STELVIO! Open day on the Stilfserjoch

The Stelvio Pass is a monster.

The final 14 of 48 switchback hairpin turns to the summit.

The second highest paved road pass in the Alps, it towers above the nearby valleys. The iconic switchbacks of the southern slope are layered on top of one another, a bitter fondant of pitiless pavement spilling down the side of a cake of stone and earth.

The pass has been a grand feature of the annual Giro d’Italia more than 10 times since 1953, and the first man to win a stage here is immortalized on every sign and every building at the peak of the pass. Cima Coppi.

Once a year the pass is closed to vehicles and thousands of cyclists take to the road to test themselves against the almost 6,000 feet of vertical gain and 48 hairpin turns in less than 15 miles. It’s a bucket list ride for any serious cyclist and this August I decided it was my turn.

Getting to the town of Prato allo Stelvio (or Prad am Stilfserjoch) begins the narrative of what it means to climb Stelvio. As Char and I drove north we left the Dolomites behind and entered the Alps.

They were silent, sleeping giants dormant under a thick verdant blanket of forests, rising straight up from the valley floor. Farms and vineyards clung to the side of the sheer sides of the mountains.

But, when we arrived in Prato, the mountains were awake. Stone soldiers stood upright, their tops bear rock and ice, looming over travellers, menacingly beautiful and terrifying. These imposing sentinels had torn free of their forested blankets, ripping through the green fabric to reach skyward with helmets capped with snow and ice. We could feel their presence everywhere, towering above the towns and villages, almost as though at any moment a giant stone hand would come crashing down from above.

Everywhere you look there's a snowy peak staring back at you.

Less intimidating, but no less interesting, the farther we drove north the less Italian everything became. Each town had both the Italian and German translation of its name on every sign, and increasingly the German name was printed first. The people we met spoke German, the radio stations were in German, and German food and bier was the norm. The houses lost their colorful Mediterranean flare, replaced with white washed walls, timber braces and steep roofs. Even in mid-August, everything seemed poised for the onslaught of long and hard winters.

We spent the night in a nearby town of Solda (Sulden) at a bed and breakfast tucked into the back of a hidden valley. Dinner was bratwurst (of course!) with fried potatoes and a bean salad that the cook claimed was a Mexican salad. Washed down with some local Italian craft beer that was actually pretty good we crashed on the double twin mattresses in our room before an early start.

The B&B had prepped a cold breakfast for us, and we grabbed what we could carry and took off on the road while the stars were still shining overhead. Twenty minutes down oppressively dark hairpin turns and we began to see the first riders already launching their rides to the summit.

The game plan was simple. Ride to the summit of the pass, descend down the backside into Switzerland to avoid the crowds, and ride back around to Prato after crossing the border into Italy. I had enough Euro to cover food at any stops, and my passport to keep from having to ride back up the mountain, just in case the border was less than friendly. I would meet Char back in Prato, get cleaned up, and head for home over three hours drive away.

Char pulled into a park just on the outside of Prato and kicked me out into the road to start my climb. It was 0630, and still cold in the mountains, hovering around 50 degrees Fahrenheit. The temperature was supposed to climb all day, peaking in the mid 80s with lots of sunshine so I gambled that my vest would be enough to survive the early cold and later the descent down the backside of the pass into Switzerland.

A look of uncertainty or determination?

The first half hour was an easy warm up, getting my legs used to the constant pushing and pulling of the pedals, warming my lungs up in the thin air and thinking out how much thinner it would be in a couple hours. I stopped briefly in the town of Gomagoi to pull off my vest and then kept going.

The road sloped gently up farther into the valley, and I could just make out the stony and icy peaks of the mountains we were all riding to cross. I rode six miles along a rushing and bitterly cold looking river before the first switchback appeared. Number 48, with 47 more to go.

The road cut steeply up the side of the valley, walled in on either side by a dense forest of tall pines. Whenever there was a break in the trees, the real majesty of the alpine valley was exposed and it was hard not to stop every single time to take a picture and just drink in the expansive views of pitched stone and ice rising above the thick forests.

Switchbacks were stacked on top of switchbacks, with no relief in the constantly uphill gradient of pavement other than the strategically placed water stations and much appreciated porta johns. Halfway up the mountain the road emerged from the trees and turned into the upper valley of the Stelvio Pass. There was a gasthof (tavern) situated right on the edge of the upper valley with a full view down into the lower river valley. Several of the older riders were turning into the drive way but I wasted no time and kept plugging upwards.

By now, my legs were aching and my lungs starting to burn with fatigue and deprivation. The sun was fully out and the grass and shrub of the upper valley offered no protection. I counted down the switchbacks as I climbed, the descending number motivating my ascent.

34, over a quarter of the way there.

22, past the halfway point.

14, I’m on the final stretch now.

Once I hit the single digits, the real pain began. My lungs couldn’t get enough air to feel adequate. My legs were burning furiously, and there was no easier gear to switch into. My back ached, and even my arms struggled to grip the handlebars and hold my upper body up. I dared not stop, even to take a picture, for fear of never starting again.

Reaching the top is almost always hard to describe. There’s relief, joy, incredible euphoria, and a great sense of accomplishment. But there’s also pain from the climb, the hard ride, the great expenditure of energy and effort. And then there’s a sense of loss, too. The climb is over, the challenge met and overcome and now it’s no longer something I can look forward to, it’s something that I’ve already done. It’s in the past.

Tired but very happy.

Putting all the emotional strife aside, there were lots of riders recovering, lots of vendors hawking knickknacks and cycling apparel, and, most importantly, bratwurst and beer everywhere. I made the decision to skip a bier after imagining what it would be like to fall off the mountain and opted for a bratwurst on brown bread with sauerkraut and mustard instead.

He claimed he had the finest sausages in the Alps, and they were very tasty.

After refueling and stretching my legs, it was time to start downhill.

I pulled my vest back on, pulled my scarf up, dumped the rock out of my shoe that’d been terrorizing me the last half hour (how it got there, I don’t know) and pointed my bike downhill. This side of the pass was much more open, miles of brown grass and shrub, before the valley dropped sharply into a thick forest of pine amidst sharp switchbacks.

Very quickly I left the noise of the summit behind, the music, the sound of brat vendors calling to customers, riders shouting to friends and encouraging those just reaching the summit. There was nothing but the rush of air and the clanging of cowbells from the sparse herds grazing on the slopes.

Looking down the backside. To the right is Switzerland.

There were very few riders climbing this side and they mostly clung to the very edge as they struggled slowly upward. With no cars to worry about, I could finally let go and really enjoy the long breathtaking descent. I braked hard for the hairpin turns and then let the bike run free downhill. Even when the edge of the road wasn’t a steep dropoff into a rocky or pine abyss there was a sensation of being very high up. It was exhilarating and, when combined with the speed of flying down the mountain, left me laughing loudly. Not a creepy laugh, just one of pure joy and fun. It was a laughter I hadn’t felt in a while, and the only way to accurately express how if felt racing through the Alps.

Somewhere on the road I crossed into Switzerland, but couldn’t tell any difference until I reached Santa Maria Val Mustair and could see the road signs and businesses labeled entirely in German. Here a local policeman stood with batons to direct all riders onto a local trail to avoid the downtown area. We circumvented Santa Maria but also navigated a half-mile of rough dirt and gravel trail. Not the easiest thing on my skinny tires.

Soon afterward I crossed back into Italy, a cursory wave of the hand from the border guard and my passport remained buried deep in a jersey pocket.

The road descended further into the valley, and I was joined (or caught up to) several other riders racing down the mountain. Together, we flew along the road, leaning through sweeping turns and tucking down into our bikes to scream along the straightaways.

The final five miles that led from Glorenza (Glurns) to Prato were mostly flat or slightly uphill. I had thought my legs were too spent to do anything serious after climbing Stelvio, but was surprised to find something left in the tank after all. I pounded along the road, slowly dropping the group I had been descending with and reeling in others that had left earlier. I kept up a blistering pace and my lungs were heaving with the effort when I pulled into Prato.

The festa scheduled for the riders climbing Stelvio was only just being put up, the tents still empty and the beer kegs not yet tapped. It had taken almost three and a half hours to climb the 15 miles to Stelvio, but only little more than an hour to finish the 25 miles back to Prato. The temperature was well into the 80s and I was grateful to be off the bike before it got much warmer.

Char and I found each other, and I changed out of my sweaty kit with a quick baby wipe bath before the long drive back home.

Lessons learned:

Bratwurst mit brot und sauerkraut und mustard is great riding fuel but a beer is dependent on the total meters you might fall when crashing into the railing of a steep switchback.

Also, fig newtons help prevent bratwurst burps while riding.

It’s ok to not find the right words to describe something as majestic as the Alps. Words can be powerful, pictures more so, but often nothing compares to the emotional experience of witnessing true magnificence and beauty in person.

This is especially true when you’re 8 miles into a 15 mile, almost 6,000 foot ascent on your bike and have to pee. How do you really describe that experience to someone?

Well, that escalated quickly

Things have gotten really out of control.

Thunder is echoing across the hills but hidden behind the black clouds rolling in behind me. It's so dark that it feels more like twilight, not late morning, and the fog is so thick I can't see more than a couple meters in any direction. The narrow potted road I'm on is pitching down into blackness, I think a car is coming towards me and I just dropped a chain.

How did I end up here?

Today was supposed to be a long but easy going ride. I'd checked the weather and didn't see anything more frightening than a slight chance of rain in the afternoon. I scanned a map and figured I could make it to Asiago and then follow a clockwise loop along the ridges and down into Valstagna, then home again in little more than four hours. Maybe I should have looked at the map a little closer and seen that the shortest distance between two points dives deep into hidden valleys and climbs up excruciatingly steep backroads past farms and churches to reach the hilltop villages scattered along the ridges.

But I've never been a huge fan of too much thinking ahead.

I slept in, then left the house late. Typical. The weather was almost perfect, sunny but not yet scorching or humid. I made my way up mostly familiar roads and found my turn towards Asiago, and began climbing into the front range of the Dolomites. The road looped back on itself as I wound upwards, the plains spilled out below, partially hidden by the clouds I was starting to climb into.

Mandatory cycling selfie!

It's important to remain flexible, to be open to adventure when you're exploring new routes and new roads. When I saw the sign for the Chiesetta del Ciclista, I couldn't say no. I took the detour about a half mile off the looping switchbacks to the Chapel of the Cyclist, refilled my waterbottle, ate some fig newtons, and said a small prayer of thanks for the beautiful ride.

Inside the chapel are jersey's donated by pro-cyclists, posters,
and other cycling memorabilia.

Half an hour later my prayers were answered with a loud pop followed by hissing. My first blowout in 10 months is halfway up an Italian mountain.

Haven't taken one of these pictures in a while. 

I went through the old but familiar routine of pulling out the tube and inspecting the tire to find a single clean gash in my fancy Gatorskin tires. These things are supposed to be invincible and I couldn't imagine what would cause a huge gash right across the thickest part of the tire. Maybe it was the broken glass I couldn't avoid earlier that morning, or perhaps the dirt and sharp rocky bypass that I had to use to get to and from the chapel just a few minutes ago.

A 5 Euro shim and one CO2 cartridge later and I was ready to head home. And that's when my decision making process failed me.

How can you decide to head for home with roads this
beautiful to ride on?

I was only 25 miles in, the weather seemed to be cooperating, and it couldn't possibly take me that long to at least get close to Asiago, right?

An hour later and I was completely committed, there was thunder chasing me farther into the hills, and I was desparately searching for any shortcut that would take me to the Fiume (River) Brenta and back down to the plains and home.


At one point, I even hid under an outdoor cafe's awning when a brief rain shower chased me off the slick road.

I rolled through one eerily quiet village then started to descend back into another valley. The trees closed in thick on both sides, the sky was completely hidden by fog, and I was riding in twilight. It was creepy, almost scary, and I started to scan the edges of fog for eyes or snarls or heavy breathing of any kind, but the thick curtains of moisture swallowed up every noise but the steady drip of the impending rain and my raspy breath.

A sweeping descent finally led me out of the fog and into a verdant, hidden valley. I crossed a very modern looking bridge that spanned a rocky ravine out of which a single church tower was peeking. My route, what I had decided was the quickest way to my destination, left the main road and turned upwards. By up, I mean it turned straight up the hillside, I rose out of the saddle for the next kilometer of nonstop climbing until my lungs burned and ribs ached. 

Two roads diverged in the valley, and I took the one that went
straight uphill.

When the road finally leveled off, I was rewarded with an amazing view back into the valley I'd just left behind.

Looking back the way I'd come. The village across the valley
was still hidden in fog, and cattle below meandered through
fields, their bells the only sound breaking the still air.

A few more miles along this final ridge and I reached the last town and finally began to descend in earnest, down into the Brenta river valley and my road home. The 10-mile descent began with long sweeping roads and the sky was opening up into patches of blue and puffy white clouds. I coasted along, no braking, just gently leaning into the turns and trying not to howl with joy at the free speed and open and lonely road. Of course, this couldn't last forever either. 

Halfway down I hit the first of 18 numbered hairpin switchback turns that would go on for five more miles. When I finally eased around turn number one my hands were cramping and my back ached from the constant braking, acceleration and then almost immediate deceleration. 

I rolled into Valstagna and turned left without hesitating and coasted to a stop at the first gelateria on the town's promenade. 

My reward for making stupid decisions and ignoring every warning
 sign thrown at me: a bottle of aqua minerale, a cafe, and cookie gelato.

After that the ride was mostly routine. I cruised, with aching and sore legs, the almost 30 miles to home, most of it slightly downhill or with a light tailwind. 

I left in the cool morning and returned in the tepid afternoon heat. Looking around as I rode back through the same small towns and villages almost seven hours later I wondered what other riders and bystanders, people in shops and businesses along my route, thought of me pedaling past. Did they recognize that I'd been out all day, climbing and rocketing down mountain valleys and ridges, visiting cycling shrines and repairing blown tires, outrunning thunderstorms and keeping guard against fairy tale creatures lurking in the fog and forests? Or was I just another one of the many nameless and faceless cyclists that flies past on any given day in this land so prolific with bicycling culture?

I do know it meant a lot to me, to spend so long out on the bike, suffering and enjoying what the local roads had to offer. It's been a long time since I subjected my body to that many hours in the saddle. It's something I should do more often, but maybe with a little better route planning and without ignoring blown tires.

Well, tomorrow's schedule looks open. Let's see what kind of trouble is waiting out there on the road.

The Double Decker Endurance Challenge or How Not to Drown and Die an Awful and Terribly Painful Death

I’m staring upwards as I run, four solid floors of concrete agony looming above. I’ve already ascended and descended these monsters twice and now I have two more to go. My legs are screaming, my lungs burn, my ribs feel like they’re going to crack with the heaving of my strained diaphragm and I might pass out.

This is the Double Decker Endurance Challenge, and I’m almost done.

As in done for, like, in the cowboy at high noon sense of endings.

Yup, that pretty much sums it up.

Two weeks before this fatal moment I saw the ad for an endurance event; something unique that appealed to the masochist in me. It consisted of a five-kilometer run, then a 300-meter swim, and finished off with another 1.5 kilometers of running that included four ascents of the nearby parking garages. 540 steps in total.

It sounded simple enough, and I was craving something triathlon-esque. I had not suffered through a triathlon in almost eight months and Char hadn’t endured the misery and joy in over a year. Time to get our pain and suffering on.

There was no time to train, but we’d faithfully kept up our weekly swim sessions so I knew I probably wouldn’t drown. Probably.

Stole the picture, sorry.

Months ago I had been running a local route, almost weekly, that included an incredible stair case climb on ancient stone steps, followed immediately by more than a quarter mile up a steep 12% grade to a classic church overlooking the city of Vicenza.

Gorgeous, once you’re at the top.

Brutal, on your way up.

It had been a couple months, but I thought I still had it in me to face the unforgiving brutality of the stair climb. What I wasn’t sure about, and truly intimidated by, was the 300-meter swim immediately following the 5k.

I’m always a little afraid of the swim portion of a triathlon. But always before I have time to prepare myself, to warm up specifically and to prepare my gear for the swim. This time I would be sprinting into the transition area, sweating, gasping, and trying to shed shoes and glasses while pulling on goggles and nose plug. I would already be at least a little out of breath when I started the swim. With my history of breathing issues in the water (no gills on this guy) this did not bode well for my survival.

Char just laughed, carelessly, flouting death with her flippant, even dismissive, disdainful chuckle. That’s why she’s my hero.

Intimidating.

 The start zone alone was intimidating, Char and I gauging the competition and trying to predict where we’d fall in the pack. Everyone seemed to know each other, and talked about their training and expectations. Char and I were the outsiders, and the only ones that seemed unfamiliar with what was about to happen. There were only six women at the start, so Char wasn’t too challenged to pick out her place. I had a much harder time. Every dude there looked like he could eat me for breakfast and then run circles around the leftovers. I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds intimidating.

Less intimidating.

Once the gun went off, Char and I paced ourselves deliberately for the first 5k. We thought we could save just enough energy to make the swim less painful. Ripping off slightly sweaty shoes and pulling on goggles was a disorienting experience, but the cool water felt great and my body was already warmed up and ready to go. I had to fight a nasty leak in the first length of the pool, but there wasn’t much to complain about after that. Because of the training and previous experiences, I felt no panic in the pool, even while some of the other swimmers decided to head the wrong way and I narrowly avoided several head-on collisions. I had decided to wear my triathlon top, based on the results of a brief social media poll that indicated it would be more aerodynamic and less revolting if I kept a shirt on. Surprisingly, it provided very little drag, and probably was more streamlined based on a brief test I ran in the pool a week later.

Sprint to the finish, no mercy!

Coming out of the pool placed me back in my element. I had lost only a little time in the pool and began running down the pack immediately in front of me. I paced them on the first set up stairs, but gained considerable ground on the descent. (I tried a risky but rewarding tactic of skipping every other step, even on the way down which required strict focus even while exhausted) By the second set of stairs I was passing other runners and by the time I finished the fourth I was almost alone. There was a single and final runner that I was able to pass sometime in the last half mile.

I had just enough recovery time to pull on a dry shirt, and pull off my now soaking shoes, before Char arrived at the finish line. My own time was not enough to place in my age group but Char proudly stepped forward in the awards ceremony to receive her second place award. Beast.

You can't argue with awesome.

What had sounded like a good idea weeks before, then transformed into a physical nightmare halfway through, ended with a definite sense of accomplishment and triumph. We had both come to face the challenge with different fears and goals and emerged with our own victories, Char with a medal and me with my life.

Win.

And then we celebrated the only way we knew how. With food.

Baked gnocchi from a local restaurant, Mexico '86, named after a fateful World Cup game.

Review of the Mountain Athletics Training Program and Mobile App or How to Get Beast in 6 Weeks!

It's time to get down to business.

After a year of new adventures that included leaving behind familiar stomping grounds and exploring new places while struggling to stay fit on the go, Char and I stopped moving around and settled down. We could finally try and answer one burning question:

How are we going to stay motivated and get ourselves into prime shape to enjoy our favorite activities this summer?

We needed a plan, something that would keep us on track to meet our goals, included simple metrics to judge our progress, was challenging enough to keep us interested, and simple enough that we wouldn't be too intimidated or confused to start something new. It had to hook us early on and keep us on track long enough to see results. And there had to be results. How else was I going to get my gorgeous beach bod ready in time for summer?

There are plenty of workout plans to choose from in the wide world of the web (see what I did there?) and many that can be tailored to specific fitness goals.

But what were our goals? I wanted to be a better cyclist, to maximize my score on the Army Physical Fitness Test, and to be an all around beast. Plus, I wanted to start training and preparing for a Half Ironman Triathlon in 2016. Char wanted to lose weight, build muscle strength and improve her endurance capacity. Our goals didn't seem to synch very well at first and I realized that we needed to start with a foundation before we moved on to something tailored to our individual goals.

A cursory search of online plans led me to the Mountain Athletics app available from North Face.

It's basic plans seemed limited in scope; you're either a skier, climber or a runner, basically all the sports that North Face sells equipment for, but the interface was simple and straightforward. I wasn't ready to be one of those gym rats carrying a notebook with complicated charts and diagrams to follow while trying to get my swoll on. One of the six basic plans is titled "General Fitness" and we decided it was exactly what Char and I were looking for. Plus, the app was free so we weren't investing much capitol into the adventure.

The program was fairly simple. Mondays and Fridays were heavy on weight training, Tuesdays and Thursdays are core strengthening and closely resemble a HIIT (High Intensity Interval Training) or Crossfit workout. Wednesday is a moderate run and the weekends are for resting. Though, I usually sneak in a long distance run or bike ride.

My first 6 weeks,
all summed up.

The workouts themselves were not overly complex. Each consisted of a warm-up phase, usually three or four exercises repeated for four rounds, then two sessions dedicated to a specific capability, (i.e., lower body, unilateral, or upper body strength) with specified repetitions or time.

The beauty of the program was the application interface and its ability to keep you on track. First, set up your profile, then choose the workout program. Each day you hit the start button and follow along with the basic instructions. There are video links if you need to see a workout before you perform it (very important in the beginning). Each week, after completing the daily workouts, you earn a new badge. It's a little motivation to not skip a workout and entices you to stay dedicated to the program.

The workout plan was the same every week, with only certain exercises increasing in repetition or duration. I thought this would become monotonous after a couple weeks, instead, it lent some predictability and consistency to my workouts. I knew what to expect and, because the workouts didn't change from week to week, could actually measure my progress over a short amount of time. From week to week I could see my bench press reps becoming easier, even adding a little weight and needing less assistance from a spotter. Gradually, I chose a heavier dumbbell or kettle bell, and added a lot more weight to my box squats. The repetition also helped us both to improve our form and focus on doing the workouts properly to prevent injuring ourselves.

We cheated occasionally, adding a swim workout in the evening, and we always ran farther and faster than the planned "moderate pace" during the Wednesday run. But what's life without a few broken rules? Otherwise, we stuck to the plan, which also gave us another added benefit. Since the workout program was consistent week to week, we used it as a control against another experiment involving diet and supplements. I'll save the results for another blog post, but we were able to try different pre-workout and recovery powders and actually notice a difference in how they affected our performance against the routine workouts.

A constant struggle with Char and I is the delta between our fitness abilities. Too often, one of us is stronger than the other in an activity and we struggle to stay together. I ride circles around her on the bike and she laps me in the pool, literally. But with this program, we could do the same workout everyday, together, albeit with different weights or sizes of boxes. On days that we worked out separately we compared our sessions together later, keeping us both on track and motivated to keep going.

Not everything was perfect, and there's always room for improvement. The beauty of the app was its simplicity, but sometimes it was a little too simple. As badges become unlocked they're viewable from the "Badges" page, but there's no interaction or ability to see what triggered them. The "Progress" page allows you to preview upcoming workouts, but not view past sessions at all. One minor glitch that I found annoying was the difficulty in controlling my music while running the app. Once I started a song and reopened the app, it paused the music. Luckily I can control my music using my headphones, but it was a minor nuisance. The last downside to the app is that once you have selected a program, you can't preview any of the other programs without quitting the current one. So, if you're three weeks into the program, and decide to check out what the other plans offer, you lose those three weeks of progress.

There's also no link between the website and the app, so you can't go online and view your progress or preview upcoming workouts on a regular computer. The website itself changes constantly. When we first started, you could preview all the fitness programs to see what the workout plans consisted of. Maybe it's North Face's way of protecting proprietary information and driving folks to use their app, but there were a few times when I wanted to see what the other programs looked like and show them to some of my coworkers to entice them into it.

Overall, the app was great, did exactly what it was designed to do, and my complaints are mostly nitpicking and personal preference. Neither Char nor I had difficulty in figuring out the controls, as they were simple and intuitive, and never experienced any strange glitches or technical problems other than my small and easily overcome music issue.

A great and simple interface is nice. A good workout plan that kept us hooked and dedicated is also good. But what about results? Where's my beach-ready abs and swoll guns?

As with any fitness goal, true results take time, and six weeks is a pretty short window to see a true transformation, but, since we started, I have increased the amount of weight I can bench press and squat, box jumps are much easier, and there is definite tone and development of the muscles in my arms, legs and core areas. I'm no professional body builder or weight lifter, and my focus is definitely more about endurance sports, but the muscle strength this program helped my develop is already paying off during laps in the pool and while climbing the local hills on my road bike.

Yup, that's what Beast Mode looks like!

Most importantly, Char and I are both already looking forward to starting the next program, this time with a running focus. It's an area that we both want to work on, and the Mountain Athletic program still maintains the strength training days so we don't have to worry about losing what we've gained.

Check it out and decide for yourself: http://www.thenorthface.com/en_US/mountain-athletics/.

Watch their slick promo video on the website above or on YouTube.

Back in the Saddle

It’s been almost five whole months since I rode my bike. Anyone that knows me understands how difficult it’s been to be without. Even after I finally unpacked my bike, there was poor weather and a bout of the plague (also known as the common cold) that kept me off the roads.

This morning, I climbed back into the saddle.

It was cold, below freezing, and the nebbia (fog) was thick across the whole region.

The mandatory glamour pic of my bike with
the Rotonda obscured by fog in the background.  

I took longer than usual to get ready, struggling to remember how to layer my bib with leg warmers, base layer, vest, and so on. Pulling on my shoe covers was a spectacle unto itself.

When I kicked away from the driveway, I wobbled along the road, struggling to clip my feet into the pedals, and unsure if I even remembered how to keep the bike upright.

But, as they say, you never really forget how to ride a bike, even when you’re a poorly coordinated, slow-witted squatch like me.

I cruised along the Italian roads, narrowly missing cars and obstacles, neatly curving through roundabouts and shouting Ciao! at passing cyclists. My spirits soared when the old man smoking a cigarette outside a Bar (where they serve coffee, not booze) shouted “ Alè, alè!” at me. I assume it meant something good, ‘cause I was really moving right then and he had a huge grin spread across his leathery face.

Everything was going so well. Despite the nebbia and freezing air I was making good time and enjoying myself thoroughly. So, I did what I do best.

I got lost. On purpose.

Smoke rose from chimneys, steam from vents. Chickens huddled silent in their pens. At the edges of town, hills rose out of the fog, covered with ghostly rows of slumbering grape vines barren of fruit and standing sentinel on the rolling hills, memories of soldiers and ancient walls defending the town. Somewhere, church bells tolled, the echoes struggling through the thick walls of gloom.

I found an awesome switchback road leading away from the main road through narrow, tightly curving streets that, according to the map, should connect up with another road over the small mountain that could take me back around and home via the scenic route. I stopped part way up to take a quick photo of the town and countryside spread out below. The grade averaged somewhere around 14 percent and I could actually feel my heart beating inside my skull. My lungs were burning and legs protesting when the road turned from asphalt into dirt, rocks, and mud. I kept it up for a quarter mile before I stopped to inspect the map a little closer. That’s when I realized I had almost 25 more kilometers to go of this muddy switchback. The mountain bikers riding up behind me were apparently impressed with what I had so far accomplished with my skinny tires. They laughed and called me “corraggioso.” When they weren’t looking, I turned back and slowly wobbled back downhill.

Instead, I crossed over a river completely covered in nebbia (that’s fog, remember) and headed east to find my way home. My hands were completely frozen and I had struggled to use my brakes on my way back down the mountain. It was time for a hot shower and coffee.

Everywhere the fog pushed the world away from reality and into a vision where nothing was truly real and nothing appeared for very long. Anything that came into focus only stayed long enough to be noticed, briefly, before dissolving back into the dream surrounding me.

Several mostly uneventful but confusing miles (or kilometers) later I was cruising back into my neighborhood. The feeling of elation and accomplishment that I usually have at the end of a bike ride was there. It’s a sensation that I’ve been missing out on for almost half a year. It’s euphoric but inspiring. I feel calm and excited, enthusiastic about what my day holds, and usually (if I’m not completely exhausted) get a lot of work done.

I find bike rides to be perfect tools for brainstorming and meditating, and often have great ideas or discover solutions to problems while riding. And, of course, they give me the excuse to eat whatever I want afterwards. Buon Appetito!

My face was frozen that way, and my hands were so red and swollen that I could barely unclip my helmet afterwards. Why do I do this to myself? Partly, because I’m an idiot, and partly, because it’s fun.