End of September. Saturday: the weather is a nightmare and hope is about to be torn to pieces.

Sunday: the sun is shining and the mountain passes are attacked by the roar of the engines echoing all over the rock walls, down to the valley. A new edition of the Alpine Grand Prix is about to begin.

Words Alessandro Marrone / Photos Davide Ganci

Planning an alpine ascent at the end of September is always like playing poker with fate. The possible scenarios range from the perfect day everyone hopes for to total disaster caused by ungrateful weather. And this year, the latter had us glued to webcams scattered along the roughly 230 kilometers of route. The uncertainty that lingered until the early hours of the morning made a handful of teams give up, but as Darfo Boario Terme began to wake before dawn, the Alpine Grand Prix came to life with its usual boldness, an event that doesn’t ask for permission and doesn’t waste time with too many frills. Here, you drive until your hunger for curves is satisfied.

In the days leading up to the event, rain fell relentlessly. On Saturday, it even snowed heavily casting doubt on whether the two highest passes of the tour, the San Marco and the Spluga, would be drivable at all. Our team therefore studied every possible alternative to ensure the event could run smoothly regardless of road conditions. There was a lot of work behind the scenes, especially because judging from photos and videos sent from the mountain lodge set at 2,000 meters above sea level, our hopes were fading as the hours went by. Down in the valley, the situation wasn’t any better, quite the opposite.

The hope that for once the favorable forecast might be right finally came true with the first light of morning. A shy sun began to rise from behind the horizon, blessedly unobstructed by clouds. The asphalt dried, then began to warm up and with it the spirits of the 35 teams who had come here from all over Italy. As with every edition, the Grand Prix featured a new route and this time we decided to move away from the French border we know and love so well, in order to focus on roads perhaps less famous but equally involving. It was time for registration, breakfast and a briefing that unanimously confirmed the anticipated itinerary.

The mountain pass roads are open. Engines start up, breaking the silence of a Sunday morning that had kept us crossing our fingers until the very last second, the moment that marks the start of the season’s final climb. The cars leave the hotel parking lot and begin the first few kilometers toward the Presolana, a twisting serpent of asphalt that after winding through a narrow but swift gorge, starts climbing toward a sky now kissed by weather so perfect it makes us instantly forgive the anxieties of the preceding days.

New faces, familiar ones and those loyal regulars who reliably contribute to the success of our driving tours. One of the greatest joys for us organizers is watching the satisfied looks as the teams reach each checkpoint and start sharing their first impressions. Seeing that passion take shape at last repays every effort, every sleepless night and every hour spent planning each tiny detail useful to make the driving experience an all-or-nothing adventure where the only goal is to enjoy this fantastic journey with a group as loud as possible.

We crossed the Zambla and stopped in Oltre Il Colle, taking advantage of the large parking area in front of the town hall. Above our heads, the sun is now shining brightly, with the recent showers creating a scene you might only witness once a year, if you’re lucky. The mountainsides are already painted in that deep yellow with orange hues that make autumn the most beautiful season for traveling and photographing, while the mountain peaks are covered in a thick white blanket. It looked like powdered sugar on an exquisite cake just waiting for that first, eager bite. Back on the move, back tackling the curves, those that lead us north, leaving behind the scarce traffic and surrounding us instead with the green meadows of the valley at the feet of the San Marco Pass.

One hairpin after another, the focus is crystal clear: keep a firm grip on the steering wheel. With exhaust pops and tires squealing, we climb all the way to the lodge, where we park the cars. This is the moment to step out and take it all in. The sky comes in pastel blue shape, a perfect canvas above the snow-capped peaks. The air is fresh, yet you could stand in a short-sleeved shirt. Late September and 3–4 centimeters of snow had vanished from the asphalt overnight. The impossibility of parking all the cars side by side only added to the wonder of the moment. These cars are being used exactly as intended, to thrill and to excite. To admire them against a natural backdrop so stunning it feel too cinematic to be real is the cherry on a cake we hadn’t been sure we’d even get to taste a few hours earlier.

Down the northern slope, we reach Verceia for a delicious lunch at the La Trela restaurant, where the chef and his team spoil us with a well-deserved break from the endless curves before setting off on the second and final leg of the day. From our private dining room, we enjoy a breathtaking view with the parking lot filled with our cars, the lake framed by the mountains of Valchiavenna. We take advantage of the moment’s calm for our first round of thanks and the many awards, then just a coffee and we hop back at the wheel for the final sprint up the hairpins of the Spluga Pass.

Traffic is light, allowing for a good pace, but as we neared the Swiss border, the majesty of the surrounding landscape tests our will to keep our right foot down. Our eyes wandered, literally, chasing the peaks that form a rocky frame now dusted with fresh snow. The same sun that had accompanied us all day illuminated the tangle of hairpins descending toward Spluga, our convoy compact, noisy and wonderfully diverse in makes and models.

We finish in Sufers, once again by a lake, once again with huge smiles on our faces. It’s incredible how you can cover so many kilometers and so many bends without even realizing it. The joy of driving in such conditions makes time disappear; along the way, you collect not only memories and images but also new friendships, a bonus that has always defined these kind of alpine escapes. The drama of the mountains, the unpredictability of the weather and the thrill of an engine’s roar are what seal another edition of the Alpine Grand Prix. Yet one thing remains true, as always: there is no effort or sacrifice too great in the name of all this, because the participants themselves are both the engine and the fuel of a machine that runs on pure passion. A passion that, under these conditions, will never stop.