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)).
