Doug and Bruna's Motorcycle Adventure

Since it's Sunday the chef (me) has the night off (beside I am out of food) so I had planned to eat out. One of the ladies in the group of folks that I talk with all afternoon, and who lives across from the hotel residence had mentioned to me that there was an excellent Pizzeria in the next town. I searched for it myself by car on my afternoon gelato run but couldn't locate it.

I mentioned this to her late this afternoon and she offered to show me where it was, as the towns are very small.so she brings out her Motor cycle and two helmets, and puts her dog in the "boot" a plastic case with a hole cut out for its head and off we go, with much laughter from the folks back on the patio.first we pull up to her house and she honks until her husband comes to the window and she tells him she is leavig with the american and not returning. We all have a good laugh.

And then we turn around and speed away, ironically on my bike route through town. She asks me if I'm afraid and I say no, I used to drive one in Rome when I was 14.

We get to the Pizzeria parking lot and she let's the dog out and then we start on our way back, with the dog running next to us!we are quite the sight. Not exactly Easy Rider!

Finally her dog tires and we stop and put him back in his trunk, with his little head sticking out. I ask if her husband cut the hole in the plastic but she tells me the mechanic has done it.

We get back to much fanfare and I tell them all that I have fallen off 3 times. They know I am joling and I tell them Bruna is a good driver.

Her husband came out to take the bike to 7 pm mass.

Bruna told me that her husband, who I met yesterday,has studies English at University, but that was obviously years ago. He's a very friendly looking man who always has a smile on his face. She also telle me her grown sons speak English well and one works in London.

She asked me how I found this place as she has never met any Americans here before.

I think to myslef how odd that with all the Americans that come bike her not one of them has paused to engage these folks in a converstion.

Obviously few of us cyclists here speak Italian, but many do, and much better than I do.
But then, the nice getleman I met on the road to Enego the other day lived with his Italian brother in Toronto for 6 years and rarely spoke English.

Bruna went home to wait for her husband.
.
But not before I took a few photographs for the blog.

Everybody Rides On Sunday!

In Italy and especially in this region, the seat of cycling, everyone with a racing bike rides, typically with their club and club kits. One after another the groups go by; the young, the middle aged and the pensioners, thin, fat and in between they are all out. Forget church. Cycling is their religion on Sunday.
I left at 7 am, figuring to find my way to Marostica (where in the middle of the square, is a human sized chesboard, one of 2 in Italy, the other being in Gubbio), and them find a climb up to Conco that I had ridden before.

I found my way to Marostica, and then hoped the right hand turn I was looking for would be marked, and it was. Better yet I saw a man on a bike turning just then. I caught up to him and asked if this was the way to Conco. He said yes and asked me to join him. His team was ahead of him. I said I went quite slowly in the mountains, and he said that was fine, as so did he. He said together we would go slowly. He asked where I lived and I told him and he said, ah, a friend of George Bush!, I said no, but as we caught up to his teamates he introduced me as a friendly Texan and friend og George Bush. It was all in good fun and there were perhaps 10 guys, all over 60, from Cittadella, a village south of Bassano. The climb to Conco took about an hour and a half, and eventually the group split and I rode in the first group with their three "fastest" riders. When we reached Conco and waited for the others I took their pictures and told them I was going to a bar I knew for my cappucino. They asked me to come with them another 6 miles up to another mountain top, where they were all going to drink wine. They said it makes you fly down the mountain! I said it would make me fall off the mountain! So we parted ways with hearty handshakes and great memories and I went to my favourite bar for my much anticipated caffe.

As I sipped my cappucino I realised how much more richer this trip's experiences have been because I have spent all my time with Italians and no Americans, as I have in the past. I made the right decision not to come with George's group as I have the past three years.

A Presto

The Residence

I am not in either one of the two hotels that Silvia owns in the area, but rather in the Residence, a dormitory like structure with larger rooms and kitchens. I chose it deliberately so I could interact with the other cyclists here. But that turned out to be a bust as aside from one cyclist who has left, the other 5 are as antisocial as can be. Whereas all the Italian couples here love to talk to me, the Americans barely say hello.

I have met everyone here. Aside from the antisocial cyclists there are two very nice elderly Italian couples, and 5 Hungarian men here working on something for Silvia. They speak no English and only a few words of Italian, but they are very friendly and always say hello to me.

They are all about 35, and very tan, and very large, all built like former weightlifters with big guts. They generally all wear just short shorts and no shirt and sit and smoke around the patio table.

But despite their appearance, they ae never rowdy and never drunk, unlike a lot of German tourists at all the bars in town.

But they definitely look like you want them on your side in a fight.

I always laugh when they pile into their litle car and their combined weight drops the car body a few inches!

A Magnificent Saturday ride!

Drafting behind two italians riding side by side for the first 18 miles.....wonderful

Them not minding it one bit, even better.

A one hour climb up the mountain to Enego....easier than two days ago

The world's best cappucino at the very top....yes, priceless!

As they say in cycling, I had "legs" today. Was very strong. Like the final day of ragbrai. Strong all the way home, for 60 miles.

I left at 7 am this morning, and quickly met two cyclists who came from behind me riding side by side. They were not doing a punishing pace, maybe 16 to 18 mph. I fell in and they recognised me by beginning to point out holes in the pavement and grates, which is polite when someone is drafting. I hung with them all the way to the end of the road, up the river valley. At the end I thanked them profusely for the pull and they said but I now must come to Enego, which was a 1 hour climb (for me). I said yes, I was going, but that I was very slow and wanted to say thanks now. I followed them a few 100 meters while we both ate our bananas and they took off. I figured that their pace that morning prior to the mountain was just for fun, as no one who looks like do, in their matching club kits rides that slowly and climbs that fast. And therein lies the difference between the usa and here. Some days the italians just like to relax on a bike, and then use their energy for the mountain. In the states people go as fast as they can, almost all the time.

I had the done the Enego clinb two days ago and it was definitely easier today. The weather was cooler and I was, perhaps, 5 to 10 percent faster. As I neared the top, after 16 hairpin turns (Grappa has about 30), I saw my two friends coming down. Based on the time it takes to pause per un caffe, I figure they beat me by 15 minutes.
As I rounded the final corner into town I saw my favourite bar and stopped.

A cappucino never tastes so good as when you have just spent an hour slogging up a mountain!

Enego is a beautiful mountaintop town, and in this northern region, so close to the Swiss border, resembles a cross between an Italian town and a Swiss resort. It is charming.

Having savored my cappucino I put on my windbreaker and began my half hour decent, which was pretty good as these roads are wider than Grappa's.
Just when I approached the turnoff back home, at the foot of the climb I saw a man in his 60's and two very pretty and fit (and very well outfitted --this is Italy) girls/women, looking to be about 20.

The part of the road we were about to ride on is for bikes only, with no cars, and very narrow, more of a paved path, so I figured it would be a good thing to follow them as traffic coming the opposite way would see the 4 of us, more so than me alone. (Ok, and the view from behind wasn't bad either. Dad (grandpa? Uncle?) Was booking it at 18 to 20 and they were right there, as was I. I drafted them halfway down the river road until they stopped for a caffe and I continued solo all the way home, finishing stronger at the finish than at the start.

Finishing up my pbj and chips on the patio looking up at Mt Grappa. Hard to beat this.

Saturday

Days are meaningless to me here, expect to remind me when I leave.
After a very stormy afternoon and evening and night yesterday it is a brilliant morning. Sunny, no clouds, no more humidity. Brisk temps and no wind. A perfect biking day. Today would have been the day to climb Grappa. But yesterday was fine too. I also hear that the main road that I used has more cars on it during the weekend.

So I shall do the Brenta river ride to the end and then decide left or right!

Mt Grappa and Luck

I have read that it is better to be luck than good. And today was a good example of that.

I left the hotel at a little after 7 this morning, with no concrete destination in mind for the day.

As I neared the bottom of the 18 mile Mt Grappa climb I saw a person pedaling slowly up ahead. As I biked past her I noticed she was a woman, somewhat rare to see even here on a bike and I wondered if it was Ada, an Italian friend of George's who is in her mid 50's and likes Americans enough to bike with George's group weekly. Despite her proximity to so many Americans she doesn't know a word of English. I have biked with her once each year for the past three and we have always gotten along well together as I can putter around in Italian and she is as slow as I am on the bike.
I hoped I would see her here this week, as she is lots of fun.

As I passed her and looked at her we recognised each other at the same time. How she recognised me in full kit, helmet and sunglasses I don't know but she did. She asked where I was biking today and I said I didn't know. She invited me to climb Mt Grappa with and her friends halfway and I thought about it and said yes. By now her friend, Francesca and her husband, Flavio, had shown up and I was introduced. I actually had ridden with Francesca last year one day to Conco, with Ada, but she didn't remember me.in her tight outfit she looked a bit like the Michelin woman. Her husband, however, looked like a football linebacker.
slowly we made up Grappa, which is so steep at the beginning that you think yourself crazy for doing this, given that it goes on like this for almost 2 and one-hours!
A word about Grappa, as that's how I came to find this place. About 20 years ago a writer for a bike magazine, Christopher Hoch, wrote a great article about climbng this mountain, and staying at the Italian Bicycling Center, started and run by what he described as a curmungeon named George, who was then 55 and with little marketing save for small space ads in bike mags, attracted enough people so that there were on average 8 people there daily. He led the rides and was very regimented: out at 8:00am, back by 12:30, one cafe stop and all meals together at specific times, because he would only read the set menu of the meal one time.
I read the article and harboured a secret desire to go and climb Mt Grappa, which in the Tour De France would be a Category 1 climb. So I put the *rticle in my sock drawer, where I would see it every day and about 12-15 years later I brought my wife here. I loved the biking here, George less so. Few people warm up to him at first, but most people here are repeaters, as often as 14 times.when I got back I tracked down Christopher Hoch and thanked him for the article. I made his day. (Isn't the internet wonderful for finding folks!?)
I climbed Mt. Grappa that first year as well as my second year. Last year it rained 3 of 5 days we were here, and I didn't.
So I knew what to expect this morning
It was already hot out this morning as we began the climb. Ada reminded me that the first part ws the steepest. Quickly I had sweated though my whole outfit. My pants, shirt and even clothes! The sweat was pouring off me. Flavio and Ada didn't wear their helmets up, although they had them clipped to their bike for the ride down. Flavio joined me while Francesca and Ada fell back. It was evident that for Flavio this was a piece of cake, despite his size. He wasn't drinking any water and barely breaking a sweat! I was dripping and chugging gatorade.
We talked on the way up, until 3 guys passed us that he knew and he took off with them. About 15 minutes later I saw him waiting for me. He told me that one of the guys had been a former world champion cyclist, and lived nearby in Semonzo. The man was now about my age, although clearly more blessed in the speed gene pool than I.
After about an hour and a half of climbing we reached a small village, well, really a small hotel, restaurant and bar. We stopped here and waited for the girls. Francesca wasn't but a few minutes back and when she arrived she told uis that her right calf had cramped. Ada took much longer and also arrived with a leg cramp. They were both going back down rather than continue the climb.I asked Flavio but he too was turning back. He had climbd Grappa 18 times this year and had a 100 mile ride tomorrow and wanted to be fresh!
But they urged me to go on, and Flavio even gave me his secret weapon for decending, a trash bag; he demonstrated tearing a hole in the bottom for one's head and as well as arm holes and said to put in on under my soaking wet shirt when I came down. He said that no air would get through.
I folded it up and stashed it and continued my climb, knowing it would be another hour of brutal climbing before I reached the top.

As you get to the top of Grappa, which is about 6000' up, you begin to hear cow bells ring out as every cow has one and there is a farmer who has several herds, for cheese.it's an eerie and amusing sound in an otherwise silent climb, as generally people don't talk much as they climb.
Reaching the top is rather anticlimactic. There's no one clapping or taking your photo, with the caption I climbed Mt Grappa (now they could sell thousands of thse a year!).you wonder into the bar, where the only water is for sale, and begin to put on every bit of clothing for the decent, as it's about 35 to 40 up there!
Then it's down the way you came, either screaming down the hill at speeds up to 45 or 50 like all the italians, or holding on to the brakes for dear life, like yours truly!

About halfway down I look off to the distance and it looks like rain, which starts just as I pass the restaurant where I said ciao ciao to Ada and Flavio and Francesca. I stop because there is nothing worse than decending in a storm.

I go in for un caffe and watch a huge thunder storm roll up the mountain. Then comes the hail, and finally after an hour, fog. I decide to leave while it's dry.

I made it all the way back to the hotel just minutes before the next thunderstorm came through.

Better to be lucky than good!

a ride for the ages!

While 3 or the 4 people here cycling with George's group barely talk to me (because I am not with them, although we are all at the same hotel) the Italians are always happy to talk with un Americano that talks a bit of English. And the experience has been terrific, as I prefer talking with them.

Today was a brilliant morning and I thought about tackling the big mountain, which requires 2.5 hours of steady climbing to the top.

But as I biked close to the start of the climb up
I decided to not do it, reasoning that if my hamstring went it would be the end of the vacation. So I decided to do it another day and headed for the familiar flat roads up the brenta river valley.


No sooner had I crossed the river at Bassano I saw a group of 5 cyclists making a left turn onto the same road in front of me, so I quickly joined them, and said hello at the first opportunity.three of them had complete kits from their club, Pallidin, and they ranged from perhaps 50 to 65. What was nice was they let me draft their group for the next hour, and even nicer their pace matched mine. I was headed for Enego, about 25 miles up the valley, and stopped as we hit the bottom of what I now realised was the climb to Enego as they were going a different direction. We said goodbye and as I began to pedal up the hill I noticed another cyclist who had been behind me, waiting for me. He sked me if I wanted company. I said yes, but explained, in Italian, that I was very slow. He said he was too (he was 69). We had a great talk up the mountain to Enego for the next hour, and rewarded ourselves with a cafe at the top. From there we decided to press on to Foza, another hour's climb that was steeper. At Foza we began our hair aising decent to Valstagna, 25 hairpins. He was nice enough to wait for me every so often.
As we reached the bottom his wife called, worried because he had been out so long, so we stepped on it home at about 20 mph. We both split off near Bassano as he lived about 15 minutes from there, in Nove.

I thanked him profusely and told him I would always remember this ride.and I will.

Unfortunately the ride home to Borso from Bassano is all up hill, and while it's only about 7 miles it almost always comes at the end of the ride when you're tired.

And today I was on empty. I was out of food, having had two power bar gel packs and a banana and a cappucino. Not enough, although enough to soft pedal in slowly. I stopped at the breadstore near my hotel and bought a croissant stuffed with apricot and wolfed it down.

Now comes the relaxing afternoon.

Priceless.