“A
journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.” – Tim Cahill
The next morning it was a cab (with a different, sober, rather cranky
driver) back to the Chiusi train station. We were a bit early and as we sat and
waited, I made note of other people coming in and out and wondered which of
them looked to be the sort that would make up the rest of our cycling group. It
grew closer and closer to the time our guides were to arrive and the station
had emptied of all possible companions. Our guides, Jesse and Martin, arrived.
It was at this point I realized that Barry and I were ‘it’. There were no
others in our group. Barry had been warned that this may happen but hadn’t said
anything to me, not sure of my response. My response was that I wasn’t really
sure if I liked this situation or not. Later it would come to be the best situation ever.
The young men were friendly and
personable, though, and eager to show us to where we would start our cycling
adventure. They helped to pile ourselves and our luggage into a small car that
had three bikes on a rack at the back. As they chatted about the beautiful
scenery around Tuscany and how marvelous the cycling would be, they drove us to
where we would be staying the next couple of days. This was the Hotel Villa
Cicoline. The Villa consisted of just 11 rooms and was once the summer home of
a noble family. It stood in the midst of olive groves on a hill (of course, a
hill), with vineyards at its feet. When we arrived a table had already been set
out under the shade of the olive trees with a light lunch of bruschetta and
cheeses and a launching, refreshing glass of Prosecco, the sparking bubbles in
the glass reflecting the glints of sunlight off of the olive leaves.
Our first ride (a short one) of 19 miles (30 kilometers) was to begin
right after lunch, and the guys brought the bikes round to the gravel apron in
front of the villa. All through lunch I had had a niggling concern in the back
of my mind that the surgery I had had and the resulting weeks of non-activity
were going to impact negatively on my abilities. The niggle was starting to grow
into a worrisome gnawing. The bikes were very nice – very expensive, very
high-end, and totally unlike my
beloved Flavia. My own bike, Flavia, is a townie bike, a good sturdy friendly
bike on which I can balance confidently, has no bar but a lovely step-through
(I can even wear dresses and skirts on Flavia no problem), a limited number of
gears, and when I stop I can stand perfectly well and flat on my feet. This
Tuscany bike, however, growled at me from the very beginning. As they were
fitting the bike to me I hung suspended on the seat, which was, Jesse
explained, indeed at the right height though my feet hung several inches above
the ground. Flavia would certainly never countenance such a position! There was
a high bar which meant I had to swing my leg high and up to get over it and
onto the seat. I have mounted horses easier than I did that bike! The brakes
were hydraulic and I was warned not to just use the front one or I would end up
butt over head in whatever ditch was nearby.
“I hate you already”, I silently cursed the bike (which I had named
Stan after an extremely difficult boyfriend I had had in high school). When I
finally got going and pedaled a little way I felt like a lima bean on a guitar
string. “You’ll get used to it”, I was assured by someone. Barry seemed to be
having an easier time of it as he had
ridden similar bikes before. I have only fallen off of similar bikes before.
The first ride started from the hotel door up a winding gravel road
(note ‘up’ from the very beginning) with a drop on the right hand side to
either a steep switchback below or a large shambly pen of large, shambly
chickens gloriously rolling in the hot dust. Barry and Jesse rode a bit ahead
of me (Martin already having left in the car to meet us at the other end of the
30 kilometers). I started off, the
gravel making me weave from side to side and I very nearly joined the chickens
over the edge. Stan and I were
definitely fighting and the stress and heat were making me rapidly lose my
breath. Halfway up the hill – and I couldn’t go any further. Halfway up the
hill and Stan had already given me a vivid bruise on my calf. I was gasping and
the world was whirling about my head.
Jesse came back to check on me. He immediately sensed my panic. He
gave me a gentle lecture about this being my
vacation, my time, and that killing
myself on the first day was not the idea at all. He said further that because
it was just Barry and me on this tour, we could customize the trip any way we
wanted. I didn’t have to ride at all if I didn’t want to, he said. I felt such
an enormous rush of gratitude that it almost did me in.
“I’ll take your bike back to the villa, can you walk there by
yourself”, Jesse asked.
“Throw Stan over the cliff down to where the chickens are”, is what I
thought, but I just said “yes”.
“I’ll tell them to show you to your room and to let you alone. You
can gather your strength, maybe lay by the infinity pool with that incredible
view of the valley. Spoil yourself. Do not
feel bad. He told me that a previous client just had the guys drive her in
to major centres to shop (he didn’t know me but for less than a day or he would
have realized that shopping is not
me). Nonetheless, I was so very, very grateful.
Barry returned later, very hot and wet, admitting that he hadn’t done
the complete 30 kilometers either – he had succumbed to the heat about halfway
up a very challenging hill. The heat, he said, and he didn’t need to explain
further.
Later that afternoon, Jesse and Martin returned to take us to a
wine-tasting at one of the local vineyards. It was a domaine that has been
owned by the same family for over 200 years. We had to drive down narrow roads
which became little more than narrow foot trails until we finally turned into
the farmgate. The place smelled of grapes and olives. A litter of kittens
played in the yard of the house as we traipsed down to the tasting room. We
sampled their signature Vino Nobile, as well as their Vin Santo, an Italian
dessert wine. We bought a few bottles to bring home with us (though I think we
drank the majority of it in Norway, come to think of it, Norway not being known
for its wines after all). The woman was
very knowledgeable but what was most impressive about the winery is all the
ecological measures they are taking. There was a garden of glass domes in the
yard. We found later that they were actually a way of bringing natural light
down deep to where the casks were fermenting. They had a wall garden that
served instead of air conditioning, and many other such measures.
From there we went for dinner
at an authentic trattoria in one of the villages nearby, Montefollonico – a
little family-run place called Ristorante 13 Gobbi. We asked the guys to join
us for dinner, and over wine and hand-made pasta tossed with pecorino cheese
and olive oil – the very best pasta
meal I have ever had, we all got to
know each other better. Martin interpreted and translated for us the Italian
that we couldn’t pick up on and fairly soon the warm, affable owner was
treating us like family. A good first day after all. We may not have got a lot
of miles in, but we were quickly making good friends of our guides, and the
people they exposed us to.
No comments:
Post a Comment