mythofchrisyphus

[mythofchrisyphus]

Day 5 : S. Feliciano, Chiusi, Chianciano

Saturday July 6, 2002, 52 km (32 miles) - Total so far: 337 km (209 miles)

Woke up with the sun as usual, partly woken by the rooster next door, to take a stroll down the lakeside in the sunrise. Some people were preparing their fishing boats (tourists, not fishermen), and I remember the Perugian from last night mentioning that the lake is suffering in that regard as well. I also notice that there are, in fact, two islands on the lake, connected by ferries to the bigger towns on shore. The waterline I notice, too, is low, leaving about 4m of mud between grass and lake. But the smell of fresh cornetti soon draws me to the bar for a latte and morning croissants over the local Umbrian newspaper (old woman falls down stairs, cat stuck in tree, etc.).

I'm set on taking a dip in the lake, but remember I have to make a hasty exit from my spot. The ground there is flat, and I take the opportunity to do some maintenance work on the bike that relieves some of the minor concerns I've had about it recently. I finish, wash up, and pull out of the spot just in time as the next winnebago rolls in. I leave my bike in the care of the barlady and walk down to the lake.

I'm initially a bit disgusted by the mud "beach", and especially by the muddy bottom of the lake once in the water, but I soon find its effects therapeutic and relish and float and play around in the warm water. I air dry for a while on the grassy shore, get dressed, say my goodbyes, pay another 10 Euro, and move slowly off in search of lunch.

Just down the road is San Savino, also lakeside, where I stop into a supermarket to get some sandwiches and fruit, and eat them in a lakeshore park with ducks and insects.

I don't wait long for the food to settle before biking on, and I feel it in my stomach. The road follows the contour of the lake, and at a certain point where it rises high above it, I pause to prepare and cover my things for what looks like rain. It's at this point, in fact, that the road turns away from the lake and toward Chiusi in Toscana. It's also at this point that the wind severely picks up, and would continue to blow in my face all the way to Chiusi, about 25km. At first I was angry at having been slowed down so drastically, not even being able to pick up speed downhill, but as soon as I adjusted my reasoning from "get there get there get there!" to "enjoy the trip", I relaxed and, sure enough, enjoyed the trip. There was no rain, the slower pace gave me rest and opportunity to look around a bit more, and the wind was cool and refreshing, even if a bit strong.

At some point the road turned to gravel for the first time during the trip, and I felt a little disoriented until I met an Albanian farmer on bike, who escorted me to the junction with the road for Chiusi. We chatted about the Argentinian economic crisis and correlated financial decision making practices in the Italian senate... Of course not! More small talk before parting ways with handshakes and smiles.

There's Chiusi and, what's this?, a hill! Yes, up once more, up up, to that tiny little hamlet situated at the part of a hill exactly opposite the bottom. The merry little down is in the middle of some sort of jousting or racing festival, and there are flags with coats of arms hung all over the place. I couldn't quite get a grasp on it, but toured the historic center anyway, getting groceries for the night before cycling back down the hill and out to Chianciano.

Now, the reason for my excitement about Chianciano and my eagerness to get there was, if you look on the map, that the place is called "Chianciano Terme", meaning "Hot Springs". I could really have gone for a dip in some hot springs, so I pedaled on with renewed fervor across increasingly rolling green and yellow (rows upon rows of sunflowers) Tuscan hills. The road from Chiusi to Chianciano is gorgeous, following a ridge flanked by these vast cultivated fields and views to either side, but unfortunately heavily trafficked. I soon found out why when I got to Chianciano. The sign at the entrance explained this town's claim to fame: With sacred spring waters for the well being of your liver. Well I'll be! If this wasn't a sign I don't know what was. I pulled into a bar and asked the ladies there was the deal with the hot springs was. They told me you go to this treatment center, this clinic, where they analyze you and determine, based on this analysis, what mixture of waters and ingredients to give you, served in a glass, for 6 Euro. She said she'd done it last year; the water smelled foul, tasted fouler, and she felt like a cadaver for 3 days, but after that ("the healing process" she called it) she was fine. I thought about the "liver treatments" I've inflicted upon myself over the last 10 years or so, remember that no recovery had ever lasted longer than one day, and decided to give it a pass. I prefer my method.

But the city of Chianciano is odd. I didn't know what it was when I first got in, but it soon hit me the deeper I went. Manicured lawns; clean, freshly paved streets; well posted signs and directions. Yes, this was a spa town, a resort town. The place was too clean for comfort and too full -- it was frightening once you noticed it -- of seniors. I decided it was definitely not for me and I pedaled as quick as I could to get out of there, cursing the person who recommended it to me (you know who you are, DIEGO).

But it was getting late already, and I started looking for a good place to set up tent, ideally like the ridge I'd ridden on to get to Chianciano. I found a decent substitute, a little close to the road and perhaps closer to a farm than I'd wanted to, forcing me to wait until dusk to set up tent. I just cooked and ate in the meanwhile, eventually laying down to sleep calmly and pleasantly, except for the enormous lump in the underneath the middle of my back I'd inadvertently set the tent up on.

[mythofchrisyphus]

Day 4 : Assisi, Perugia, Lago di Trasimeno

Friday July 5, 2002, 62 km (39 miles) - Total so far: 285 km (177 miles)

Woke up happy and clean and above all cool, the first cool morning thus far! I was happy about the upcoming morning, during which I'd decided to take a break and walk around Assisi, so I patched the rear tube and replaced it with a new one, cleaned up, packed up, paid (a reasonable 10 Euro for man + tent, but still not as cheap and satisfying as free camping) and biked out of the campsite and into the city gates, noting in frustration on my way in a sign by the road -- the one I'd seen before -- with the distance to the campsite clearly posted: 500m. How had I missed it? Nonetheless, I was tempted to go up to the sign and add another "0".

Assisi itself was unusual and common at the same time, if this is possible. Again, apart from people in the tourist trade and the occasional construction worker, few Assisians (?) about. You follow a herd of english speakers from one stone church to another, each looking more and more like the other, and the whole town taking on the appearance of every other hilltop Umbrian town seen thus far, except that it's mostly made of white reticulated stone pattern. It's in fact this pattern that gives the town its uniqueness, not its placement or monuments. (Well, that and some saint who faked holes in his hands) It seems that this town hasn't changed street layout or construction methods in 1000 years; new houses are built today (and old ones repaired), at least externally, in exactly the same way they always were. This gives the look of the town a certain charming consistency, along with all the cute typical narrow alleys and stairs and views of the valley (including Montefalco!), but in the end it's just expensive and empty, another living museum hardly living. What was it Goethe said about Assisi? Something about the cross layout of the Piazza Commune and that he found the place generally disappointing. I would tend to agree. After the better part of the morning and afternoon in Assisi, I relished the tear-jerking zoom downhill and onward towards Perugia.

This stretch was again flat and quick approaching Perugia, which tends to worry me at this point, since all such long flat approached lead to a sharp ascent into the city. I glance at the map. No arrows, but windy road. Perugia sits at 493m above sea level, Assisi at 424m; I'm currently on the flats between them, having descended quite a bit to get here. This can only mean one thing. Sure enough, as I count down the km to the city limits, I see it rise before me. With the countdown at 0 and the "Perugia" sign in front of me, I sigh. I know not to get too excited about entering a city by now, as just doing so is one thing, while getting to the historic center (ahem, fortified medieval hilltop hamlet origins of the modern city) is another. So I climb and climb and climb some more, but oddly the morning rest has rejuvenated me, and though I'm sweating I notice that I'm hardly panting. The climb is long but steady, and in the lowest gear I'm not stressing at all. After several kilometers I make it to the top and a scenic viewpoint, with a church (with steeple!) and some of the city in the foreground, and Assisi in the background across the plain.

There I meet some Americans, who I ask for directions to an internet cafe. But it's getting late (19:00) and I still have a good 30km to the lake I long to take a dip in that evening or the next morning. Perugia is full of students, especially foreigners, as it has a popular international university within its limits. It is alive with student activities and night life. This is evident just taking a quick ride around. But it's late and I feel something I shouldn't feel on this trip -- rushed. I don't like the feeling, and in retrospect I should've ignored it. I would have liked to stay and explore that city for a while, but I had no desire to look for a hostel or to camp anywhere in the city limits. I bike back down the hill, over some very unpleasant and uneven and potholed roads (just going to show that country roads here are still the best maintained things around), by the stadium, and out of the city, somewhat in shame and regret at what I'd missed, vowing to never let myself get chased like that again.

With that I cruise comfortably at 35kph toward the sun setting poetically behind the hills in front of me, just behind which is the lake I'm headed to. I pass more happy cyclists coming home from their evening "stroll" before coming to the first series of ascents that would take me over the hills and down to the lake.

Up the last stretch, I meet a local, from Perugia but at his summer home in the hills at the moment, on bike on a little evening ride himself, and we chat and ride together as he escorts me to the intersection where I'm to turn off for the lake and campground. As we clear the last rise, the gorgeous lake and second orange sunset in a row come into view. We chat amiably about the weather and the lake, which he tells me is the 4th largest in Italy, but suffering at the moment due to water shortage (it gets its water from the rain, which hasn't fallen recently, causing a 1m shoreline drop). We sight a firefighting airplane scooping water from the lake to drop it on a forest fire somewhere and joke about water thieves being another problem. We part pleasantly and I begin my last downhill, taking in the cool breeze blowing off the lake, arriving at the campground around 21:00.

This one has a bar, first thing, and is immediately pegged as an Italian tourist campground, not a foreign tourist one. Sure enough, the "campground" is chockfull of trailers and family-sized stand up tents attached to motorhomes parked there from May to September. The kind barrista and campground supervisor tells me the spots are by reservation only and I'm just lucky there's one left, only if I get out by tomorrow morning, which is when the "tenant" comes to set up his summer home.

I pitch my tent and it looks ridiculously puny compared to the megalithic tin boxes around me. At the bar I eat my canned dinner and listen to the unlocal locals talk about the new young women who've appeared on the campsite. Some of the older members reminisce about the days girls would cause a scandal by wearing a bathing suit showing a bit of thigh just over the knee.

I walk up to the lakeshore, but the wall of insects is so thick I can barely see the back of my own eyelids, so I scurry back to the campsite, wash some clothes, and hop in the tent. I saw a low waterline, I think, and possibly some islands on the lake, but through the cloud of gnats and mosquitoes nothing is clear.

[mythofchrisyphus]

Day 3: Spoleto, Bastardo, Montefalco, Foligno, Assisi

Thursday July 4, 2002, 96 km (60 miles) - Total so far: 223 km (139 miles)

Woke up to a beautiful sunrise. I laid there in the tent for a few minutes watching it, reveling in the fact that I have no job to go to, no rent to pay, no traffic to fight, nowhere to be and nowhere to go, really. Got up and stretched and cleaned up and packed up and left, as usual leaving no trace of my presence apart from some flattened grass.

I was greeted first thing by a deathly climb. If this road had been on the map, it would certainly have had a few cutesy little arrows on it, drawn up by some geographer/cartographer(?) at Michelin, in front of his computer in a suit and tie, tossing these little arrows about aimlessly while eating his croissant and daydreaming about how many kilometres to the litre his BMW would get on this road. I soon learned the two-fold purpose of those ridiculous circus clown cycling caps, and specifically their ridiculous little mini front part: first of all, it conveniently gathers sweat from your scalp and runs it off the end of the front, keeping it out of your eyes; secondly, the low angle of it prevents you from seeing the truly imposing length and incline of the monster hill in front of you. I swear by these things now.

But all hills have their reward and it wasn't long before I was careening down through farms and farm dogs and chickens and farmers on my way to rejoin the flat secondary road leading to Spoleto. Spoleto is a nice town, positioned -- I see a pattern here -- on the top of a hill overlooking a valley. I decided to give the historic center a look and it was nice but not very bike friendly. Stairs, narrow passages, and quaint small shops make for lovely walking but poor bike towing, so I walked around a little bit, took a few snaps, looked at a few cathedrals, and moved on. My goal was Assisi by tonight at all costs (why? what's my hurry? I though later), so I had some sandwiches made for later at a deli on my way out and biked out.

My afternoon goal was a (ahem) medieval hilltop hamlet called Montefalco, which on the map is marked as having panoramic views. I was thinking ahead to the no doubt torturous climbs leading to such a place, wondering which route would get me there in the least painful fashion, when I saw a place a little out of the way that I simply had to visit, by virtue of its name alone. I cruised through hot, hot, rolling wheat fields, scattered lightly with the odd tree, stopping once or twice to refill the back tire which seemed to be losing air rather regularly, ignoring every convenient turnoff for Montefalco and going over 10km out of my way in order to visit the town with the name: BASTARDO. It's great having the mind of a 10 year old with no ambitions. I giggled all the way through that fine little set of houses as I did a 170 and headed sort-of-back to my panoramic destination. Halfway up a long, long hill line with rows upon rows of sunflowers on parched, dried out earth my legs quit on me and I grabbed the nearest shade to fill my stomach. The portable microwave had done well to melt the cheese in my sandwiches and I ate with great relish in anticipation of another climb.

After lunch I made the final push and crossed through the fortified walls of that town situated on a, have I mentioned this before?, hilltop on a sort of peninsular tongue of land jutting into the middle of a flat, wide valley stretching from the hills of Spoleto to the south and Assisi to the north. There I admired the fresh air and views before checking out some of the piazzas (what else is there to do in expensive tourist trap towns, one just like the other, with no particular cuisine or local life) and bumping, almost literally, into a funeral on the way out -- probably one of the most surreal experiences of this trip thus far. Here you are in a town where the most overheard language is English, followed closely by German, where you see more cameras than pizzas, and where the locals have all but disappeared or become trilingual and assimilated into this great European tourist chain landmass, when all of a sudden a brilliant flash of local intimate, personal, quotidian life appears before you and almost blinds you. It was all I could do not to take a photo. People dressed in everyday clothes, standing in a semi-circle around the cathedral door, crowding the already narrow main street of the town. People carrying flowers were exiting the church in a steady flow, one right after the other, increasing the traffic in the street, while from inside almost imperceptible strains of gloomy organ music piped out and blended with what few tears and sniffles there were. I watched for a moment, stunned, before detouring through another street and leaving Montefalco.

The exit was again another stunning brake-testing rim-scalding descent through hairpin turns -- my god, this bike corners like a puppy in sweatsocks! -- before flattening out to a smooth cannonball run to Foligno. I hadn't planned on going through that town, wanting to shortcut instead through farm roads directly to Assis, but I'm glad now I did. On the way to Foligno I biked past many many competitive bikers in training going the other way -- uphill -- on their evening rides. All smiles and waves and cheers both ways, and I wondered why there were so many here, of all places. I found out soon enough when I pulled into that town. It was like a bicycle hive. Two wheels everywhere! I'm not used to that kind of traffic, especially its anarchic nature in terms of right of way, signalling, etc (or lack thereof), so there were several near misses with local bikers. I soon found myself finding the flow, however, and enjoying this small city very pleasantly short on motor vehicles and exhaust fumes. I found several well-equipped bike shops to browse through, and eventually, mercifully, found a pair of sunglasses in one. I asked the guy there what the road to Assisi is like, how to get there, and whether I'll make it (it was around 19:00 at this time) and he said "Yah, sure. I do it all the time. In fact, I'm gonna do the high pass this evening after work." That bout sums up Foligno for me. Full of mad bikers who do it for the love of it. I took a glance at a few piazzas and churches and people and took the road out in the late evening.

The first stretch was unavoidable, unpleasant 4 lane superhighway, but I daresay the going is fast. Nonetheless, I veered off onto secondary road as soon as possible, stopping in at a corner bar to have an ice cream and chat with some old locals about the road and the sunset. The final approach to Assisi was deadly and vertical, and after almost 100km I was ready to give up the ghost. But I could see the city ahead of me, flanked by a dazzling orange setting sun (not blinding at all, thanks to my NEW SUNGLASSES), and having a visible goal sure as hell helps! I pushed and sweated and pushed and dripped all the way to the top, not stopping once, knowing there was a campsite up there, somewhere, waiting for me, and I almost exploded in joy and relief when I pulled up under the fortified city gates! But what's this?!, I panted. A sign: "Camping -->" pointing -- where else? -- up. Way up. All I could see in front of me was hill. Or was it hell. No distance on the sign; I looked back at the city gates, looked up at the hill, back at the gates... what the hell. Back in the saddle and started moving. I stopped about 4 times having only gone about 400m when I saw two elderly ladies coming down the other way. English tourists. I ask them if they'd seen a campsite above and how far. They say they'd gone as far as the old Hermitage (?!) and past a pub but hadn't seen any campsites, and they'd gone quite far. Talk about taking the wind out of my sails. None? None. ...oh, but the pub's really nice, and the beer's great! Well, that brought back some wind. If I can't sleep comfortably in a campsite tonight I can certainly pass out uncomfortably in the gutter and it'll amount to the same. With beer in mind I pedal upward very slowly -- is it me or are my tires lined with hot tar? The bike is getting heavier by the second. I'm ready to give up, even on the beer. Now, you know you're beat, you know there's little in the world that can stop you having beer, and if this is one of them, then goddammit, I want none of it. I hear a car approaching from behind, notice its "GB" sticker as it passes and pulls into the right somewhere up ahead. That must be the pub, I figure, and calculate that I can make that last 100m in an all-or-nothing effort and if anything pitch the tent right there where I lay. Or they can pitch it above my battered sweaty corpse and use it as a tombstone...

But sure enough, the turnoff is for the camping and at that point I'm ready to saw off my legs with a twig in exchange for a 2m sq. patch of land to pitch my tent on. Thankfully they don't charge me that much and I quickly and eagerly find a space among the tents and motorhomes and set up and start cooking. I make friends with the elderly foursome from Monza in the motorhome next to me and eat in their company until late. I take a well deserved, refreshing shower, wash some clothes, and hit the hay, exhausted and content. A sleep well-earned.

[mythofchrisyphus]

Day 2 : Poggio Mirteto, Terni

Wednesday July 3, 2002, 76 km (47 miles) - Total so far: 127 km (79 miles)

No water.

Where's my lifeline?

I took my sweet time this morning, stretching, checking the bike, packing it, nibbling on some fruit, and laughing about the visit I'd had during the night. I'd been woken up around 23:30 by some very loud noises very nearby. Too loud to be an animal... I grabbed my headlight/flashlight and prepared to shine it in the eyes of the intruder as aggressively as possible from the inside of my little worm-tent (I'd left the rain cover off to enjoy some cool night air, and thus could see outside, as other could presumably see in). Just when the trespasser came within clubbing distance, BOOM! Frozen in his tracks by my violent lighting tactic! But I couldn't see him, and was instead blinded myself by the sudden exposure 60W (?) of led lighting technology. Where was he? I turned the light off and waited. The movement started up again. Tried the light again, but the animal -- at this point it was clear -- was immobile and hidden. It was close, it was big, it was four-footed, and it was clumsy. A drunk? Probably a small deer, or even a large porcupine, several of which I'd seen sunning their insides on the side of the road along the way. In any case, I let the thing be, it let me be, doing a nice lap of my tent during the night, not even bothering to rummage in my bags.

I set off, thirsty, up the hill and to the first town or bar. 5km was this little throat-bursting hill, and not good on the second day, first thing in the morning. Still, the first bar was a welcome sight and a just reward, as I filled up on water and the day's vitamins. I also found a battery for my computer and solved that problem painlessly, content that I now have a triple redundancy for measuring distance (signs, maps, and computer); not once has the same number been shared by all three.

The next 25km was a lovely stretch of road marked green (for "scenic") on my Michelin map, and it certainly was. Green rolling hills, much greener than yesterday, blowing a slight cool breeze, punctuated by the occasional medieval hilltop hamlet, peaked by the church steeple, provided for some very relaxing cycling. At some point I pulled off to refill my bottles in the shade of a tree, where a fountain provided fresh mountain water. Several locals, including one on a tractor pulling the biggest bales of hay I'd ever seen piled metres high on a trailer, came by to refill their house bottles as well, and we chatted pleasantly about absolutely nothing. The art of small talk is indeed an old and honored tradition. Takes years of practice.

My stomach let me know it was getting about that time, so I pulled off a while later into a small store and had sandwiches made for me. I packed them into one of my portable microwaves (my four black panniers) and set off in search of a nice lunch spot. In the shade of a big tree, in view of a farm with pigs doing mirroring my motions -- lolling about listlessly, grunting, slobbering, eating. A suddenly hear bells and a large flock of sheared sheep comes from out of nowhere, bounding and leaping left and right above and around me, followed at last by a wrinkled old topless shepherd with a walking stick and his white, wolfish sheepdog. We chat pleasantly about my bike, how nice it must be to be young, and where I'm going, and he saunters off with a toothless grin and a wave. The sheepdog follows behind, bringing up the rear, stopping twice to throw me some suspicious glances.

The next stretch takes me back to the secondary road, along several hilltop ridges linking hilltop towns, sending me down an exhilarating, long descent, where my bike, bags, and I all agreed upon which way to go and worked together to whip down at 60kph! Then it was through 20km of rather flat, yellow, harvested wheat fields blowing furnace hot air from either side, where the need for sunglasses become so apparent it was painful; an insect which must have been the size of a small bird smacked me flush in the right eye while I was coasting at about 35kph. The weight of the damn thing made for a hell of an impact, as I probably lost consciousness for a split second while imagining myself mimicking the slow-motion, sweat-flying, ringside fight scenes from Raging Bull, if he'd been wearing a cycling cap. The going was quick and smooth, though, but it didn't take long for me to relearn some basic principles of physics: inertia. Getting moving was a bit difficult, but once cruising, the bike and its weight did almost all of the work by itself, with only slight pushing on my part. Ascents, obviously, are somewhat problematic for the same (or opposite) reason -- the bike and bags would very much prefer to go down, thank you very much, and become somewhat offended and belligerent when informed that you and your legs, if you don't mind, intend to go up instead. A struggle ensues but eventually the bike, bags, and gravity all lose and I get my treats at the top of the hill.

Finally got to the first reasonably sized city, Terni, and as soon as I pulled in I realized I want to move out of there as quickly as possible. It appears to be mainly an industrial town, and as if to show me, unquestionably, that it was, the place gave me a scenic 3km stretch of 3m tall roadside cement wall to follow all the way out. After so many hours of fresh air and no traffic and, literally, greener pastures, I longed to get out. I stopped at a gas station near the limits to ask some elderly men seated outside if a tertiary road I was about to take would lead me to Macerino (not a real destination, just a point of direction to identify). The 5 men gave me 3 different answers and this began a lively 15 minute debate among them regarding this poor young lad on bike and just where in god's name are you sending him, it's THAT way you old fool! I took the word of the more assertive one, the others waving their hands at him and shaking their heads in resignation, and off I went.

This little road was gorgeous! Hardly noticeable on the map, it took me through a small hamlet with two old towers overlooking it (and the valley behind) from cliffs high above. I refilled the bottles at yet another roadside fountain and started actively looking for a campsite. My legs were starting to give out, I was getting clumsy, and I was telling myself to go just over this hill, just over that turn. At a confusing intersection I took the road less travelled and not marked on the map. We're talking quartiary (?) road here, 1 lane, and still in great condition! Fantastic cycling on the side of a mountain overlooking the valley, and it wasn't long before I found a gorgeous, secluded spot facing east across the valley and onto olive groves and a small, yup, hilltop hamlet. And a steeple.

Had a fantastic sleep and refreshing evening air to cool me down. Slept without the rain cover again and watched the stars. Peacefully quiet, Terni forgotten.

[mythofchrisyphus]

Day 1: Via Buonarroti, Rome --> the foothills of the Sabini mountains

Tuesday July 2, 2002, 51 km (32 miles) - Total so far: 51 km (32 miles)

The first day, the first turns of the pedals...

I can tell you leaving wasn't easy. Is it ever? There are your standard reasons -- leaving behind great friends, a good job, fun times at the usual (and unusual) places, uprooting -- but there's also the uninspiring idea of fighting one's way through Roman traffic fully loaded with gear. I'd breezed in and out of spaces small enough for a bike (plus a tootpick) at irresponsible speeds, waved hello to Carabinieri as I passed through red lights, hopped on and off curbs at will for about 10km a day for the last year... but this was obviously different. Plus, I hadn't even taken the road-equipped bike out on a test spin (to check balance, mobility, etc.). PLUS, I'd spent my last night in that marble town saying goodbye to dear friends and even dearer whisky (and for the best whiskies of my life I thank you!).

So, instead of leaving at 6 in the morning, as planned, to avoid traffic snarls and oppressive midday smog, I set out at 12. One last Italian breakfast in Rome, one last goodbye to a good friend who'd met me on the road out and filled my bottles with water and my face with smiles, and I was off. This was it! What a feeling, surreal, really. Did I really know what I was getting into? Was I going to make it?

Well, I made it. The Salaria spit me out of the city quickly and easily, and it wasn't long before I was wheezing my way out of the Roman smog over reasonably flat and trafficked two-lane highway. There'd been a long series of arguments among my friends as to which road to take out of the city, and at the end we'd finally decided to go with this one, which turned out not so bad at all. Not too many climbs, not too many descents, not too hot, not too busy, in sum, a good first day's biking in the shade of roadside trees and cooled by the wind of passing cars and semis.

I'd decided to take it easy the first day and not push it too hard, so frequent rests at bars for chocolate, juice, and a chat to the locals were well received. My legs weren't suffering yet as I pulled off the Salaria about 30km in and hit a secondary road -- much emptier and still in very good shape. Mostly wheat fields here, slightly rolling hills, and solitary biking. I ran into my first uphill, marked by a ">" I hadn't seen on the map, which indicates a 7-12% grade. There will be no more such unpleasant surprises in the future, I muttered to myself through clenched, sweaty teeth, clumsily nudging my beastly, overweight, metal contraption up that blasted widowmaker, making several astute and multiply-redundant mental notes to screen each daily route intensely for those cute little arrows, and avoid them at all costs, even if it means renting renting a trailer.

With that, my legs had more or less had it, and I decided it was time to look for a little pocket of trees or brush to bed down for the night. It was only 17:00, but again, I wanted to be able to walk the next morning, a key requirement for the more usual practice in bike touring -- pedaling. I soon found what I thought was a well-hidden little copse of trees, farm on one side, warehouse on the other, about 20m from the road, across which was a farmhouse. I set up camp, ate my lentil-out-of-a-can dinner, and mused about why my cyclecomputer wasn't working. The only conclusion I was able to draw for the moment was a faulty battery. In the meantime, the distance will go measured by signs and maps. I also started thinking a bit about tracking down a pair of sunglasses somewhere.

Perhaps it was just paranoia, but it seemed as though every noise -- people talking in the farmhouse across the road, dogs barking on the farm, labourers shouting at the warehouse, all unseen by me and vice-versa, hopefully -- was extremely close. This put me on edge a bit, but I stretched, packed up for the night, picked what looked like a scenic and arrowless route for the next day, and slept well, even if a bit overheated.

One thing I would like to point out is the respect bikers are given around here. This came as a bit of a shock to me, despite having heard a lot about it. Thus far I've met many bikers, mostly competitive, in training or just out for an evening ride, all of which have been more than affable, friendly, encouraging. People ask where you're going where you're coming from. Cars give you more than enough clearance when passing, often even pulling into the oncoming lane as if passing a vehicle. Truly exceptional.

Likewise, regarding food and sustenance, which I thought would be problematic and would require planning, has in fact been comfortable and simple. This Italian narcotic fixation on coffee has provided a convenient series of bars peppering every possible route, in the possibility that someone might need a coffee (or, in my case, water or chocolate or juice) right now, in the middle of nowhere, at 14:35. These are my lifeline. I tried to keep this in mind as I realized that I had no water left for the morning and what looked like a pleasant little slope leading about 6km to the first town...