bike through Italy

This is the first lengthy submission to the creative writing class.  I reworked something I wrote a couple years ago.  If you would like to see photos that compliment this story, go to:

italianbikejob.wordpress.com.  There, you will find several posts about the 'worst day on the bike'.  

About 9:00, I pedaled into the town the town of Amatrice.  This was my first stop of the morning where I would buy some fruit for breakfast and maybe some yogurt. I would also change my footwear, because the night before had been a real soaker. While I was taking down that tent and getting ready for the day, I wore my sandals, so my shoes wouldn’t get wet.  Of course, the tent and rain fly were sopping now, so I would need to find a place to dry them at some point.  When I left my little out-of-the-way spot behind some bushes, I had my shoes stuffed into the basket with an apple, maps, water bottles, a bandana, and notebook.

Amatrice a deceptively large town, full of shops and bustle. The problem is that it is built on the side of a mountain, or hill. (I was always in a quandary during the ride how I should describe the geography around me. Were they hills, or mountains? The high parts in Iowa are definitely hills. The natural features around me now are much higher than Iowa. But they aren’t nearly as great as Colorado or the Alps. I imagine the Tour de France people reading my descriptions and scoffing when I use the word ‘mountain’ to describe the puny upward thrusts of rock and soil that surround me right now.)

With so many shops, the first thing I do is take a stab at finding a place that will be able to sell me a tire tube puncture repair kit. I’ve used only one of the two spare tubes that I brought with me, but I always try to be over-prepared. I want to get a kit of patches and glue, just in case. I’ve written the word for puncture—“foratura” and the word for repair—“riparare” in my notebook. The shop owners and customers, are exceedingly helpful, but also unknowledgeable about bike stuff.  Most said I should try far down the hill and have a look, which I resisted. There is no sense in riding DOWN the hill on a possibly fruitless errand, after which I would need to simply ride back UP the hill and keep looking—especially since I didn’t really need the stuff, anyway. After a couple haphazard efforts to find said puncture kit, I gave up.

Next item of interest was an internet point.

I stepped into a stationary shop that had one computer just inside the door.  It was unoccupied, but at the same time, I realized that I was wildly hungry. I took note of the location and asked where the nearest fruit could be found and was directed to alimentari shop. Throughout the two weeks, I thought this was an elements shop—where you can fill the basic needs of life—which it is.  At the time, I didn’t even look it up. Now I see it means…food, very simple.  The place was beautiful with wonderful piles of fruit, nuts, vegetables—anything my heart could desire. I bought an apple and scurried back to the internet point with a promise to myself that I would return before leaving town.

After I’d been sitting for 10 minutes at the computer, a woman in sensible garb, anywhere between 40 and 60-years-old, poked her head in the door and asked how long I would be there.

I looked at my watch and said, “Ahm…45 minutes.”

“Oh!” She wasn’t expecting me to say such a long time. Many people say something like, ‘I’m almost done,’ or ‘Just a minute,’ even though they have no idea how long they will be working. Or they don’t even think about it.  They say, “Just a minute,” and forget about it. I hate this. I wish they’d tell me when they will be done, and then I can make a plan.

“Oh, okay,” she continued in a flustered manner. She changed tack, “Where are you from?”

“The United States,” I said, not unkindly, but also not putting much energy into the conversation because I knew I was paying for each minute on the computer.

“Oh!” She started out every sentence with an exclamation (usually ‘Oh’) of delight. “I spent 25 years in Ireland. I’ve been back for 4 years now…but I have many friends in the States…” All these seeming non-sequiturs served to indicate that she was interested in talking to me—not something I would normally back away from, but the fact remained that I was in the middle of something. I’d just started and I was paying by the minute. Money always seems to enter into my dealings. She continued, “I have some things to do. I will get my bread and a picture frame and come back.”

She was back in 35 minutes. “Oh, you’re still here.”

“Yes, in 10 minutes, I’ll be finished.”

“Oh! No, I guess I can use it tomorrow if you’re still working—“

“No. I mean in exactly 10 minutes, I’ll be finished. One hour is 2 Euros and I don’t want to spend any more than that.” I wanted her to understand that I didn’t mean that I MIGHT be done in 10 minutes, or that I would be done in ABOUT 10 minutes, but I would be done in EXACTLY 10 minutes.

“My son went to America. He’s in Vietnam now. My daughter is in the Philippines.”  I didn’t comment.  She got the message that I was not looking for conversation at the moment and stepped out.

Ten minutes later, she was back, and I was finished. “What is your son doing in Vietnam?” I wanted to show interest in her news, even if I wasn’t, really.

“Oh, he’s teaching and surfing.”

“And your daughter?”

“Oh, she’s a missionary.”

I gave the usual information about my trip. Being experienced with travel herself, she didn’t act as surprised as many people when I said I’d ridden all the way from Bari. I turn to go out and she calls me back and says, “Here, take my email address. Where can I write it?” I eagerly get out my notebook and I turn to the inside back cover. I don’t think I’ll ever need it, but you never know.

The sun was high and hot now—at 11:00. I stepped out of the shop and sat on the sidewalk to change into my shoes. How nice it feels to have dry, warm feet after a morning of sogginess. As I sit, I try not to meet the eyes of the passers-by. I’m in their way and any delay will make me more of a nuisance.

I’m almost ready to go when I think of something. She is somewhat computer literate and she uses the computer often. I poke my head back in the shop, “Do you want to see the blog that I’ve started about my trip?” Not only do I like to meet people, I am also a consummate self-promoter.

“Oh!” she answers, “Yes, very much.”

I start to tell her how to find it, but then she gets up and says, “Here, you do it.” I load it in and then she wants me to send the address to her in an email message so she can find it later. As I get up to go, she sees my camera and wants to have a picture with me. We are cut from a similar cloth, the two of us.

In the picture, I’m wearing my bicycle helmet. I had forgotten that I was wearing it, and I didn’t look at the picture until the next day. I would often wear my helmet—it’s an easy way to carry it, and I don’t lose it that way.  Sure, I look a bit weird, but I’m not really looking for a soulmate at this point.  After all, if she were really my soulmate, she’d have a bike helmet on her head, too, right?

As I’m leaving the shop for the sixth time, I make the first mistake of the day.  I ask, “Well, would you like to get something to eat?” I can’t deny the intense hole in my stomach for much longer without going into food-withdrawal.

“Oh!” she answers, “I have an appointment. …But wait!” she brightens, “You can come with me! Yes, you can! It’s just in the next town. I’m going to take the bus. But how will you get there?” I guess she had forgotten that I had ridden 300 miles in the last week. “Oh, yes the bike. But how will you know that way? Maybe you can put your bike on the bus. Or maybe you can follow the bus.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

“Okay…you drive down this road, curve to the right and there is the convent on the left. At the bottom, you don’t take the road toward Rome, but you keep on until you can turn to the right, at the spot where the bridge USED to be. Then you curve around and up the hill.” 

Oh, no.  She gives directions that include things that USED to be there—the worst kind of directions. But…she ended up drawing me a map and then taking me to a bus stop shelter where there was an aerial photograph of the area. She pointed out the village of Prato, and said, “There is her house, right there.”  With a map, and an aerial picture, even a direction dork like me should be able to find the way.

“This will be great,” I said, “Does she have room for me to put up my tent so it can dry out.”

“Yes, that would be fine.”

“Well, you better hope that bus comes soon, or I’m going to get there before you.”

So instead of filling up at the wonderfully well-stocked alimentari, I coasted down the hill, past the place where I didn’t look for a puncture kit, over a bridge, NOT in the direction of Rome, and then up.  Up, up, up.  It was a steep trip, but I was feeling great. Normally, I wouldn’t go anywhere near an uphill route that is NOT in the direction of my goal, but the thought of a good meal trumps all hesitation.

As expected, I did make it to the village before the bus.  As I sat in the tiny village center, I wrote in my journal.

5 Sept 2011 12:03

I’m in Prato, a small village near Amatrice. She explained that she was invited—“Oh, oh, you can come too! Yes, you can!” She said this in such a way that I understood she v. much wanted me to come. And thus, her wish and mine correspond exactly. As I was listening to Nicholas Nickleby today about all the people who sumptuously gather together for vittles, I was eager for a hearty supper. I’m thinking that at this lunch, I might be able to eat all I want. How exciting!

I’m wondering how long I will need to set up my tent and dry the thing out.

15:17  

Though the last entries into this illustrious journal were penned with a lightness of heart and fervent anticipation of good time, these further words are quite less happy. (I wanted to say “quite the opposite” but such a phrase would lend one to believe that I have been struck down to the depths of the nearest coal mine.) 

As I was writing at 12:03, the bus with my new friend arrived from Amatrice. We caught site of each other as there was no one else on the street, and waved warmly. When Maria came nearer, she said the words I could scarcely believe—yet another of my anticipated meetings of late would be dashed and my desires again would fall to ruin. (As one might perceive, I was being influenced by the splendid prose of Mr. Dickens—Nickolas Nickleby was in my ears during these many hours on the bike).

“Unfortunately, the husband of the woman who we were to meet does not like strangers. Therefore, we must say goodbye.” All of my excitement and plans, up in flames. With those simple words, she had just trashed my entire day and my good mood. I barely heard her as she said that she felt embarrassed. “Oh well, you can just go back, can’t you?”

Not only was I faced with the disappointment of not being able to join my new friend for lunch, but I had to pedal back the way I had come on a stomach that was already beginning to digest itself.

15:26  

I tried to think of a way to show my displeasure and I could think of nothing more than to say nothing. “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything.” I mounted the bike and turned down the hill, not shaking her hand, not looking up, not saying goodbye. It was a feeble attempt to express unhappiness.

I trust that my new friend must somehow have been stung buy my silence. However, with the off-handed manner in which she shrugged off my impending toil, “You can just go back, can’t you?” I think that she was not aware of my hardship on the horizon.

I was out of food. Some hours before, I had been inches away beautiful bananas, apples, kiwis, and bread.  I didn’t buy any because I pledged to return. Maria presented me with the great opportunity of a home-cooked, genuine Italian meal, so I pushed off the food errand. Waiting for my new friend, I had drunk all the water in my water bottles, planning to fill them at our host’s home.  I also lost the opportunity to dry my tent.

Now that dinner was off, I had no food, no water, and a wet tent.  It was after noon and I had wasted nearly an hour of riding time.  Not only wasted it, but I spent a great deal of that time slogging up 2 miles in the wrong direction to the tiny town of Prato.

As I sped down the hill away from Maria, I was a bit consoled by the fact that I was on the bike—free again. But I soon discovered more bad news.  The town I was going to was not on the any of the signs around me. In fact, NONE of the towns on the signs were on my map. Thus, I was going blindly, asking at every intersection about the towns where I think I need to go.

My attempts to find help were hindered by another problem.  I had cut up my map so I wouldn’t have to unfold and fold the whole thing every time.  Unfortunately, I was moving from the northern end of one piece to the southern end of another.  When I came upon someone who might give me directions, I would get one scrap out, show where we are, and get another scrap out to finish the explanation of where I wanted to go. Everyone I would ask knew where Accumoli was, but many didn’t know how to get there. 

I finally find a sign that says Accumoli. After 2km, comes another sign for Accumoli, but it points up a hill where there is a no entry sign. 

The road I needed to take was closed. 

Now I have to turn onto the big road and start to pedal. I decide to ask the way to be sure. A truck driver returns from his business in the weeds, looks confused at my map, then shows a spark of recognition and points uphill. As I thought. It couldn’t be the easy way, could it? Straight uphill.

After 3 miles of arduous, hot, fierce uphill, I flag down a car in the middle of the road. He is alarmed, but happy to help once he sees that I don’t have a huge problem. He loads up his GPS in his lovely, air-conditioned car, and even though we probably don’t understand each other completely, he assures me that I need to go back the way I had come. 

A biker’s worst nightmare.  For the second time in an hour, I would have to back track.  Come to think of it this is not the worst nightmare…it would have been much worse if I had come down the hill and then found out that I need to go up the hill.  Now, all I need to do is coast down the beast that I had just conquered.

From the journal:

5 Sept 19:39

As I’m pedaling along, waiting to see my turn, I come across what looks to be a mushroom processing plant. There are some tables and chairs under an umbrella with a sign in the window that says Aperto (open). I walk toward the door hoping to find some bread and veggies, maybe mushrooms to make into a sandwich. 

The door is locked, as have been most of the doors near an ‘Aperto’ sign in my experience lately. I am beginning to wonder if my dictionary might have a misprint. I ride around the compound and see some nice grass with Snow White and six dwarfs in small figurines happily trotting across the lawn. I nearly set up my tent there, but decide I should probably get permission, and since I don’t see anyone, I start to ride away.  Then I see a doorway with workers inside. Aida speaks some English and gives me the OK to set my tent up near the dwarfs.

I set it up and just as I spread out the rain fly, a man sees me and says, “It is not possible! Workers. Private.” I get out my dictionary, find the word for ‘dry.’ Asciutto  I say “asciutto,” then I say ‘acqua’ (water). He doesn’t agree, understand, or cooperate. 

I’m sure he thought I was an idiot, or lunatic, or both. 

I say ‘una ora’ one hour. I think he has it in his head that I want to stay there all night. I say that Aida told me it was OK.

“What Aida? Who?”

She was putting olives in jars. I look for the word olive (its olive, as I expected)
I am calm while the man is more and more agitated. This probably makes him even more frustrated.  Then a semi-trailer truck comes in. The diver makes a motion like he is shooing away an annoying little fly, indicating that my little butt should get the dickens out of the way. When I try to explain, Mr. Truck Driver charges over to my tent with an attitude of, “I know how to get the stinking foreigner to get the hell out.” Visions of my $200 mobile home broken like match sticks fill my head.

“I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” I yell, running over to the tent, waving my arms in the air. I touch him to block his arm from grabbing the poles, a move that nearly inspires him to stuff my head down my neck. He allows me to take it down.

My efforts at cross-cultural clarification had failed miserably. I understand it was private property. But if I could’ve made them understand that I was going to be there for only one hour and not all night, maybe I’d have been ok. I should try to ride through Russia.

The thing is that I think everyone is like me.  I would be delighted to have some guy who is riding a bike across my country stop and set up his tent in my yard.  In THIS drama, there are many places, however, where misunderstanding, both linguistic and cultural might nullify any hope of peaceful chumminess.  

Now it was 3:00 pm and what was once simply hunger has turned into a desperate search for anything that resembled food. I start to feel a bit dizzy; it was the first step down the road toward death. Not far from the olive/mushroom packaging place with the friendly truck driver, I see a sign alongside the road, ‘Pizzaria.’ No translation or dictionary necessary.  But I’m not out of the woods yet.  Even though a sign nearby says ‘Aperto,’ that may not be the case…especially at 3:00.  I’m starting to understand the siesta rules here. 

I turn and ride down toward the restaurant—testimony to the great depth of my hunger. I find a dude carrying crates.

“Pizza?” I say hopefully.

“Chiuso,” he says blandly with an air of finality. “Closed.”

I look desperate and ask for tomatoes or any kind of fruit. A woman holding a baby comes out. For the second time in 20 minutes, I get the “What are you, crazy” look.  I take the hint and move on.         

After the day’s ride I would write the words food emergency in my journal.

When William Least Heat-Moon went on his trek across the country, someone gave him a can of spinach. They gave it to him with the words, “So there will always be something to eat.” The logic being that Heat-Moon would eat everything else before desperation would lead him to open the can of spinach. This day I was forced to “eat the spinach.” In my case, the spinach was a small brick of peanuts in an air-tight package. What seems like weeks before, but was only 4 days ago, I had been looking for fruit in the town of Lucito. Some young boys directed me to the one fruit shop—closed. The shop next door had everything…everything except fruit. I hemmed and hawed about buying something until I decided on a 200g package of peanuts for €1.39 ($2). I rummaged around for coins in the pockets of my pants and in the bike bags. The owner took pity on me, the wayfaring pitiful biker, and said I could just take them. I didn’t argue—as anyone who knows me would believe. The peanuts had been with me ever since. I hadn’t eaten them because I knew that they would be salty so I would need to drink copious amounts of water with them, and I would also need to eat the entire package, because there would be nowhere to put anything left over.

Not far from the unopen Pizzaria, I pulled off the road into a riverside patch of grass that was not weedy. A perfect place to dry out my tent. I set it up, threw the fly on a small bush, sat down and ate the spinach–I mean, peanuts. They were delicious.