October 2006 -- For a week this October, eighty or so people linked by association to BCI, some more loosely than others, ventured to Riccione, Italy. Everyone has a story, a personal take on the events that transpired; we arrived haphazardly, we were not all at the same hotel, we didn’t ride together much, and in itself this creates a wealth of perspectives and experiences. I have no expectation that my telling is going to capture the essence and richness of this trip better than anyone else’s. I am not speaking for Kim, my partner in life and crime, who went with curiosity and more than a little trepidation about her recently-replaced ACL.
But I’m having a hell of a good time remembering.
How did we all end up in Italy? It was through the imagination and energy of Richard Sheff. For those that don’t know him, and I didn’t know who he was six months ago, Richard likes to take and arrange bike trips. Usually it has been in the company of a few good friends; he apparently thought that if he put the word out and got 10 people to go he could get a bit of a group discount. This minimal publicity worked, probably too well. This trip mutated and took on a life of it’s own. I can’t do justice to the details. Suffice it to say that, through his research, and from chance meetings many of us had with riders who had been there, we kept hearing one message – “You’ll have the time of your life.”
So, there we were, at LAX, wondering what we were getting ourselves into.
Getting There: It’s Not Half the Fun
Somewhere in the dark over Canada or Greenland or Iceland I realize that traveling on Swiss International Airlines means my luggage is getting much better treatment and has a better chance of arriving in Europe at the same place and time as me than if I was on another carrier. I also conclude that coach is coach, no matter which airline, when it comes to space. I keep having flashes on the horrible pictures showing sad-eyed veal calves in their tiny cages; I think they have more legroom. I have are an endless supply of mini-Swiss chocolate bars, all the Australian Red I can drink, and a personal entertainment system that, among other things, shows just how far we haven’t gone. Kim has taken a Tylenol PM chaser with the wine and is missing all the fun.
Then it’s all glaring lights and its dawn and the flight attendants are all cheery and joyful with hot coffee and fresh-baked rolls (Swiss gnomes in the Airbus pantry?) and if my muscles were not in a complete state of constriction I would have at them with the plastic butter knife. Not long later we land. The Zurich airport is hosting a celebration of Swiss Chocolate that coincides with our comings and goings. But we have no time to linger over these temptations, we must find the gate to the Venice connection, so we do and find ourselves with about 20 fellow bike travelers in a bus lumbering towards Riccione, a town that is supposed to be “100 miles” from Venice but is not or else we were lost for 4 hours. Given that the bus driver can’t find the Hotel Belvedere I suppose we were not taking a direct route. Finally he raises the hotel on his cell phone, a van appears and we are escorted home.
“Ciao, Bella”
I thinks this loosely translates as “Hey, Good Looking,” and it’s the angels of mercy from the Hotel Belvedere, Marina, the new and old Danielas, Caterina, Theo, Marccio, who are the first to greet us, and their smiling with arms a talking as we are whisked off the bus for champagne by a pool, fountains arcing in greeting. We are eased through check-in, shown our rooms, and welcomed to a full buffet dinner at midnight.
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The next morning we get our bikes. We meet the guides. Fred, the ex-Tour de France pro; Owen, the laconic and unflappable Englishman; Danilo, somewhere in his early 20s and apparently very cute; Felice, in his 40s, eyes like Marty Feldman and a climber’s build: and Helmut, the meticulous German with a huge smile and enormous sprinter’s thighs. The guides are expecting some very fit, serious cyclists. Boy, are they in for a surprise. So are we. Let the games begin.
Yes, There Are Hills in Italy
Climbing to San Marino several days later, I had plenty of time to ask myself why it took more than one ride for me to grasp that “Monte” was in the name of almost every town for good reason. My inability to figure this out more quickly still mystifies me. Maybe it was a dysfunction from lack of oxygen to the brain. Average grades that emulate tipping percentages in America; 15%, 16%, 18%. The hills; the horror. I used to love the smell of chain lube in the morning.
Although we could ride every day, the hills were enough to send some riders sight seeing for a day of respite, which included excursions to Urbino, Florence and Venice. This involved some long train rides, but it’s a good trade off when you’re trying to get far, far away from your saddle and Helmut the Terrible Teutonic Guide.
Italians are romantic, but practical. Castles and cafes bear the name of the ruling princes, and the ruling princes tended to like looking down on their subjects, from towns perched precipitously on top of hills; nasty craggy ones with difficult, switchbacked approaches.
That was most of our routing: start at the beach, head inland, and go in the direction of Monte This or Monte That, with an occasional run to something on the flats (del Piano) so we could find another Monte. Trust me, and I believe I speak for all who came to Italy from California, the Emiglia Romana countryside suffers from no shortage of Montes.
This was a waste of perfectly good flat roads along the beach, but the flats were saved for the last day.
And on the Seventh Day…
It occurs to me now that on that day we toured local landmarks – and they are legion - crucial to the life and death of Marco Pantani, a tragic figure to cycling cognoscenti… now that he’s dead.
In life, Pantani was both reviled and revered by the Italians, winning both the Tour de France and the Giro d’Italia one year and being ignominiously tossed out of the Giro the next, while leading, for failing a drug test.
He was a hero, and a devil. He rode, he won, he failed, he suffered. A distraught Marco died of an overdose, alone, in a hotel in Rimini. Rumors abound. Was he framed by the Mafiosi, who wanted him to take a dive in the Giro? Did his valiant refusal to throw the race lead to a drug test set-up ? Did he have help taking the chemical chaser that washed down his final pizza pie?
Seven days of climbing, endless pasta and the bedazzling La Vida Italiana can twist your thinking, not always for the best.
Maybe the flats on the seventh day were our reward for six days of suffering, and the images of Marco a reminder that we were lucky to be getting out alive.
Adio
There is so much more to talk about. Incredible food. No, make that endless incredible food. Espresso. Wine tasting. Grappa. New Euro friends. Wonderful Italian bikes. Even naked spas.
But that’s for someone else to tell. I dreamed about the trip last night, but right at the end Fred and Helmut was chasing me up a hill, telling me I must go faster and threatening to push me if I didn’t quicken my cadence. I woke up in a cold sweat. I’ve got to go get some climbing in. |
