When a guy 20 years your senior passes you on his 1992 p.o.s. "mountain" bike, then takes a few minutes to pet a donkey, drink a beer and smoke a cigarette, then passes you again, this means that he is very talented, very Italian (that's the smoking the cigarette part) and that I was having a bad day. That's true even if some of the above isn't entirely or even partially true, though he did stop at a bunch of beer tents, which happened to be across from a field of donkeys, and a lot of people were petting those donkeys, and I did see an older cyclist smoking a cigarette at the acme of the climb. I can at least confirm that his bike was a low-quality make from the 1990s early. And he did stop and then pass me again.
This was the climb -- ascent -- to Cima Grappa, yet another Giro finish at a battle site or, in this case, two battles site, of the 1914-1918 War. The second battle was a biggie, and not just because masses of Italian soldiers didn't give up without a fight. That 2nd battle closed the southern front of the war for final (I'd say "for good," but not much good came from that war, except soy sausages, best cooked with one of those new-fangled flame throwers). And that put the Italians in a position to gain all sorts of territories on its wish list, including the much mentioned Sud Tirol and the crown jewel of those acquisitions, which just happens to be the finish town of the final Giro stage, Trieste.
There was one good thing about the day, besides the exciting action on the course: it didn't snow and it only rained a little. Though I'd discovered in the previous stage a great cure for the near-freezing temperatures. The big balloons you see at the finish lines of races are powered by a constant supply of pressurized air, which, because these are off-the-grid mountain tops, require the services of portable generators. And those generators put out heat. Lots of it. Fumes, too, but mostly carbon monoxide; if I can't sense it, it doesn't exist! So I set myself right behind one of those generators and learned a new word from passerby who thought the dorky guy without pants or socks was pretty darned clever: scaldare. I heard it a lot, at first thinking they were smiling and telling me I was going to scald myself you stupid guy in shorts and no socks, but then, with the help of my little dictionary, I realized that they were smiling and saying "that is warm, you stupid person on a mountain top in shorts and no socks." As it turns out, I did scald (English usage) myself a little, but it was so worth it that I'd do it even if I were wearing polyester melt-to-my-skin-after-scalding socks.
And so that was my day on the mountain. Three days, actually, but this isn't about veracity, as should by now be clear, but about convenience and the ravages of time (on my memory).
Now I am off to France for another race. A land of soy-milk and great bread. The fruit and jam in Italy've been great, but the bread! -- see the recipes for the two types of Italian bread, posted below:
Italian Italian bread recipe (makes 300g or 1,5 liter loaf; specific gravity 0,2):
300g of marshmallow, hopefully vegan
Bake until thickly crusted
Let sit 3 days in open air or until stale enough to leave sensation of baking soda in mouth
Important: while selling, smile as if this is normal
Italian Tirolian (Austrian, if a Tirolian is in the room) bread recipe (makes 1,5kg or 300ml loaf; specific gravity 5,0):
500g wheat husk
500g rye husk
500g softened nut shells and fruit stones
1g (1ml) water
Bake until nutty smell brings in customers
Warning: serve warm; these loaves can cause internal bleeding if served stale
Important: while selling, frown and seethe that Tirol is not part of the Eastern Kingdom (that is, Österreich (that is, Austria)).
2014-05-31
2014-05-26
Europe, take 3, scene 3
Here's my gulden fiets, as a Dutch guy once called it ("gold bike," he told me), atop the Gavia. My steed was still smarting from a broken chain on the way up (easy fix) and some derisive comments an Australian Pantani doppelgänger had slung at it at the summit. Damn those beer-swilling skin-cancer children-of-pri
Europe, take 3, scene 2
Wild camping is what you do when the campground to which you just busted your tukes for 120km to get to is closed, it's dark, and you have an in-born tendency to say "[expletive deleted, but the word isn't flip or fudge (it's fuck)] it." At least this round of "selvaggio" camping was in a campground. Not to suggest that there was hot water, tepid water or any water at all. Or facilities, as the Victorians'd say if they'd thought of it. I'd been looking forward to a hot shower to wipe off the disgusting and because the town to which I'd arrived, Sondalo, is at 870m, and there was a chill in the pure mountain air. But I bundled up, cinched down the sleeping bag and had one of the toastiest, most humid nights of sleep in my life. And I've been to humid hell -- Indiana and (you read that right: and) Maui. But it was a great night of sleep. Until the weed-whacker guys came in their little 3-wheeled truck at 07:30 to start prepping the campground for opening. They left me alone, as these northern Italians seem to do with everything, and I made my lazy-ass way over to a little town called Edolo. Most of the passes in this part of the Alps are still closed, but one of the most challenging climbs in the world, the Mortirolo ("Mountain of the Martyr," as named in 774 in reference to a battle between the evil Lombards and the evil Franks; also, Lance (yup, that Lance) called it the toughest climb he'd ever done; he said that while hopped up on EPO and HGH and such; imagine what I, hopped up on bread, jam, an orange and "Brasil" juice (what the Italians call a tropical fruit juice medley; I don't know if the word also describes a certain style of depillitation) faced). And, as I mentioned above, it was closed. But I figured "what the fuck," I could hoof it in my tractionless, open-holed shoes if I had to. What's not to like about my plan? I even had food. Scraps of CostCo tortilla chips can be filling. Or so I found out at the summit when I consumed said chips without chewing. I found an open campground in that little town (the aforementioned Edolo). I was, literally, the only camper there. A hot hot long long shower, a thorough clothes wash and a night of reading Treasure Island (it came free with my e-reader program and, anyway, my oddly similar book on the medieval history of Europe'd expired). Today I rode up the Passo Gavia (site of more war, though of a less bloody result and which ended when the Swiss got pissed at the Austrians because Austrian missiles had to go over Swiss territory to get to their Italian supply-convoy targets), which was harder than I can possibly describe. And it was also closed. But I and plenty of other cyclists worked around that. Which, for me anyway, included scrambling up a slope to get around a work-crew, the agenda of whom did not include making way for a cyclist who shouldn't've been there anyway you cut it. Now I'm at a "campeggio" that has free wi-fi and hot water. The water costs a euro, though, so I did the poor-man's shower and called it buono. Tomorrow the Stelvio -- another closed pass --and one day closer to screaming out all of my frustrations, of which crappy Italian bread is tops on my list, at professional cyclists. Cheeow, as people keep saying to me here. When I sing the cat food commercial in reply, I get nothing....
Europe, take 3, scene 1
After a thrilling late-night sprint from Como to Lenno, for the first time since arriving I am able to not smell. This isn't to say that I can't smell things but rather that i cannot be smelled. And this is to say that I am lounging about in a small campground that is scrunched between a tall mountain and a large lake (the German name of which is see, as in sea. Actually, my dictionary says that's German for lake, but I'm not convinced) and which has showers. Free with cold water, 1 euro for hot. I paid the euro.
I spent the flight caught between the window and Jaime, a large, friendly man whose arms and legs and head tended to splay out from his core like a distressed crab. No doubt out of concern for the safety of the stewards, Jaime biased the direction of his splaying toward me, particularly his feet. When Jaime had to get to the bathroom, his search for his shoes led not to beneath his seat but to mine. Though my constitution suggested otherwise, I stayed put for the duration of the flight. The thought of discomfiting Jaime, and therefore our whole side of the plane, was enough to keep me planted. I was well-entertained nonetheless -- four movies, a short documentary and a Lady GaGa video. Once de-planed, I rode until darkness -- a little past, but don't tell Ma -- and found a comfy spot in the woods. 14 hours and 7 mosquito bites later, I got up and haltingly made my way to Como. Haltingly because I am taking countruh roads, the signage for which is both spotty and randomly placed. My Italian has grown leaps and bounds since I discovered that combining French, Spanish and a stereotypical Brooklyn-Italian accent was completely ineffective, but I've yet to learn to say "Why the fuck is the street sign for Via Giovanno the goddamned Twenty-Third [of which there are many] covered In ivy on the 3rd story of the building on the other side of the street?" Working on it.
I will rest here for a day, enjoying my baby-smooth skin, then head to the mountains. I think. I'm sort of fancy-free until the Giro hits the Dolomites 2014-05-27, so I may change my mind. It's a difficult old life.
Wi-fi has been spotty, as has been my battery performance, so I'll post when I can. I hope the heat isn't too horrifying. It's a gorgeous 21* with a mix of puffy clouds, belvederes of the Dolomites along a corniche and happy sun where I am. Just to rub it in.
I spent the flight caught between the window and Jaime, a large, friendly man whose arms and legs and head tended to splay out from his core like a distressed crab. No doubt out of concern for the safety of the stewards, Jaime biased the direction of his splaying toward me, particularly his feet. When Jaime had to get to the bathroom, his search for his shoes led not to beneath his seat but to mine. Though my constitution suggested otherwise, I stayed put for the duration of the flight. The thought of discomfiting Jaime, and therefore our whole side of the plane, was enough to keep me planted. I was well-entertained nonetheless -- four movies, a short documentary and a Lady GaGa video. Once de-planed, I rode until darkness -- a little past, but don't tell Ma -- and found a comfy spot in the woods. 14 hours and 7 mosquito bites later, I got up and haltingly made my way to Como. Haltingly because I am taking countruh roads, the signage for which is both spotty and randomly placed. My Italian has grown leaps and bounds since I discovered that combining French, Spanish and a stereotypical Brooklyn-Italian accent was completely ineffective, but I've yet to learn to say "Why the fuck is the street sign for Via Giovanno the goddamned Twenty-Third [of which there are many] covered In ivy on the 3rd story of the building on the other side of the street?" Working on it.
I will rest here for a day, enjoying my baby-smooth skin, then head to the mountains. I think. I'm sort of fancy-free until the Giro hits the Dolomites 2014-05-27, so I may change my mind. It's a difficult old life.
Wi-fi has been spotty, as has been my battery performance, so I'll post when I can. I hope the heat isn't too horrifying. It's a gorgeous 21* with a mix of puffy clouds, belvederes of the Dolomites along a corniche and happy sun where I am. Just to rub it in.
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