The ceiling is Socks, of course, since we are at the very top. A slightly dirty light illuminates a magnificent setting. The clouds cling to the rock face at the top of the Finestre Pass like the last remnants of my anxiety. Soon, all I can see is the dirt ground and my wheel. My breathing keeps me company. And my friend, lost in the mist.
The sky can wait
"Just a few more meters to go." Those are the last words I utter before the silence that Nicolas and I have cultivated since we began our journey in the Alps returns to the summit.
We talked a lot and laughed a lot. But we've traveled so much together that we're no longer afraid of the void that fills the silence when the conversation dies down. That space is immediately filled with all the little shared stories that, when put together, form what we call complicity.
For days, we have been lining up mountain passes. We climb mountains, descend into green valleys, and dip our feet in lakes whose purity seems almost fictional.
But I have been dreaming about this particular pass for a long time. Probably since the Giro first used it almost 20 years ago. Looking down from its height of 2,170 meters onto the Susa and Cluson valleys, its final few kilometers of unpaved road and its austere, rocky landscape command respect.
I'm here, and yet I only half believe it.
Just a few months ago, I underwent surgery for cancer metastases in my liver. It was a recurrence, after a first bout of cancer that I had recovered from so quickly and easily that it seemed unreal. I felt like I had never really been sick the first time around, because it had been resolved so easily. I had almost forgotten about the experience, feeling almost embarrassed to say that I had had cancer, because my situation had been so simple compared to that of other patients. This new cancer brought me to my knees because, in the same corner of my mind where I had stored my almost too easy recovery, I had also buried the possibility that it would come back and knock me down like this.
I went through the ordeal of chemotherapy. This time, I found myself on my knees. My strength faded away over the weeks. My age multiplied, turning me into a premature old man. My mind was not filled with thoughts of my own death, but with the idea of leaving my boys behind. That fear made me shiver even more than the winter air I had to face on my way to the hospital for an operation risky enough that I took the precaution of rewriting my will.
But I was optimistic. Despite the complexity of the procedure, I wanted to win.
I didn't know if I would succeed. You have to be careful with victory speeches surrounding illness. As in sports, there are so many variables that you can't control. Defeat is not a lack of will to win. But that doesn't hurt when it comes to raising your fists. You have to believe in it.
I came through this huge ordeal with my head held high. A few months later, despite predictions that didn't promise anything resembling such a rapid recovery, I flew to the Alps with Nicolas.
Here I am again in the present. In the last few meters of the Finestre. The silence of the high mountains has always impressed me. It is not emptiness. Like the bond between Nicolas and me, it is a presence. The presence of oneself in the immensity, the presence of that immensity within oneself.
I take the last few steps, moving forward through the fog. Then something inside me breaks, like a dam collapsing under the pressure of torrential rain. I cry loudly, without embarrassment. I think of my two boys. Of the months of anguish. Of death lurking in our lives like a storm in the high mountains: waiting to take us by surprise, while everyday life makes us forget our mortal condition.
The sobs make me hiccup. I sense Nicolas's presence in the mist, a few meters away from me, without seeing him. I feel his anticipation; his silence here is one of compassion. I sense that his cheeks are wet with something other than sweat. After a while, he approaches me. He asks me if I'm okay. Yes, I'm fine. And as it broke, the dam closes again.
After contemplating the world from above between two curtains of mist, I descend and the mountain wind dries my tears. A huge smile spreads across my face. I have always enjoyed the thrill of speed. That's it, I've done the Finestre. It's a bit like I've touched the sky to show it that despite its two attempts, it won't get me right away.