Pass Out.

Forecast rain, and it was raining when we woke up at the slightly more conventional time of 7.30. By the time we wre ready to roll it had stopped, and the sky showed promise. Eschewing the rompers, a real risk, I was at last vindicated; the day just got better and better.

Heading back to Chiavenna, but bearing right, we rode the Maloja Pass. This was brilliant. The sun was out, the road dry, long sweepers through the pine trees before an abrupt change to first gear hairpins, which delivered us onto the plateau. Lakes, yachts, and general prettiness rolls into St Moritz against a backdrop of speccy mountains freshly dusted with ominously new snow. We took a picture of a coffee, because we knew from the look of the place that we could not afford to buy one, let alone two...

From there we skipped the San Bernina for Zernez and the Ofenpass. This was brilliant; fast, flowing and open like Luckmanier (without the falling down), scenic, with only two hairpins....but it delivered us to the Northern approach to the mighty Stelvio. In nervous anticipation we had a coffee at San Gian. In hindsight this was probably a critical error.

Stelvio is THE pass, 48 hairpins, numbered from the top on this side, 36 on the Bormio side. Weather is deteriorating as we climb. By hairpin 30 something it's raining, and by hairpin 40 it has turned to snow. Cresting the pass, there's a dusting of snow on the ground. We follow a deliver truck down, riding in the broad strip left by his dual wheels.

Until we round hairpin 7, that is. Despite rolling against a closed throttle, it's getting tricky. I hear that disquieting graunching sound of motorcycle on pavement, look in the mirror to see Og sliding....and fall off myself. We get up, fall down, get up again, fall down, get up again (just like the Chumbalunga song - Og). There's a layer of ice on the road and you can't hold the bike up. We try wheeling them, we try walking them with the stand down, but the result is always the same. Forget control. We are stuck.

After a brief consultation we decide to stop. Not really our decision, of course, given that we'd passed the famous point of no return, yet progress was not an option.

Similarly, calling for help was not really optional. Challenging, given that we're 3km down the Stelvio and speak neither Italian nor German, but eventually the message got through. This was confirmed by various passing motorists, which was reassuring. We became quite good friends with the snow plough driver, chatting with him each time he passed. All the while it was snowing. Chucking it down. In our riding kit and helmets we were warm and sort of dry-ish, so we waited relatively happily, bemused by the ridiculous absurdity of our position.

Eventually the Carbinieri arrived. Coppers, Og, but not as we Aussies know them. Great guys, happy, helpful. One of them told us that he'd taken his BMW on a 2800km ride around Italy on his last leave. They offered to take us down to the police station until the rescue truck arrived, but we declined.

Finally, after four hours, the truck arrives. A tilt-tray, we easily pushed the bikes up. Surprisingly, the driver knew how to tie bikes down, and had those nifty handlebar end tie downs. More than 20cm of snow had fallen. It was still falling heavily down at turn 30, so our Alpine prospects are looking very, very poor at the moment.

At dinner in Bormio (Oh oh, Bormio sung to Van Morrison's Domino - Og) we discovered that 40cm of snow had fallen. So we have ridden the Stelvio, although the descent was in the front cab of a truck.