Stand in this place, high up on the Stelvio and the superlatives tumble into your mind. It looks like one of those things people build because they can. The road up and over the mountain pass is a civil engineering triumph, a ribbon of tarmac 48 kilometres and almost 70 hairpins from one side to the other, soaring 2757 metres into the sky.
The grey tarmac road writhes up the climb, clinging to impossible angles and slopes like a giant convoluted ribbon, but its construction wasn’t vanity, it was necessary. Heavy transport uses quicker, easier alternatives to get between the 2 valleys now, but until 1959 Stelvio was essential for transport and kept open all year round. It required huge effort and manpower, with 20 stations where horses were changed, because in winter goods and people were dragged over on horsedrawn sledges.
Stelvio entered Giro d’Italia history in 1953 and was the scene of an Oscar-winning performance from Fausto Coppi. It was the penultimate stage and Coppi hadn’t performed. His private life was in turmoil over his affair with Giulia Locatelli, a married woman. Coppi was married too. It didn’t sit well with 1950s Italy.
But his Bianchi team stepped in by riding on the front all the way to the foot of the climb, so no one could attack. Coppi’s manager told him that he had to go, he owed it to his men, his fans, so he did. Race leader Hugo Koblet followed, but then Coppi attacked again and Koblet was gone. It was as simple as that.
The Italian super-champion romped away from everyone then saw Giulia Locatelli, the ‘Lady in white’ as the press called her. She was standing near the snowline. Coppi had not seen her for three weeks; “Will you be in Bormio,” he shouted. “Yes,” she replied. And he flew.
The real Fausto Coppi was back, the Coppi who made the impossible look normal. He sailed upwards and dropped like a stone into Bormio to win the stage, the 1953 Giro d’Italia and, eventually, Giulia, with whom he spent the rest of his life.
