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After two and a half hours of driving, they reached 1,750 meters above sea level, smugly reading 23°C on the dashboard — a good 10 degrees cooler than where they started.

Slightly annoyed, I started calling in the clouds. Meanwhile, they were unloading bikes and getting ready:

J: “Do you think two and a half liters of water will be enough?”

P: “I don’t even drink that in a week.”

M: “You want some sunscreen?”

All: “Do we look like losers?”

Poor souls. Looking back, it was like stealing candy from a baby.

At just before 11:00 — the worst possible time to start such an adventure — they got on their bikes, fully aware they had over 1,800 meters of elevation ahead, mostly above 2,000 meters, and the athletic conditioning of a Persian cat who’s never left the living room.

Not even 100 meters of climbing in, and they hit the first obstacle: a 50-meter-wide landslide. A sign, perhaps? They didn’t think so. Stubbornly, they pressed on toward the first and longest climb: 1,000 meters straight up.

Despite a local ordinance, they decided the path was “probably fine.” At that point, my rays were already wearing down one of them — Jack. He did his best, but his friends grew smaller in the distance — 20 meters, 50, then gone.

The climb continued, interrupted only by quick photo stops that let Jack catch up — but never quite catch his breath. Let’s be honest: every trip has a Jack.

At the only water source of the day, some refilled their bottles. Others, spooked by past encounters with sketchy mountain water, skipped it. Big mistake.

The first to reach the top, now waiting for the stragglers, started doing reckless stunts. I almost thought my power wouldn’t reach some of them, until:

F: “Michi, could you put some sunscreen on my back? I think I’m burning.”

A: “Wait, you brought sunscreen?”

M: “Told you. Here, idiots.”

At last, the last survivor arrived, sat down, and took two bites of a sandwich before Pippo dropped the bomb:

“We have to go.”

So they set off again, happy that the trail was now slightly less uphill. Their plan became clearer: starting from the Maira springs, they were attempting the Tour of the Oronaye. Next stop: a lake they hoped to cool off in.

Ten minutes later, just when I thought I had one of them in my grasp, fate intervened: Jack’s freewheel broke, turning his bike into a fixie. Forced to head back before reaching the point of no return. I’ll investigate this further — I don’t like having my plans ruined.

The rest pushed on cheerfully through booby-trapped trails: hidden rocks, marmot holes, narrow channels just wider than a pedal — yet they seemed unfazed.

And so, they walked right into my trap: a sweltering plateau, where even my cousin Wind fears to tread, and I reign supreme.

I began to see the cracks. But just then, they reached the promised land — a cool alpine lake. Feet in the water, they forgot they weren’t even halfway through their hellish tour.

But I hadn’t forgotten.

P: “We have to go. There’s a 200-meter portage ahead and it’s already 3:15.”

F: “I have less than a liter of water left… and I think I have a fever.”

M: “I’m afraid to even look inside my water bag.”

They tackled climbs and descents — more climbs than descents, to be honest — but the view seemed to give them strength.

And I get it. The view from up here is magnificent, and every bit of effort toward a mountain peak deserves my respect. But my job is always the same: to remind everyone that the mountain is unforgiving.

At its feet, worn out and already medium-rare, they stared at the 200 meters of elevation that stood between them and the long descent — the one they used as an excuse for being there in the first place. Without many words, and without any choice, they began the climb.

With every step, they lost more fluids than they carried in their packs, and took turns regretting every decision that had led them to that point.

My job was almost done.

At the top, they collapsed — desperate, exhausted, with just one liter of water between five people, and one shared terror: the 400 meters of uphill that still awaited them after the descent.

One idea kept bouncing around their minds — a possible refuge, just off the GPX track.

Michele found a signal and called this legendary source of food and drink. Pippo reached out to the lone survivor, Jack. Paolo strung together nonsense words to keep spirits up.

Decision made. Next destination: a beer, at Rifugio Viviere.

With a clear goal, foggy minds, and wrecked bodies, they tackled the treacherous descent — more danger than fun — and finally reached salvation.

Tails between their legs and the shame of an unfinished mission hidden beneath a dozen panachés, they lay on the grass, scorched and defeated, before heading back to even hotter lands.

And so ends this tale.

I only hope they’ve learned something:

Sunscreen is important. So is water.

Every Jack deserves the right to turn back.

And maybe — just maybe — biking at 2,000 meters to escape the heat won’t be an option anymore.

Because I, the Sun, am not done with you yet.