Stella Alpina Rally
"Because it’s there". Mountaineers use this reply when asked why they risk life and limb just to get higher than anyone else. I’m sure if you asked any of the hundreds of riders who annually attend the Stella Alpina Rally why they do it you would get the same answer. If riding your pride and joy up nine miles of rubble strewn mountain path doesn’t appeal to you then hit the back button, but if it does then read on. Bardonecchia is a small Italian town a couple of miles over the French border. In winter it is a reasonably up-market ski resort, but during the summer months it has the air of any other frontier town, the main activity centered around the railway station as trains arriving via the Frejus tunnel pause before continuing their journey into Italy. However for one weekend every July all this changes as motorcyclists from oil over Europe converge for what is Europe’s, if not the worlds, highest rally.
Organization is remarkably absent, no pre-booking,
no boring old farts telling people not to enjoy themselves, just a
small office opposite the Railway station where you can sign-in if
you want. Hotel rooms are available reasonably easily and an area is
usually set aside for tents although camping is tolerated on pretty
well any flat piece of land in or around the town. A word of warning
to would-be campers, this may be mid-summer but Bardonecchia is
situated at over 4000 ft. and gets bloody cold at night so a good
sleeping bag, a good partner and a good bottle (buy brandy in France;
the Italian stuff dissolves aluminium) is an asset.
All this is jolly good fun, but things start to get
serious on the Sunday. Above Bardonecchia towers Mt. Sommeiller, a
pile of rock rising to 3350 meters, and at first light Mario the chap
behind the whole daft idea takes a pile of badges and tee-shirts as
far up the mountain as he thinks it’s possible to get on a
roadbike and waits for the punters to arrive. Now this is the whole
point, it’s not about getting up the mountain but how you get up
the mountain, the more unsuitable the machine the better. Any fool
could do it on a trailbike but something like a Aspincade towing a
trailer shows real style. A Ducati scores about midway on the cred
scale, but this can be improved by running on really high gearing or
restricting the steering lock a bit more or, if you can find someone
with a bizarre sense of humour, carrying a pillion.
As
you climb from Bardonecchia the tarmac is replaced by a rutted muddy
track which winds its way along the side of a valley and the
occasional glimpse of the view through the trees gives you an idea of
what’s in store. After a couple of miles you reach Rochemolles,
two houses and a bar pretending to be a hamlet, 1000 ft. above
Bardonecchia. This is the end of civilisation and from now on the
gradient gets steeper and the track more broken up, alternating
between sharp flinty stones and clinging mud as the many mountain
streams cross and recross the track. After a few more miles the trees
thin out and the scenery gets amazing, glaciers on each side of the
road, waterfalls, the business. You continue to climb, lungs and
engine gulping at the thin air until you reach a small plateau and
the end is in sight. Just another mile or so up a switchback of
hairpin bends and you’ve made it, time for photos and self
congratulations, while all the time others arrive until the mountain
side is a mass of bikes and riders.
Heading back down you meet a constant stream of riders on their way up. Full-dress Goldwings, Vespa combos, the latest street racers, you name it you see it on the track. However the later you head up the mountain the more the track is ploughed up and you spend less time taking in the views and more time avoiding the local hot-shots who piss everyone off blasting up and down the track on their scramblers showering rubble everywhere. So get up early. Sunday evening is party time, every bar full of riders and the sound of bullshit in every language. "Too much mud", "Not enough mud", "So I opened up the Electra-glide and the Johnny on the Fireblade couldn’t keep up", etc. etc.
Well there it is, you may not want to do it every
year but you realty should do it once because, believe me, when you
get to the top of that mountain you feel f**king great. Bardonecchia
is at the southern end of the Frejus road tunnel between France and
Italy, although that’s the most boring way to get there, and the
traditional date is the second Sunday in July.