Heart of the Dolomites

I’ll undress for anything over 15°C, and my pores are cheerfully sweating away in line with that policy and the upswing in gradient

Andrea’s legs look like someone spilt timber stain on a street map. Long venal bypasses traverse miniature valleys that lay between boundaries of deeply brown quadriceps. The vastus medialis, those most highly prized of cycling muscles that extend above the knee, bulge. He is clearly 10 years younger than me, 15kg lighter and four inches taller. I stare at these legs, which are the same colour as the crema of my espresso. Less sun-blessed, more sun-ordained. I vow to write that down if I manage to make it back to the hotel with my dignity.

Fast start

Arabba is a quintessential mountain village in summer. The snow has retired to higher peaks, hungover Bavarian motorcyclists shuffle about the brekky buffet, and the air is so crisply quiet you could hear a conversation from last week. Cyclists are the only intrusion to the peace this time of morning, their cassettes occasionally ticking past our hotel terrace perch. Some are heading north on the Passo Campolongo, others west along the Passo Pordoi. As for us, we’ll take the third and last route out of town, south-east down to the Passo Fedaia.

I’ve heard stories of this particular pass, so before we set off I duck over to the town’s bakery for some fuel. Wild strawberries have grown well this year, so I pocket two slices of tart from a gruff woman behind the counter. She eyes me with a mixture of disdain and concern, though the