Found: the road to heaven
Posted on 21-07-2014 at 22:00 by autoblogger – 35 Comments”
Every year in June to open the Passo dello Stelvio in the Italian Alps are legendary asphalt for cyclists, motorcyclists and oldtimerfanaten. About 26 klimkilometers are forty-eight hairpin turns draped over the Stelvio pass, between Prato and the peak of 2.758 metres height. On the other hand, dives on the road is 22 km long to the ski resort town of Bormio. A play set for a ride with a Porsche 928, yet still the one and only Gran Turismo Stuttgart. And with his loungezetels of hand-stitched leather, he is probably a bit more comfortable than the concrete bike seat on which the riders in the Giro d’italia on the snow-covered Stelvio sukkelden at the end of may.
The year is 1987. Either the year 1 after Sandra Kim. A special year because it was freezing still on my birthday in may. And Porsche launched the model 928 S4. I was then a man of nine years that an important part of the decade was spent on the daydream at autoposters to a wall. Better known as my slaapkamermuur. In the year 1 was there a poster of that Porsche 928 S4. And I zwoor when a solemn oath, such as only negenjarigen that can. That I will ever own a had and would have. Less than twenty-six years would that car end up doing about the distance between my dream and my driveway – the Voyager 2 was faster when Uranus – but my 928 is hit.
The Porsche 928 is an anachronism with a steering wheel. At its launch in 1978 he was awarded Car of the Year, but he was never to do for which he was designed: the 911 into the oblivion ride. Nevertheless, he was in all respects better, faster, and easier to drive than Porsches crowd pleaser. But the Taliban-of-the-air-cooled-boxer-behind-the-axle lustten the aluminum powers of innovation of designers Anatole Lapine and Wolfgang Möbius. However, had the eighties, mercilessly hit in the autodesign. And came the competition when cars with the aerodynamics of a garden shed. With a gable roof. My parents, for example, dragged themselves forward in a roestwitte Ford Taunus. I am the trauma yet, but just to the top.
Now, the better. Life is to be reduced to the choice between a plastic kitchen countertop and granite tombstone, or vice versa. Itself I prefer to use a plastic post mortem. And in life and well-being the thumping of a vijfliter V8. Although there are also disadvantages to the 928 community. Elegant trips for example, requires a yoga class or two. And with the accelerator push for a positive kink in the gross national product of Saudi Arabia. Anything further than jolijt.
Old-timers don’t belong in garages. Even if the cars are. And so I go away. Preferably as long as possible and far enough from everything yet but it looks a little like a Belgian motorway. In Beirut, there are fixed roads after years of bombing more enjoyable walk than any of the km of the asphalt hell that the E314. Fortunately Germany is not far. And France also. But the valhalla of the road is without a doubt Switzerland. That combines wonderfully with the main pilgrimage of every true petrolhead: a ride on the Passo dello Stelvio in Italy.
The first thing I do, is my anticipation channel. With a pair of handmade rijhandschoenen from the workshop of Giorgio Sermoneta by the Spanish Steps in Rome. No one makes better gloves than this old Roman. Then I put my gloves in the glove box. Because it is finally a box for your gloves. And while the snow metres-high piles up on top of the Stelvio pass, I study a spring long the mountain roads until I turn on the outside know.
Because each trip twice as interesting if you share them, grind I my partner to the route out of his beloved Citroën ID/DS from 1967. In the Weekend run early in the morning we asked the contact to. ‘It thunders in the distance’ , mumbles the neighbor, but the are just eight Porsche cylinders at the same time, their ochtendbrul outbreaks. The block gurgles his first sips ochtendbenzine and I throw the vending machine in the D of losfahren.
Hours slip past. Miles also. Meanwhile, I think of my decision to have this Concorde of the Autobahn is not about his home. Yes, I can be there a condensstreep by Germany to draw against two hundred eighty kilometers per hour. But the true satisfaction lies in: can but don’t want to. Not: want to but can’t. I have nothing to prove and so stove I with one hundred and thirty by France. Paradise of decay socialism, bad bistros and frantically controlled motorways. But sublime asphalt, mind you. Then I cross the Rhine in Basel to my best spent forty Swiss franc of the year to consume. The Swiss autovignet opens the door to landscapes that generally the voice of David Attenborough admires. But I do it with the voice of Ellen. That of the gps.
The way is here made to devour. And the old Porsche twists greedy to Davos. There begins the last part of the journey. A octaanfeest of just under 100 miles through the Swiss National Park and the Italian Stelvio National Park. The windscreen offers a panoramic view of only mueslidozen and chocoladewikkels. Or still the sort of photos that you have on those packs. I say goodbye to the tree line after the Ofenpas on 2.149 metres height. It is now evening and the famous klaplichten of the 928, staring as a few kikkerogen on the hood to the mountain peaks. I grind a way through the sneeuwmuren over the fluela pass. So up I climb to 2.400 metres of altitude. The Porsche hums in the thin and in the process I learn how to pass gas and 320 horses release, works better than sending through the switchbacks to the top rollers. What. A. Fun.
I climb further out of the abandoned Val Muranzina and take 34 hairpin bends to the fabulous Umbrailpas. Above stagnates in the Swiss-Italian border at 2.503 m height. Here is no more. And the Stelvio wait another 250 meters higher. Because it filters and cools off quickly and there are many more canyons than crash, I decided quickly to drive further. With this ability on a mountain trail swing, feels a bit like a sandwich cut with a chainsaw.
Suddenly I’m on top of the Stelvio. My walking Citroën museum and I steps a moment, staring into the abyss, and find that here is the ceiling of the Italian Alps have reached. On the spiders of the Porsche after, you hear nothing more at this time. This is the blue hour for those in a fast car and a lot of steep mountain will whiz. And that’s what we do. As a stone downwards, in the direction of Bormio. That is one and a half kilometers lower. Wait a glass, a plate and a bed above a cow barn. The Porsche tap after in the night.
The next morning I leave early but, I realize quickly that the pressure will be on the mountain passes around Bormio. The midlife crisis is rife and they are riding a carbon road bike. Especially on the Mortirolo. A sledgehammer of a mountain that I can best compare with the Wall of Geraardsbergen. But 12 kilometres long. Here was the myth of Pantani born in 1994. Here lost Bugno ever 8 minutes. And here I make the first acquaintance with the death rattle, and then with the body of a dying man in his fifties, which to me begs for him to shoot because it basket him would believe that he has achieved. From now on his Blackberry to prove the opposite in every meeting.
The road drags me after that to Ponte di Legno in the province of Brescia. From there, flame I the Gaviapas. At least, that is the intention. Once the climb for the wheels to slide, it is clear that the earlier sneak than flames. The Gaviapas rises 16% to 2.621 metres height and is rather two-than three feet wide. Clearly laid out to the Italian soldiers to obtain supplies in the First world War, not to Porsches to hunting at speeds with three digits, that much is clear. Somewhere at 2,000 meters altitude, I learn that this is not the place where you mobile homes wants to cross. The northern neighbour to the driver respects the laws of the mountain and gives me as a climber takes precedence. But his wife holds a different opinion while her husband the motorhome blind to the rear coaxes on the most dangerous pass in Europe. Think: no guardrail plus sheer abyss of 500 meters. This was the only piece of the trip that I the health of my own idea somewhat in doubt to me. Sermonetahandschoenen quite ingezweet.
After this I espresso sipping in Bormio. I step out and a roaring Ferrari engines welcome me. In Italy are no pedestrians. Only people who go to their car hiking. Or to their Vespa. The caffeine in the blood, I’ll ride one last time on the Stelvio. First, the sloping wall. Then the insane side to Prato. Suddenly I agree. That is not the fault of the mountain. However, of the dozens of bikers who necessarily their own mortality want to prove to the coils of this Alpenrug. It is thinking with the octane number in place of your IQ. I say that it has been good, do a kick-down function with the accelerator pedal and let the engine screaming at the red of his tachometer. Now I know where the road to heaven is located.
Text and photos: Jorrit Hermans, Lieven Smeyers.
Gallery: Porsche 928 S4 in the Alps
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