Though I didn't reach the stelvio pass until I was thirty, my journey there began at a very early age. Back then, in the 1970s, there was no speedchannel or widespread racing on broadcast channels as there is now. Racing was something you either read about, or heard about on a tape delay. Even in NYC the Indy 500, America's biggest race, was shown on a tape delay instead of live.
I believe the first time I ever thought about the stelvio pass it may have been from reading a magazine article, about sports car racing in Europe, and there was a picture of a racing lancia and a beautiful ribbon of road, stretching up a treacherous mountain known as the stelvio pass, or passo di stelvio, from the Italian side. I read the article and just told myself you have to go there someday.
So someday finally arrives in 2000 when I decide to buy a 1970 Alfa Romeo Giullietta for a Road trip in Europe. I fly in to Milan, my first stop in Europe ever. I meet some friendly Italians, and agree to meet them to see their selection of cars the next day. They had a predilection for Alfa Romeo Giuliettas. I thought it would be a fun car to see the European countryside in. The car I chose was Cava beige, a swanky color, and she was a 1970 model. The car was a cool customer, not looking its 30 year age. It would run at top speed on the Autostrada all day, then snake through country roads with ease.
As soon as I got my hands on the map, something in the back of my mind said "Find the Stelvio Pass." And so I did, and there it was. An ancient mountain pass at a point in the Alps between Italy, Switzerland and Austria. It wasn't too far away, so I would finally be able to experience the Stelvio Pass. I must admit that I underestimated the Pass. It was a neat looking squiggly line on the map, but i didn't realize that it is the highest point you can drive to on the planet. (Or it used to be, as I understand a newer road holds this distinction now, but I prefer the original)
When we started at the base, it was 100 degrees F, practically 100% humidity. The road is a simple stretch of tarmac, next to a river with tall, dark green trees. Could have been upstate NY, I thought. That thought quickly evaporates, as the switchbacks start climbing the first mountain. The turns come fast and furious, and so does the altitude. Almost immediately I notice the breeze is less like a hot hairdryer, and more like a warm spring day. No time to dwell on that though, as the car's engine revs and falls, between the hairpins, with occasional tunnels with arched windows carved out of stone lending a spectacular view. Something deep inside me automatically starts driving this road as fast as I can without falling off of it. I suppose I could have enjoyed the view more, but for me the experience was centered on the driving. I also did managed to take a few pictures while driving. Multitasking, Italian style! One photo is my favorite picture I've ever taken: Snow capped mountains, on either side of the road, meeting in the distance and merging with the fog of a cloudy day.
When you get to the top, it's freezing, and everything appears below you, that impressive ribbon of road like the fluid handwriting on a page of a story I've just written. Cute Italian girls come out of little vestibules filled with chachkas and mementos. My eyes are caught by all the snow on the mountain peaks, which seem so close you could reach out and pull it next to you like a familiar childhood friend.
Soon it is on to the next part of the Passo Di Stelvio, the way down.. This is a whole new challenge, for you use the brakes much more than I would have imagined. Remember, everything is steep. Melting snow makes its ways down gullies on this side of the mountain, and the road is as voraciously curvy as ever, bringing a childlike grin to my face as I throw the Alfa down the mountainside as fast as I dare.
By the time I'm getting back down to sea level and the next town, the brakes are working less and less and starting to go to the floor. I downshift to aid braking as much as I can, and then coast into a service station with smoke pouring out of the engine bay. All the buildings are two story, a bright off-white color of stone. Very Mediterranean and very pleasing to the eye. The smoke grabs my attention back from my surroundings, and I open the hood and seek out some help. There is a gruff, portly mechanic milling about. I try to communicate with him, pointing at the car.. He speaks no English, but almost as if by habit comes over to check on my wounded chariot. He then starts making all sorts of motions and complaints, while fetching some brake fluid from the garage. Everything in the engine compartment is too hot to touch, so he motions for me to wait. The brake fluid had gotten so hot it spilled over from the reservoir and was all over the inside of the hood. So on my way to the washbasin, I take in what has happened. I've just taken the Stelvio Pass in a 1970 Alfa Romeo in the Millenium
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