Giro d'Italia- Matera

60 kilometers before the thunder

The road belongs to the wind. For now. Three hours before the race: total silence, no cars, no honking, no shouting. Just shimmering heat and a strip of empty asphalt winding through the landscape – as if someone had briefly pressed pause on Italy.

Then comes the climb to Montescaglioso. Three kilometers of pure sadism. A ten percent gradient, almost dead straight, without mercy. The sun burns mercilessly, the new asphalt gleams like a freshly poured hellish track. The last 300 meters? Apparently resurfaced only so the black band can heat up even more. A statement of cruelty.

Later, the pros fight their way up here – visibly worn out, clearly at their limits. Even for them, more than 17 km/h is barely possible. There's no attack; it's survival.

The route itself is unassuming. It leads through the dusty hinterland, showing Matera from behind – without glamour, without grand gestures. No hint that one of Europe's oldest cities awaits here. Nothing that suggests beauty. Only dry fields, crumbling walls, and the sweat of those who believe they've almost reached their destination.

A fallacy. The storm is yet to come.