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« on: November 26, 2025, 08:40:18 pm »
Bicycle tour. October 14th, 1994.
A truck pulled into the fueling yard just as I wheeled away. I stopped soon for a cup of delicious cappuccino coffee for $1.20. The sun beamed radiantly, the air was cool and the sky was deep blue. The cold required wearing a down-jacket and leather gloves. Stopping one time along the roadside, I propped the bike against an iron fence and ate the peaches out of a tin before pedaling the 22-mile spin into Bologna. In the city crowds of people huddled on block corners. A large parade marched through the streets. Some carried large signs emblazoned with swastikas and the hammer-and-sickle. I got off the road and hand-pushed this fully loaded touring-bicycle along the sidewalk. About 50 uniformed police led the parade. Behind the police, thousands of people walked, carried signs, chanted and blue whistles. It had something to do with supporting the Communist party, which I do not do, especially after seeing the former Soviet Union. When I saw the hammer and sickle I gave them a signal, not a friendly signal either. Walking quite a distance on the sidewalk, I reached the end of the parade, which was followed by 20 uniformed policeman. The police all carried automatic weapons.
From that point forward, the narrow road had buildings up to the edge of the sidewalk. Extracting 150,000.00 Italian lira from an ATM machine put $100.00 in my pocket. Having taken the northwest bend in the route the previous day, it was about time to enter highway SS 9 for the final approach to Milano. The route cuts through the cities of Modena and Parma.
By 2:45 p.m. I had pedaled this loading touring-bicycle 60-miles. Modena had been traversed and the wheels rolled along nicely on a super highway near Reggio. The Italians seemed to keep odd hours for their food stores. It was a trick finding one open, even in the middle of the day. That forced me to get meals in restaurants which were usually more expensive than the stores. A small bowl of soup, a small mineral water and a small dessert in a restaurant cost 9,000 lira, about $6.00.
The estimated time of arrival in Milano was tomorrow afternoon or night. That would put me in town for business on a Sunday. Certainly hotels would be open, and airlines could provide information. The sun disappeared sometime back, and a bright white haze permeated the air. Traffic was unending and faster than greased lightning. The shoulder, that narrow margin of safety, vacillated from nothing, to 1 foot, to 4 feet, to 8 feet as the road cut through stands of planted trees, through planted fields, fields being used and lying fallow, across bridges spanning dirty-water rivers, through towns and cities, and passed houses of the standard you see in upper middle class communities in the United States. Two conclusions could be reached with all certainty. The weather in coastal Italy this time of year is excellent for cycling. The motor traffic is bad for cycling.
Inland speeds range between 13 and 16 mph. Because of side-winds near the water, speeds range between 9 and 11 miles per hour. The terrain was level. Very little wind came from any direction. At a gas station/cafe, I noticed a good looking blonde haired waitress. Man, she did one hell of a fine job filling in a pair of jeans. I donned my windbreaker as soon as the air began to chill. Cold night mist cuts like a razor when you cycle through it. I was uncleaned, unshaved and wore the same clothes since leaving Thessoloniki, Greece on the 6th, and here it is the 14th. When grubbiness becomes the norm, it is not so bad. It is the transition from daily cleanliness to daily dirtiness that is difficult to endure. Once the transition is crossed and made, and you are used to it, being grubby and grimy is not so bad.
That night in Parma, many people rode bicycles. Stores there sold the same items stores sell the world over, except that the buildings in which those items were sold appeared to be hundreds of years old. One part of the inner-city road was made of smooth asphalt. Another stretch was constructed of large flat stones. The stones forced an occasional dismount to pick the way carefully around bumps and cracks. Myriad, supremely good looking women were all around. In one particularly well-lighted plaza all a glow with restaurants, countless parked bicycles and throngs of people, the statue of a man towered prominently at the center. The plaza around it teamed with youthful exuberance. A short distance farther, upon crossing a bridge, the crowds thinned out almost instantly to nothing and nobody. Of all the villages, towns and cities on this tour, Parma was the most enchanting and attractive.
Bicycling again past sundown, the madding traffic and the cold sting of the night mist began a tug of war between my endurance and enthusiasm. I turned onto a narrow side-road that looped away from the main road. It shot back in the direction of a rural farming community. A long search uncovered a small planted orchard of 6 rows of bushes and trees. I slept that night in the grass under a pine tree. The temperature dropped. This spot did not conform to the rules for concealment when sleeping out near metropolitan areas. Such was the risk. It was all there was.
In my perspective, coastal Italian cities were genuinely enchanting. At night, when my greatly heightened senses blended with the eerie glow of city lights, there was a feeling of mental, emotional, physical, mystical, spiritual oneness with the surroundings. I pedaled my fully loaded touring bicycle 88 miles this day.
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