Pedaling Through a Postcard

How appropriate that the title for this tasty travelogue should be plucked like a grape from a ripened vine by my clever companion, JSG, who, after all, amassed a veritable volume of digital depictions of Italy and Slovenia while astride a two-wheeler, and who reacquainted me with the pleasures (and pain) of pedaling after a half-century hiatus.

Only once during that lengthy span did I chance it -- about twenty years ago, when an annoying stress fracture interrupted my running routine and I decided to test the bicycle as a viable alternative. One frightful twenty-mile ride -- from Langhorne to Boonsboro to Trents Ferry to Holcomb Rock Road and back, dodging hordes of heedless drivers and their hulking suv's -- convinced me that this was a mode of exercise for the desperate and the demented, and so I forswore it, I thought, forever.

Even after my running career succumbed permanently to a chronic knee injury, I steadfastly resisted the persistent implorations of my children -- especially my daughter, a devoted and accomplished cyclist -- to remount, fearful that these mature bones might not mend as rapidly as had the broken collarbone, finger, and wrist each of them had suffered in isolated accidents.

More persuasive was JSG, not only because she touted cycling as a shared activity with demonstrable physiological benefits (of which I remain skeptical, at our recreational level of intensity) but also because she was able to supply me with machine and helmet, the property of her younger son, who had consigned them to cobwebs after setting off for college.

And so, as the weather warmed, I found myself revisiting those adolescent years when I was too old (and independent) to be shepherded hither and yon by busy parents yet too young to drive, although thankfully employing much more sophisticated equipment than my ancient coaster.

It took me only a few outings before I was sliding through twenty-four gears as smoothly as an automatic transmission (after initially throwing the chain off its ring by trying to shift at a standstill); zigzagging between the shrubbery and signs bordering the one-mile sidewalk between JSG's home and the Greek Orthodox Church; memorizing every slight turn and incline along the seven-mile Blackwater Creek Bike Trail to Amherst County, since we traversed it twice, sometimes four times, with numbing monotony; honing my climbing skills on the steep one-mile spur to the Kemper Street Train Station; and regularly surging ahead of JSG, so I could stop, dismount, and attempt to shake off the paralysis afflicting my hands and crotch, from which the purported insulation of my newly-purchased padded pants and gloves offered little relief.

Once JSG got me in the saddle, it was inevitable that sooner or later she would unveil the top line on her bucket list -- a cycling trip abroad. While my thirst for adventure can be quenched most satisfactorily by the written word of others, such an excursion -- adequately supervised -- might present a refreshing change from the conventional cruise ship, bus, or automobile touring I was familiar with. Knowing JSG's penchant for meticulous research and cautionary spending, I acquiesced with moderate enthusiasm and delegated the details to her.

Restricted to a three-week window during which her daughter would be away at camp, she eventually identified this idyllic itinerary: seven days cycling through the Friuli-Venezia-Giulia region of northeast Italy, originating at the Adriatic port of Trieste and terminating at the lakeside village of Bled, in Slovenia, with intermediate overnights in Gorizia, Cividale, and Bovec, all places heretofore unknown to this provincial Lynchburger. One optional day of rest plus the opportunity to lay over in Venice (which I had heard of) sealed the deal.

How quickly one forgets the perils of air travel.

Our connection is through Frankfort, and, since our overnight flight arrives late, we have only forty minutes to dash frantically from one end of this sprawling complex to the other, thwarted at every turn by immigration control, security, ticketing, and a gate change. Well-conditioned bikers that we are, we make it, despite the encumbrance of our oversize carry-ons, into which are stuffed enough clothes for six out of the twelve days we will be gone. (I plan to double up, or start over, regardless of soil, wrinkles, stains, or odor.)

Safely aboard, we count our blessings, especially after learning that two of our fellow bikers must scramble to rebook when Air France rudely informs them twenty-four hours prior to departure that their flight has been canceled, and that another is stranded four hours in Philadelphia when a visit by our illustrious President shuts down the surrounding air space.

Venice is glorified as the most beautiful and fascinating city in the world. Apparently I am too hungover by the redeye, too ignorant of the ubiquitous art, architecture, and history, too much of a landlubber, and too distracted by the new running shoes which are blistering my big toes to appreciate the encomiums. Certainly it's the strangest place I've ever been.

As we wander through the maze of alleys, discover secluded courtyards, gaze into murky canals, cross arched stone bridges, admire miniature geranium and petunia gardens suspended from open windows, shop for watches, jewelry, glassware, shoes, and masks, holding tight to our wallets, peruse countless bar and pizzaria menus, try to eat gelato, read a map, and stay on shore all at the same time, and resist the romanticism of a gondola ride (at 120 euros) -- I study the water lapping at the mossy underpinnings and wonder: Just how did they build this . . . and why?

Having long ago relinquished its commercial and military power, Venice floats like Disneyland in a lagoon, a watery theme park, a magnet for tourists' euros, a Las Vegas hotel on a grand scale (an analogy which prompts me to quip "Which came first?") -- "somewhere between a freak and a fairy tale." (Morris, p. 21)

Upon the advice of my well-traveled mother, we track down a few notable landmarks: the ancient Jewish synagogue (now a museum charging admission); Piazza San Marco (Times Square minus the glitter, which I survey in vain for pigeons and mimes); Harry's Bar (right behind us, points out a disgusted Italian, letting loose a barrage of unintelligible invective); the Gritti Palace, where a costly glass of wine buys us a restful late afternoon hour on the patio overlooking the Grand Canal; and the Peggy Guggenheim Museum (in search of which we cross the Rialto Bridge twice), former residence of that "stingy and sexually voracious" heiress and now the permanent repository for her remarkable collection of Pollacks, Kandinskys, Ernsts, Mirots, Dalis, Picassos, and Mondrians.

We ride the water bus home, and marvel at the spectral curve of former palaces lining the dusky channel, dressed in Tuscan yellow, Venetian vanilla, crepescular coral.

Shunning the expensive fare of the more prominent restaurants, we are enticed by the fifteen euro prix fixe brandished by a brazen waiter on a side street. I opt for the second course sea bass at eight euros, only to be incensed when the fine print on the bill (and the menu) reveals that the price is eight euros per 100 grams. Exhibiting uncharacteristic equanimity, I convince the disingenuous owner that only 100 of the 300 grams we were charged for was edible and we settle for twelve.

Still bargain-hunting, the next day we sign up for a free water taxi ride to the island of Murano -- the world-renowned glass foundry. The stipulations, of course, are a demonstration of glass-making by a master craftsman -- who, with a gentle blow, a twist, a chip, a slice with an iron rod, a fluorish in the air, and a sudden snap of iron shears (Morris, p. 269), magically transforms bowls of sand into fluted vases and calico cats -- and a guided tour through the factory's gallery -- a "blinding arcade . . . of feathery candlesticks," (Morris, p.269) ornate mirrors, ostentatious headboards, gaudy animals, and crystalline images of Picasso-inspired clowns and revelers.

When I chuckle at the 50,000 euro price tags adorning a glittering chandelier and a translucent stallion, our oily salesman decides that it's time to deal. Bemoaning our grossly devalued American currency, he tells me simply to substitute dollars in place of euros, a hefty 30% discount. When I inquire about the cat whose conception we witnessed, he says it won't be cool for another twenty-four hours.

Finally liberated amidst a bewildering array of enamel, we emerge from each shop glassy-eyed and empty-handed, wary of taking home a paperweight, bottle stopper, cake knife, or purse hanger that will turn out to have been made in China.

Even more curious is our next stop -- Burano, "an island of absurd diminutives: tiny canals, miniature bridges, the infinitesimal stitching of its lace-making industry, and hundreds of toy-like homes" (Morris, p. 266) randomly lacquered in all the pigments of the painter's pallet: lime green, emerald, turquoise, cobalt, lavender, magenta, pink, lemon, orange, violet.

Enough of this dalliance; it's time for biking.

The next day, after two hours on board Trenitalia to Trieste -- during which the sympathetic conductor allows me to disembark at an intermediate stop and validate our ticket, thus avoiding a 50 euro fine -- a taxi transfer to our hotel, an introduction to our traveling troupe, our hybrid cycles, and our two guides, and lunch at a nearby restaurant -- the best meal we've had -- we're ready for our first ride; it's a testy ten-miler through the city to Miramare, a castle built in the 1860's by Archduke Maximilian of Hapsburg on rocky spur of limestone overlooking the sea.

For some reason, when JSG proposed cycling in Italy, I envisioned quiet country roads or deserted trails where the only sign of life would be a farmer on foot or another cyclist -- not a bustling metropolis of 200,000 or a congested coastline on a Saturday afternoon where half of the population is headed for the beach.

All of a sudden, I am in the middle of a traffic jam, not beside it, trying to follow first our leader -- whom I lose sight of, along with the rest of the pack, at a stop light -- and then our directions, which are both unintelligible and inaccessible, stuffed as they are in a plastic sleeve attached to my handlebars. Meanwhile, I'm having to downshift with my finger rather than my thumb and signal for a right turn by extending my right hand rather than cocking my left at an angle, which is the way we learned to drive a car.

I can't believe it -- almost lost on the first day.

My compatriots have warned me to watch out for doors -- drivers opening their parked cars into oncoming bicycles -- and blinking brake lights -- indicating a car about to pull out -- but it's all I can do to concentrate on the road ahead, especially after JSG reminds me that this is Europe, where a slight sideways glance confirms that, indeed, topless sunbathing is the norm.

When we start our longer rides the next day -- 35 to 45 miles, with rest stops and two-hour lunch breaks -- I don't find them all that demanding. Pages of preliminaries supplied by our tour company, Ciclismo Classico, implied that we would be woefully handicapped if we did not undertake a rigorous training regimen, which required cycling that distance several days a week, at least three hours a day, boosting our metabolisms into the fat-burning mode, strengthening our hearts, lungs, and legs, and developing immunity to the unrelenting soreness. "Scare tactics," I told JSG, who anticipated the worst. "I guarantee we will be in better shape than most of the others."

And we are, even though at 62 I am the oldest and less experienced than at least half. All those hours on the elliptical at the Y pay off in spades -- enabling me to burst ahead on our first extra loop, a two-mile 5% climb; to scale alone, although at a painfully slow pace, Castelmonte on the fourth day, about four miles at 6%; and to join JSG as the only two to complete a 12% one-mile ascent on the fifth day -- all this without clips or stirrups. It's not the Tour de France, but eye-opening and intense enough for a novice like me, as I reach desperately for a lower gear that's not there, watch each tenth of a kilometer tick off at interminable intervals, surrender to my pounding chest and pause for a brief respite halfway up, and rejoice in the long, snaking downhill once the summit is conquered.

For the rest of the time, unless my comfortable pace pushes me to pass, I am content to trail the pack, despite warnings that vehicles approaching from the rear will encounter me first. On these narrow roads, that doesn't intimidate me as much as the vision of a passing car swerving back to the right to avoid an oncoming one. Besides, when the other riders are bunched ahead of me, my spine is chilled by their pixelated jerseys sweeping around a curve, like race cars poised for a restart, an arc of color against the lush landscape.

More stressful are the busy highways we traverse -- especially our last two days in Slovenia. Maybe it's because I've made it safely this far, but at times, frankly, I'm terrified -- by cars passing with hardly a thought for an upcoming blind spot; by a maniac so enamored of his powerful Porsche that he blows by at 80 mph; by crazed motorcyclists more reckless than any automobile; by the wind rushing through my helmet on a downhill with such force that it suppresses all warning sounds; by oncoming cars running side-by-side; by monster trucks and massive buses that can suck us up (I'm later told) in their ferocious backdrafts; by a shoulderless road that drops off into a narrow gully, a recipe for disaster for an unsteady cyclist.

Setting out on the last day, a passing tractor-trailer so freaks me out that I dismount to regain my composure -- and courage -- improper etiquette, I later realize, in a line of cyclists, because it can be disconcerting and dangerous.

Hour by hour the pain ebbs and flows. One finger goes numb, then two, then three, until finally one's whole hand is missing, which makes gear-shifting an adventure. The left shoulder throbs, then the right, then the upper back, then the lower, but trying to stretch or rotate an arm risks derailing one's already precarious balance. Insects plaster my cheeks and forehead; an unreachable itch screams for attention beneath my immovable helmet; grease coats my inner calves. As for my seat, I'm resigned to the dull, persistent ache than will only be alleviated by the next blessed rest stop or the distant finish line.

Meanwhile, JSG's beaming smile and unbridled glee never falter.

Because, indeed, this is one gorgeous and diverse corner of the world.

It's like, well, pedaling through a postcard -- climbing through the limestone outcroppings and dark pine forests of the Karst plateau; winding between the gentle slopes of the Friuli region, which are blanketed in grapevines, and along the famous wine road, home to 500 makers; passing by isolated rural villages, each the site of a church, a tiny square, a bar, a potted garden; cruising beside the emerald green Soca River at the foot of the Julian Alps, whose grey-white slabs of granite rise in majestic splendor against a cloudless sky; crossing the Pass of Predil in a shuttle bus on a twisting road carved into the side of a mountain, where we play chicken with a four-wheeled Siamese twin on a hairpin curve; circumnavigating scenic Lake Bled, a popular health and sports resort, our eyes captivated by the iconic castle perched on a rocky promontory dominating the placid scene.


Along the way we are entertained, enchanted, and educated by a week-long serial of roadside attractions:

*A late-night celebration in Trieste, where all 200,000 inhabitants spill into the main square and adjacent side streets to witness the christening of the Costa Cruise Line's new flagship, the Favolosa, a July 2nd orgy of inebriation, orchestration, and pyrotechnics worthy of Independence Day;

* The Grotto Gigante, where a 400-foot pendulum suspended from the ceiling measures the gravitational effect of the moon on the earth, twenty-foot stalagmites stacked like pancakes (and stalagtites) grow at the drip-dry rate of one millimeter every twenty years, and humans are forbidden to stroke even one damp rock, lest their spores morph into invasive vegetation;

*The triple-ringed fortress of Palmanova, established in 1593 as the Venetian Republic's first line of defense, where an innocent question about different colored bricks prompts a ten-minute history lesson, in Italian, no less, while a dazed audience wilts in the blazing midday heat;

*The Cantina Produttori Cormons Cooperative (a winery), which harvests six hundred different types of grapes and distributes 2.5 million bottles of wine a year, all aged in huge wooden barrels decorated by renowned international artists (whose renderings are replicated on the four wine glasses JSG purchases -- and squirrels through security);

*The Roman town of Cividale del Friuli, where we are subjected to too much information on the art and architecture of its medieval Oratorio di Santa Maria (a church) and on the myriad (I can't remember the number) demolitions and resurrections of its picturesque one-lane stone bridge;

*The Kobarid Museum, built in 1990 (fifty years too late) to commemorate the twelve horrific battles (especially the last -- Caporetto) fought in the mountains along the Isonzo River Front between the Austrians and the Italians during World War I (which produced almost three million combined casualties), where we view artifacts, diary excerpts, a diorama, photographs, and a video -- a harrowing depiction of courage, suffering, and senseless slaughter;

*White water rafting on the Soca River, the Alps rising from both shorelines, a refreshing interlude, especially for those who test the efficacy of their wet suits by jumping into the frigid waters, a diversion I decline after seeing them emerge chalk-faced and shell-shocked;

*And, finally, our luxurious accommodations on our last night, a dark-paneled four-room suite at the Vila Bled, one of Marshal Tito's former palaces, where we congregate on the lakeside patio for a farewell champagne party and photo session and reflect on the stark simplicity and grandiose pretensions of this 1950's anachronism.

No trip to Italy (or Slovenia) would be complete without exquisite wines and elegant dining, and Ciclismo Classico delivers as advertised, in the humble opinion of one who is no connoisseur of either. But when it comes to oenology and the culinary arts, one of our guides -- Isacco -- is a walking (and talking) encyclopedia; his descriptions of ingredients and recipes are as comprehensive and enlightening as the servings are savory and sumptuous.

Only a sample lingers in the memory, or appears in the notes: pesto rottini, eggplant salad, spinach risotto, shrimp pastry, potato cheese pie, flan, polenta, mushroom pasta, salami and ham antipasto, cabbage soup, medallions of beef (which this vegetarian can't resist), pizza with artichokes and asparagus, neopolitan gelato with a splash of chocolate.

The Friuli region of Italy is famous for its white wines, and Isacco's selections justify the reputation, even as he throws in a few reds for variety. He whets our appetite with a preliminary free tasting -- uncorking a Prosecco, a Ribolla Giallo, and a Friulano (previously labeled Tocai, until the Hungarians claimed the franchise in a nasty dispute worthy of the Hatfields and the McCoys) -- then introduces the notorious "wine kitty," a pot of 100 euros per person to purchase appropriate wines for the next five dinners. JSG and I -- exercising our perverse frugality and our preference for sobriety -- opt out, probably the first ever pariahs to do so in the annals of Ciclismo Classico. Two glasses of a raunchy house wine and a few guilty sips of the others' superior grape shame me into anteing up for the last two nights.

Charming, witty, wise, and talented, Isacco is a true Renaissance man. He speaks Italian, English, French, German, and some Spanish, and conducts tours for all those nationalities. He plays the flute and the oboe, will be traveling in the U.S. this fall to perform a Medieval concert, and on our last evening pulls out his bagpipes to give us a preview. He engages every client with his brash humor and spontaneous antics, including the ritualistic passing of the cappellini, the twin caps of honor awarded each night for the day's most egregious faux pas and/or noteworthy achievements. A cyclocross racer, he demonstrates his dexterity, dismounting at full speed, carrying his cycle up a flight of steps, and jumping back on, like a flamboyant rodeo equestrian.

"Mahk, Mahk!" he shouts, as he pulls abreast of me, oblivious to traffic, leans into my face, gives me a reassuring "thumbs up," and launches into a lecture on the abandoned guardhouses bestriding the Italian-Slovenian border. Walking the streets of Cividale, he counters my ogling of the local women with this philosophical pearl: "I find that many people are attracted to -- how do you say it -- the exotic," or, in another language: "Viva la difference."

His co-hostess, Federica, while not as vivacious, is equally professional. A trip planner for Ciclismo Classico, she has designed our course, scouted our hotels, and is focused on herding eleven of us cats through our paces according to schedule. "Is this a dream job?" she says, a former office clerk from Bologna, who applied for the position on a whim. "Maybe, but the constant travel wears on one's personal life."

These cats are a congenial, eclectic group which, after a few days, segregates itself by age -- and the resourcefulness to party into the early hours of the morning and then saddle up for a forty-mile ride.

Maybe it's their New York habitat that has conditioned the younger crowd for this energetic lifestyle: Samantha, recent graduate of Columbia, now employed by American Express, who, with one glance, memorizes the day's route and streaks to the forefront; Kathleen, whose investment banking expertise lodges her firmly in second gear for three days until she broaches the question, "What's this clicker for?"; Christina, pediatric nurse at Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center and marathoner, who survives a blown tire the first day and a near miss by the rampaging Porsche; and her co-worker Mariel, for whom an occasional lift from the service van is just another opportunity for her to flaunt the irrepressible good humor and outrageous repartee that have even the boisterous Brazilian raft captain Tony begging for mercy.

More contemporaneous with JSG and me are Samantha's Boston-based parents, Gareth, a management consultant for incipient technology companies, who earns my respect by ordering double espressos every morning, and his wife Susan, counselor to the high-income unemployed; Marlowe, a law librarian from San Francisco, whose significant other, Gary, also her cycling coach, leaves us behind in Trieste to join a more athletic junket, and thus avoids the drama of a denied credit card and a disconnected cell phone; and Sue, a New Hampshirite, traveling in Italy with three suitcases, one for each week, whose unsteady ride and constant head-swiveling from side to side in a vain attempt to look rearwards so unnerve me that I have to pass.

And finally there is Brian, the Catholic with the Jewish grandfather from the Mormon bastion of Salt Lake City, retired now after a career selling and managing Quizno's franchises in three states, an inexhaustible fountain of knowledge on every conceivable subject. From him we learn that interrogators identify liars by their body language; Subway uses "pre-chewed" (processed) beef, ham, and chicken; the David is the only work of art in Florence worth seeing; never send food back to the kitchen in a restaurant, lest you be rewarded with something worse; there are no good restaurants in Venice; Utah hates its teachers and despises Robert Redford because he's too liberal; the Jewish Community Center in Salt Lake City received stimulus money to install a hand scanner for heightened security; and the sensation we experience of having to pedal on a downhill is a common optical illusion caused by the lay of the land -- all of which seems a little too authoritative, until I am jolted from my bemusement by the sobering tale of his wife's tragic death two years ago in a bicycle fall.

Many others cross our path during our twelve-day sojourn. I find the Italians (and the Slovenians) -- once we escape Venice -- gracious, friendly, joyful, helpful, polite, slim, and handsome; in a way they resemble the sensible cars they drive: Peugots, Fiats, Volkswagons, Lancias, Alfa Romeos, and downsized BMW's. Even the security gatekeepers at the airport on the day of our departure are smiling and accommodating. I tell the ticket agent when we check in: "You have a beautiful country." She replies: "So do you. I love the U.S."

What better arrivederci could there be to this exotic holiday?

REFERENCES

Morris, Jan. The World of Venice. New York: Harcourt, Brace & Company,1993.