relaxed. 

Sebastian, from Hannover, was on the Classic route and we ended up riding together for the rest of that day, covering 130km to Verona. We barely stopped – and mainly just so I could pick up a kebab in Poggio Rusco. I felt a little guilty as the stop ended up taking 50 minutes, with Sebastian waiting patiently outside before eventually ordering some chicken nuggets for himself.

We rode side by side for the most part, chatting. I tried out my vestigial German – the phrase “bezondere grosser Schnecken” (exceptionally large snails) – came to mind, amusing us both as we recalled the muddy trails from that morning.

Dusk turned into night, the trail taking us along mysterious watery banks with loud splashes either side as our presence prompted panicky retreats of wildlife unknown. I guessed hippos, Sebastian reckoned beavers – there were definitely a few fowl on the scene too, but in the dark it was guesswork.

While eating that kebab (probably the second best meal of the entire ride, incidentally), I’d been looking up sleeping options in Verona. My hip was still stiff and numb, and I didn’t fancy a night on the ground if I could avoid it. I found a cheap Airbnb in Verona, close to the route and mentioned it as an option to Sebastian. At one point in the dark we paused at a junction, confirmed the booking and took photos of our passports by the light of our head torches to WhatsApp to the owner.

The mission now was to reach Verona in time for last orders at the McDonalds. It closed at 1am; we still had 60km to ride, mostly flat but on a mix of surfaces and into a light headwind. It was going to be tight.

The km ticked down and at last, with the clock showing 12:45am, we entered fair Verona – sprinting past another bikepacker at the outskirts of town – and clattered into McDonalds just in time to place our orders at the counter.

“I have put an extra sandwich for you,” the server confided with a sympathetic smile, handing me a large paper bag. It was only at the table outside I realised I’d had my head torch on the entire time: talk about dazzling the girls. Still, the bonus burger was very welcome and I stashed it in my bag for later.

Wrapped in jackets, we polished off our midnight feast then stopped for a quick photo at the town’s ancient arena. I’d been in Verona with the family over Easter, and felt a rush of nostalgia for home and the kids seeing the familiar streets and restaurants, now shuttered for the night, where we’d wandered just a few weeks earlier.

The town was deserted now and we flew along the empty roads to our Airbnb, made our way in using the key safe, and took turns in the shower. 

It was 3:30am by the time I finally got to sleep, but not before I managed to put the perfect seal on my day. I’d made myself a cup of tea in the kitchen, adding a spoonful of sugar from a jar on the counter.

Settled in bed, I reached for the cup and took a sip… and realised it wasn’t sugar I’d put in my tea, but salt.

Day 5: Verona – Torbole, 97km

Sebastian and I had loosely agreed on a departure time around 7am. When I woke at 6:30, rain was bouncing off the windows. And, when I went to the bathroom, I pushed open the door to find a woman at the sink. Apologising as I retreated, I went back to my room. With our late arrival I hadn’t realised we weren’t the only guests in the place, but it turned out a young couple were in the third bedroom – and hogging the bathroom as they prepared to leave.

When they finally vacated, I brewed a coffee on the stove and watched the rain pouring down from the balcony. Sebastian was responding at long intervals on WhatsApp and I guessed he was snoozing between replies. I whiled away the time looking up flights for the following day – I was going to miss my original flight home that afternoon, and I put in an application with my ever-patient wife for an extra day to complete the ride.

The night before, I’d been in two minds over whether I could continue at all. I’d woken up stiff and sore but could bear weight on the injured side, even if mounting the bike involved holding it at an extreme angle so I could swing my leg over.

Despite the rain I was keen to make a move, not least as I resented having got up after three hours sleep only to hang about an apartment. But, it was probably the right call; by the time Sebastian emerged it was almost 9:00am, the rain was easing, and we set off out of town on wet streets amid busy morning traffic for the final leg of the ride.

The final stretch of Italy Divide, from Verona to the finish in Torbole on the northern tip of Lake Garda, is about 98km in length. But the first 40km of this is basically an extended mixed-terrain climb/hike with an elevation gain of 1600m. There are flat sections and brief descents along the way of course, it’s not all climbing, but just that 40km was to take us about six hours.

We rode the first section together, occasionally one or other of us pulling ahead depending on whose bike and strengths/energy levels were better suited to the terrain at hand. It was a real variety pack, with everything from steep hike-a-bike through dripping jungle trails to tarmac roads, rough gravel farm tracks, the full tasting menu.

Whenever the going got rough Sebastian would pull ahead, and at one point I found myself entering a mountain village on my own. Rude not to have a last pastry, I thought – and when the next shop along turned out to be a cafe, I had to stop there also for an espresso.

A difficult section of rough, desolate mountain hiking in wet and misty conditions followed, and I imagined after my coffee break and general leisurely progress that I would not be seeing Sebastian until Torbole – so I was delighted when, near the summit of Monte Tomba, I emerged onto a wide gravel piste and found him standing by a water trough refilling his bottles.

We’d barely exchanged a hello when the clouds suddenly descended and a sheet of rain swept in. I leapt on the bike and fled, abandoning Sebastian to his fate – at 1700m it was freezing with drifts of icy winter slush still lurking in hollows. I had no gloves or time to go digging for extra layers; already my hands were numb with cold. The rain turned to stinging hail as the exposed track traversed the mountain top, no refuge to be found. I kept my head down and pedalled like mad, my only thought to get off the mountain and descend to shelter.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the storm passed. The wind dropped, the hail stopped, the sun came out and birds resumed their song from the alpine meadows. I pulled up and waited for Sebastian who soon appeared around the corner. We rode on together, shaking our heads at the crazy tempesto.

Down we went at last, through meadows of long grass that soaked our legs and socks; down, along rocky switchbacks until finally we hit tarmac, and swept down a series of endless hairpins, each bend offering dazzling views of Lake Garda spread out far below.

I generally find descending – even on tarmac – nerve-wracking and would rather climb a mountain than go down it, so it was with aching hands and considerable relief that I reached the shores of the lake below and found the road levelling off. We stopped for one last resupply in a roadside supermarket – I finally found a tin of beans I’d been hunting since Franki on day 1 – and made ourselves a picnic on the street outside. 

“There’s a rider just behind us,” I noted to Sebastian, looking at the tracker. “One of mine,” I added, noting the “OR” next to the name Roberto.

“Good,” replied Sebastian; “If it was one of mine I would have to leave right now.” He was smiling but I knew he wasn’t joking.

We saddled up – I didn’t fancy being overtaken at this point either, even if it had felt anything but a competitive affair. I wondered if the pursuing rider was the same “tempesto disastro” Roberto who’d stopped in Vernio, but the rider in front of us was also a Roberto so I couldn’t be sure.

We put our heads down and polished off the final 20km of the route along a smooth cycleway through sun-kissed vineyards along the lake’s edge all the way to Torbole. Here we stopped at last for a quick photo – the setting, with craggy mountains sweeping down to the water’s edge, is stunningly beautiful – before riding the final couple of km to the finish at Bike Farm.

Finale

The finish of an ultra can feel anti-climactic. But, as these things go, this was a good one: it was late afternoon, and the organiser, Giacomo, was on hand to welcome us. Two or three other riders were there, and I shook hands with my breakfast buddy Stepan the Wolfman, now looking refreshed but just as intensely focused as I remembered him from the previous morning. He had won the 1650km XL distance, having set off two days earlier than my contingent and riding an extra 800km. A phenomenal performance.

Sebastian enquired how many riders had finished the Classic distance, and Giacomo ran a hand through his hair thoughtfully. “Markus… Laurens? Yes, that is all.” 

That put Sebastian in third spot: hugely impressive. Especially as “Laurens” turned out to be former Dutch pro Laurens ten Dam, with a top 10 overall in the Tour de France on his palmares.

My finish time was 4 Days, 9h, 26m (59:41h moving time; 105:26h elapsed). I didn’t ask how many had finished the Origins distance, but knew that at least two riders had finished the afternoon before, and maybe 2-3 more earlier today.

The Whip.Live tracking app used for the event was good, but a little less robust than other systems in that participants weren’t compelled to keep their tracking on throughout – Sebastian had only turned his on after leaving Verona, for example.

Matters were further complicated by the fact that quite a few riders scratched and took trains to the finish, but still appeared on the tracking page as live racers. A father and his two sons, from Germany, arrived at the campsite not long after us having done just that before the Apennines, and later that evening another German cyclist arrived having also taken a train to skip the final 100km over the mountains.

Sebastian and I sat at a table chatting to the new arrivals while I polished off the last of my food stash: the “emergency sandwich” from Verona McDonalds, my Franki-feast of borlotti beans, a can of Coke from the kebab place, washed down with a draught beer poured by Giacomo.

Roberto – of tempesto fame – rolled into camp an hour behind us and we congratulated each other before he left with his girlfriend. I finally booked my flight for the next day from Milan Bergamo, and after introducing us to the camp donkey, Oliver and showing us the shower (a hosepipe in a small tent) and where Sebastian could pitch his tent, Giacomo drove us into Torbole for pizza.

We chatted over dinner and Giacomo, though busy on his phone tracking progress of riders and other admin, told us a little about how the event had come about. He’d come up with the concept for the Italy Divide after riding the Tour Divide in the US, and got in touch with a few of the big names in the ultra scene to help promote his new event.

Jay Petervary rang him back the next day, asking for $10,000, flights to Italy and accommodation for three weeks. 

“Jay, I have no sponsors, I only have my own money,” Giacomo explained. “You’re crazy,” was Jay’s response. But he came over anyway, and helped spread the word about this new bikepacking race across Italy.

Back at the campsite, it was time to pack away my filthy bike. My sleeping quarters for the night was the storage room where all the riders’ bike boxes were stowed awaiting their arrival: there were a few dozen of them alongside my own, taking up one half of the room.

I chatted with Sebastian while I packed up – he was headed to France the next day for a couple of weeks cycling, before flying across the Atlantic to line up at the start of the Tour Divide. Finally it was time to roll out my bivy for a last sleep before an early departure in the morning.

The trip to the airport is another story – starting with a frantic 6:00am, 2.5km sprint down the main road, bike case in tow, to the bus stop. But this report is long enough already.

Italy Divide: the verdict

I would 100% recommend the Italy Divide to anyone. It’s a spectacular route – Giacomo is rightly protective of his work. While it’s certainly challenging in parts, you’re never too far from a pizza or an espresso (and the wolves are shy), making it relatively accessible if you’re new to bikepacking or ultra racing.

My only criticism – can you guess – is around the event comms. The Origins route is nearly 150km longer than advertised and that’s a pretty scandalous fail.

True, if I’d done my preparation better, and totted up the distances of each GPX file – and confirmed there was no overlap between files – I would have realised this for myself. But we were only given the GPX files on 31 March, a month before the event, so many riders (including myself) would already have made travel arrangements on the basis of the 700km distance.

Speaking of GPX, the files could also use tidying up a in a few places to avoid a couple of frustrating detours off course. I have a ropey sense of direction at the best of times, but being gaslit by a flaky GPX file while sleep deprived doesn’t enhance anyone’s enjoyment of an event.

When a route is as packed with wonders as this one though, all can be forgiven. In fact, my real objection would be that – despite being 20% longer than advertised – the Italy Divide is not long enough.

Torbole is a spectacular endpoint, but it seems a shame to finish right on the fringes of the Dolomites. Having ridden Veneto Trail a couple of times, I feel the event is maybe missing a trick by not extending the route further into the stunning mountains of far northern Italy.

Make it longer please, Giacomo – just don’t forget to update the website with the correct distance!

Bike and kit

Was a gravel bike the right choice? For the first two days, I was absolutely happy on the Topstone. But the course gets increasingly technical as first the Apennines and then the final section through Monte Tomba ramp up the difficulty by several notches.

I didn’t so much miss the MTB gearing, and the 50mm Schwalbe RS-Pro tyres were mostly fine – but, on balance, front suspension at least would justify the weight penalty. Two weeks later the palm and fingers of my left hand still have numb spots from the battering they took on rougher sections. I don’t think I’d have been faster on my hardtail, but I could definitely have ridden a bit more and pushed a bit less. I’d have been more comfortable – and, who knows, possibly avoided the fall too.

I was generally happy with kit selection. OK, apart from the brake pads, and the wrong inner tube for my wheel: that was almost a ride-ending error. I didn’t need the merino arm and leg warmers I’d brought, but no regrets there. The drone I’d brought refused to fly the one time I tried it, and ended up being a waste of space in my backpack for the entire ride, but these things happen.

The Coros Dura performed really well. This was my first trip with it (having switched from the Hammerhead Karoo 3). The navigation is only slightly less impressive than the flawless Karoo – at some points it wasn’t possible to zoom in enough to the map – but the outstanding battery life more than compensates. I plugged it in for a couple of hours on Day 4 with the battery around 25%, but I’m pretty sure I could have gone the entire ride without charging at all if necessary.

It was also my first trip with the Son Ladelux dynamo light. Very happy with it, though I’d like to maybe mount it a little higher (or adjust the tilt) as I felt some of the beam was being lost on the front tyre. Being able to charge devices directly off the light was a luxury and means I don’t need to carry a separate B&M USB-Werk charger in future.

Would I do Italy Divide again? Absolutely. I think I’d try the Classic route if time allowed, and I’d probably bring a MTB. Italy is just a treat on every level, and Giacomo’s route is a “greatest hits” of some of its best bits.

Whether you prepare to the nth degree, wing it all the way – or, like me, fall somewhere in between – one thing is guaranteed: you’re in for a beautiful adventure. 

Find out more: www.italydivide.it