The first night on my bike I slept in a little trench on the retained side of a retaining wall. It had poured rain for three hours, the nearby ocean dumping its contents onto the coast. I was exhausted. It was around 1 AM (I sat out much of the rain under a bridge), I had just biked through the treacherous sprawling city of Genova, Italy, and the campground signs I had followed up a big hill and past an eerie cemetery led me to a very closed “terreno per campeggio.” Not feeling up to sneaking in on my first night, I opted to riding further up the hill, battling the overwhelming desire to drop right where I was, and not exactly sure what I was looking for. A few hundred meters along I saw the retaining wall and the overhanging trees. Perfect. I tossed my paniers onto the 4 or so foot wall, laid out my tarp, took off my wet shoes and socks, and curled up inside my sleeping bag, half of the tarp folded over me. Loud raindrops dripped onto the tarp. I was asleep in seconds.
Two days later I’m crossing over a ridge 2000 feet above sea-level, trying to commit to memory the incredible tree-covered mountains that fade into the softest fog I’ve ever seen. I’m breathing hard, having just climbed through a steep town that stretches from the coast up into the hills. After a quick breather at the top, I descend back to the coast for miles and miles down a road windy enough to have to brake a little on the turns. That night I shared a rocky coastal campsite with Joost, a dutch artist and fellow bike-tourist who had rolled up behind me when I had stopped near La Spezia to draw a picture.
I rode an old mountain bike that I bought for 50 euros in Torino. It was called Giovinazzo, had an awesome white and blue paint job, and served me better than I could have dreamed. Except for the day my shifter cable gummed up and I had to pull on the exposed cable along the down tube to shift until I found a bike shop a bought a new cable. But that was an easy fix. I never got a flat tire, never had brake problems, and even ended up loving the triple Biopace crankset. Within a day I could adjust my friction shifters accurately the first time and without looking down when I heard something off-centered. It was easy to be in tune with the Giovinazzo. It held no secrets. It was what it was, and when something wasn’t right, it was obvious. Good communication is key to any successful relationship.
“Sola??” A fancy Italian road bike coasts along next to my rickety mountain bike, and a bewildered, beautiful Italian roadie repeats, “Americano? Bicicletta... sola??” Neither of us speak each other’s language, but it’s clear he’s impressed. Or confused. We’re riding along a beautiful bike path that runs north out of Rome and follows the Tiber River for miles (at least ten of them), cutting through beautiful sunflower fields and farm land, not a “real street” in view. I had caught up to him, fatty tires, loaded rear paniers, upright flat bars and all. I laugh, “Si, sola! Mi piace biciclette!” He’d better believe I like bicycles; he’d never seen anything like me before. A female American, traveling by bicycle, alone? Weird. We ride for a few miles, laughing at our attempted conversation, broken by our language barrier. He heads home, I continue on to downtown Rome.
It wasn’t all fun and games. The day I got lost in the rain, for example. I had about 90 km (55 miles) to ride from Pisa to Florence, but somewhere about 40 km down the road I took a wrong turn at one of the many roundabouts (which are completely awesome and functional and oh! how I wish the States would use them more) and later found myself about 20 km off course. Then it started to rain. It was beautiful at first. I rode along in the gentle rain, going back the way I came, learning Italian through my earphones and eating a baguette. I was happy, even if I was in the wrong place. But then it got bad. Really bad. Probably the worst rain storm I’ve ever ridden in. I was soaked to the bone. I forced myself to see the humor, but it was still a little hard to laugh. Eventually I got back to the fateful roundabout and found my way onto the nearest train to Florence, the rain still coming down hard.
I don’t know what my favorite part was: the makeshift bicycle-tarp tents; the 75 km ride from Florence to Siena through unreal, jaw-droppingly beautiful vineyards and hill towns; meeting Stefano at the Leaning Tower of Pisa and sharing a campsite while teaching each other Italian/English; sketching the city of Florence from Piazzale Michelangiolo on the hill while eating pizza and gelato, my bike locked up at the bottom of a (seemingly) mile long staircase; navigating the busy streets of Rome with confidence, sneaking down one-way roads (because I can) then merging into a complex, multi-laned roundabout, popping out in front of the humbling Colosseum.
I’m sold: traveling by bicycle is priceless. I experienced Italy through warm air on my skin, ushered from town to town by the smell of bakeries and vineyards. Being alone, I was compelled to talk to the people around me and having a bike made me all the more friendly and approachable. It’s easy to trust someone who pulls up to the campsite outside of Rome at one o’clock in the morning when they’re red-faced and on a bike. I wouldn’t trade my ten day Genova-to-Rome tour for anything, and recommend to anyone and everyone to give bicycle touring a shot. It’s about the journey, not the destination. And besides, burning that many calories a day leaves a lot of room for gelato.
Two days later I’m crossing over a ridge 2000 feet above sea-level, trying to commit to memory the incredible tree-covered mountains that fade into the softest fog I’ve ever seen. I’m breathing hard, having just climbed through a steep town that stretches from the coast up into the hills. After a quick breather at the top, I descend back to the coast for miles and miles down a road windy enough to have to brake a little on the turns. That night I shared a rocky coastal campsite with Joost, a dutch artist and fellow bike-tourist who had rolled up behind me when I had stopped near La Spezia to draw a picture.
I rode an old mountain bike that I bought for 50 euros in Torino. It was called Giovinazzo, had an awesome white and blue paint job, and served me better than I could have dreamed. Except for the day my shifter cable gummed up and I had to pull on the exposed cable along the down tube to shift until I found a bike shop a bought a new cable. But that was an easy fix. I never got a flat tire, never had brake problems, and even ended up loving the triple Biopace crankset. Within a day I could adjust my friction shifters accurately the first time and without looking down when I heard something off-centered. It was easy to be in tune with the Giovinazzo. It held no secrets. It was what it was, and when something wasn’t right, it was obvious. Good communication is key to any successful relationship.
“Sola??” A fancy Italian road bike coasts along next to my rickety mountain bike, and a bewildered, beautiful Italian roadie repeats, “Americano? Bicicletta... sola??” Neither of us speak each other’s language, but it’s clear he’s impressed. Or confused. We’re riding along a beautiful bike path that runs north out of Rome and follows the Tiber River for miles (at least ten of them), cutting through beautiful sunflower fields and farm land, not a “real street” in view. I had caught up to him, fatty tires, loaded rear paniers, upright flat bars and all. I laugh, “Si, sola! Mi piace biciclette!” He’d better believe I like bicycles; he’d never seen anything like me before. A female American, traveling by bicycle, alone? Weird. We ride for a few miles, laughing at our attempted conversation, broken by our language barrier. He heads home, I continue on to downtown Rome.
It wasn’t all fun and games. The day I got lost in the rain, for example. I had about 90 km (55 miles) to ride from Pisa to Florence, but somewhere about 40 km down the road I took a wrong turn at one of the many roundabouts (which are completely awesome and functional and oh! how I wish the States would use them more) and later found myself about 20 km off course. Then it started to rain. It was beautiful at first. I rode along in the gentle rain, going back the way I came, learning Italian through my earphones and eating a baguette. I was happy, even if I was in the wrong place. But then it got bad. Really bad. Probably the worst rain storm I’ve ever ridden in. I was soaked to the bone. I forced myself to see the humor, but it was still a little hard to laugh. Eventually I got back to the fateful roundabout and found my way onto the nearest train to Florence, the rain still coming down hard.
I don’t know what my favorite part was: the makeshift bicycle-tarp tents; the 75 km ride from Florence to Siena through unreal, jaw-droppingly beautiful vineyards and hill towns; meeting Stefano at the Leaning Tower of Pisa and sharing a campsite while teaching each other Italian/English; sketching the city of Florence from Piazzale Michelangiolo on the hill while eating pizza and gelato, my bike locked up at the bottom of a (seemingly) mile long staircase; navigating the busy streets of Rome with confidence, sneaking down one-way roads (because I can) then merging into a complex, multi-laned roundabout, popping out in front of the humbling Colosseum.
I’m sold: traveling by bicycle is priceless. I experienced Italy through warm air on my skin, ushered from town to town by the smell of bakeries and vineyards. Being alone, I was compelled to talk to the people around me and having a bike made me all the more friendly and approachable. It’s easy to trust someone who pulls up to the campsite outside of Rome at one o’clock in the morning when they’re red-faced and on a bike. I wouldn’t trade my ten day Genova-to-Rome tour for anything, and recommend to anyone and everyone to give bicycle touring a shot. It’s about the journey, not the destination. And besides, burning that many calories a day leaves a lot of room for gelato.
No comments:
Post a Comment
What are your thoughts?