I can breathe underwater, and that’s pretty cool! Part One.

A couple weeks ago, on a warm Labor day weekend afternoon, I was floating a mere inches above the floor of the warm Adriatic Sea just off the coast of Pula, Croatia. Sea cucumbers, urchins, and schools of tiny colorful fish, all blissfully ignorant of my intruding presence, surrounded me. I looked up and could see the distorted rays of sunlight filtering down through several meters of clear, blue Mediterranean water. I took a deep breath and exhaled, bubbles flowing across my mask as I breathed underwater for the first time in my life and, also for the first time, with no sense of panic or fear of being eaten alive.

Just a preview and maybe spoiler for the end of this story.

How did I end up here?

Char and I made the leap a few weeks ago and signed up for a NAUI basic open water SCUBA certification course. I don’t know what I was thinking, but somehow, in the back of my mind, I was pretty sure it would never happen. The course would be cancelled due to lack of participation or funding or weather or natural disaster or alien invasion. I believed this because for my whole life I never truly believed I would ever actually go SCUBA diving and would never enjoy it or be able to do it.

Part One.

Origins

As a kid I dreamed about growing up to be a marine biologist. I gleefully watched Jacques Cousteau effortlessly swimming along the bottom of the sea pointing out the impossibly colorful and varied life and narrated by his calm yet enthusiastic and accented voice. I was glued to the television weekly to experience the newest adventure of the crew of the SeaQuest and Roy Scheider as they explored the deepest depths of the unexplored oceans.

But as I grew older, my own relationship with water, especially open water, turned sour. Maybe I watched Jaws one too many times. Somehow Roy Scheider both motivated to get in the water, and terrified me of it.

That's a big pile of nope for me!

By the time I was an adult, I could barely swim across a pool and had an irrational fear of the open water. What was swimming underneath me? What just touched me? What was about to eat me?

Over the last couple years I’ve worked hard to overcome that fear. I’ve spent countless hours in the pool relearning how to swim and even competed in a few sprint triathlons, but almost suffered a panic attack in my first open water event. I’ve gone snorkeling several times, and almost always have to quell the sudden urge to flee the water and make a break for shore at the first shiver of anxiety.

When Char informed me that we’d signed up for the SCUBA class (we?) that same sense of panic that I usually experience when chest deep in water that I can’t see through gripped me while I was safely ensconced inside a hotel room on a work-related trip. Char ensured me that I’d agreed to this plan some weeks before, however, in the moment of commitment I had no recollection of making any such life-altering, and assuredly life-ending, decision.

I think you're right, Roy!

Treading Water

Less than two weeks before the class began, Char and I were in the pool where I had just struggled to finish a solid mile of lap swimming. In preparation for the upcoming SCUBA lessons she informed me that we’d need to tread water in the class and that we should begin training now. Remembering my swim training from Boy Scouts I assumed the requirement wouldn’t exceed more than a minute or two, which was good because that’s probably all I could manage. My body was built for sinking, not floating. Regardless, I side stroked down the pool to the deep end, lolled along by Charla’s irresistible siren call. With legs and lungs already exhausted from swimming I began treading, watching the clock on the wall deliberately. When a full minute elapsed I glanced over at where Charla sat perched, on top of the water, bobbing along effortlessly, naturally buoyant and relaxed while I strained against the pull of the deep, my pained face barely clearing the gently lapping waves of the indoor pool.

Another minute passed before I finally asked her, “so… how long are we supposed to do this?”

“For about ten minutes, babe.”

Fortunately for us both, I was too tired to reach out of the water and shake her violently. Instead, it was all I could do to maintain the motion of my cramping and burning and exhausted legs and arms and keep from drowning only four feet from the edge of the pool.

I managed a full five minutes before I was too spent to keep kicking and was tired of staring angrily in her direction.

This was not going well.

To be continued...

When in Rome, transform your perspective

Char and I have some crazy ideas when it comes to doing stuff for fun, and the three days we spent in Rome with her parents were no exception. (Here it is.) 

Question: What do you get when you drop two aspiring endurance athletes into the middle of ancient Rome?

Down the not-so-deserted streets of Rome we go!

Answer: An uncontrollable urge to recreate Abebe Bikila’s 1960 marathon victory.

Ok, so that wasn’t going to happen, but we did go for a run.

We’d spent the previous day walking some of the oldest and most renowned historical sites in Rome. Everywhere we went the streets were crowded with like-minded visitors and after a while it became routine to round a corner and see something ancient, snap some photos, and move on to the next one. The excitement waned, and boredom began to set in.

Maybe we were burned out, maybe we just needed to see the city from a different perspective.

Cheesy grins in front of the Roman Coliseum.

We woke up before sunrise, thinking that the streets would be empty and quiet and perfect for a quick scavenger hunt run past some of the most historic sites from the ancient, classic and renaissance world. Surprise! Cars, taxis, buses, scooters and motorcycles were already zooming along the streets, horns blaring and people bustling to get wherever they needed to be at 530 in the morning.

Double-checking directions on the map at Piazza Navona.

No worries, we padded off along the mixture of concrete and stone paved roads and sidewalks to the sites on our list that included Santa Maria Maggiore, the Coliseum, a huge memorial to Vittorio Emmanuelle II, Piazza Navona, the Fiume Tevere (Tiber River), Castello Sant’Angelo. (Ok, it was in the background when we got to the river, but come on! We were running out of time for breakfast!) We finished off the run with a sprint (sort of) up the Spanish Steps and drank in the view across the rooftops of Rome. In the distance, Saint Peter’s Basilica barely reached into the early morning rays of sunshine. (Later that day, we’d fully tour the Vatican museums, Sistine Chapel and St. Peters, but it was a bit too far for our tight timeline that morning.)

Even with the early morning rush hour of traffic, the historical sites usually crawling with tourists were almost entirely empty leaving us free to appreciate them without the usual hectic multicultural fray. And being up early enough to watch the sun slowly illuminate the city, to watch the cloud of darkness peeled back to reveal aging stone, marble, and brick, was worth it.

Take the time, sacrifice a little comfort, and appreciate what’s around you like you’ve never seen it before. What you see and what you learn just might surprise you.

The Tiber River just before sunrise.

This wasn’t our first scavenger hunt run through historical sites. To read about our DC adventure, click here.

Spanish steps and Rome skyline just after sunrise.

Cow poop and bike grease

The story of how I got stuck in an Italian cattle drive and almost made it home.

I stood along the road, my bike in pieces at my feet, both of us covered in bike grease and cow manure, waiting for Char to come rescue me. I was two miles from home, and I quit.

Five hours ago, I had a simple mission. Ride to Turcio just outside Asiago, where I could get a well-deserved cafe and pastry, then head home in time to join Char and the in-laws for brunch. It had rained a little when I started the ride, but stopped before I had covered the 20 miles to the mountains. I stopped at the Chiesa della Madonna della Ciclista on the way up the mountain to pay my respects and for a quick clean bathroom and snack break and made great time up into the Dolomites.

Staring down at the town of Conco (Kunken in German) is always a great view. It's like a city up in the clouds on a rainy day, with the Veneto Po River Valley spread out far below it.

It was totally uneventful, and almost entirely devoid of other cyclists, which should have been my first clue that I probably didn’t want to be out on the road. When the birds in the forest stop chirping, you’re probably in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Four miles from Turcio I came across an Italian cattle drive. They had wagons, horses, an entire caravan of support vehicles, lots of guys walking with sticks and Alpini feathered hats, and even a massage table set up along the road where they were working over some of the cattle herders.

Italian cowboys!

But they were all off the road in the adjacent fields so I took a few pics and carried on my merry way.

On the way home, well, that’s when things got interesting.

Mandatory selfie with Italian cowboys and cowgirls. 

A few miles down the road I ran smack into the back end of the cattle drive that had taken over the entire road. Everything was covered in manure, and I tried unsuccessfully to weave between the worst piles of muck, passing cars and working my way along the convoy of cattle herding vehicles, polizia cars, trucks, tractors, wagons and horses before I found myself stuck staring at the butt end, literally, of a couple hundred head of cattle heading down the mountain switchbacks.

A horse drawn wagon, why not?

I followed another Italian cyclist, one of the very few on the road that morning, back up the mountain and he showed me a back road that looped and carved down the mountain to get us ahead of the herd.  As I followed him back onto the main road my bike began rattling frighteningly and I looked down to see my bike bottle cage rocking wildly against the frame. A few quick moments on the side of the road with my mini-tool and I was once again rocketing towards home.

Now I was really running late and pushing my already spent legs and lungs hard to beat my best times on a familiar route home. I was making good time and feeling great about the ride despite the persistent smell of cow dung on everything when I felt and heard the pop. The evil hiss that followed told me everything I needed to know, and my back tire even began to fishtail precariously.

Sometimes, when things start to go wrong, they keep getting worse.

Standing at the side of the road looking at the fibers pushing out from the gaping maw in my tire, and all the euphoria of the ride vanished. I started going through the familiar routine of removing the tire to put in a dollar-bill shim and new tube while texting Char that I was running even later when we both realized that I was only two miles from home. By the time I’d fix the bike, she’d be there with the Jeep to give me a lift and we were already so late for brunch that we were running the risk of missing it.

I started to put the wheel back on the frame so it would fit on the bike rack when my manual dexterity disappeared. I couldn’t get the wheel back on, the chain slipped off the front chainring, the front fork turned awkwardly and I very nearly found myself tumbling down into a ditch full of stagnant farm runoff.

And that’s how Charla found me, standing alongside the road in my disheveled kit, covered in cow manure and bike grease, reeking of dung and sweat, furious and exhausted and ready to throw my bike into oncoming traffic to end my misery.

This is the face of someone who has given up hope of doing anything useful.

I’m surprised she let me in the Jeep at all.

And that’s how a simple ride turned into a – wait for it – crappy adventure!

The Climb

There's nothing better than throwing your body against something daunting, something that doesn't seem doable at first. Maybe that's why I keep looking for really long and tough climbs on the bike. 

Mt. Haleakala in Maui, the San Juan Scenic Skyway in Colorado, even the Stelvio Pass through the Italian and Swiss Alps. I'm afraid every time, but it's always worth it in the end.

Seriously, what does it take to get a decent burrito after a hard climb?

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.