AROUND THE WHITE MOUNTAIN
The White Mountain.
The name is unimaginative but accurate. This hulking, whale-backed sprawl of glaciers and moraine straddles the french-italian border; a 4810m (15780-foot) mass of untamable geology that nudges the clouds.
This is a peak so high it dictates its own weather.
Nate Hills and Francesco Gozio drop into the descent, taking no prisoners.
Both Nate, a Colorado-based pro racer, and Francesco, a pro bike guide who calls Finale Ligure home, are hauling ass on their SB130s. They make it look easy - child’s play in a playground for adults. Wheels rarely on the ground, and in a puff of dust, they are gone.
Six-foot human forms reduced in seconds to mere dots. Their silhouettes thread along a ridgeline dwarfed by gaping valleys and huge, towering rock slabs that could humble even El Capitan.