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Published: September 7th 2006
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Well, I guess this is my catchup entry, for I have not written anything in almost a month. I will do my best to give a synopsis of the whirlwind that has been the last twenty-plus overstimulating days.
I left the flat and happy Po River valley in Italy, which seems to be the only flat place in the country, and embarked on my largest climb by bicycle to date. Picking a backroad off of my map, I chose my path over the Alpenines to the Mediterranean. From about sea level, I climbed 8,500 feet in 40 miles to the summit of a road that never should have been paved through the mountains, which were surprisingly inhabted by people living in towns that never should have been built. Lest I decended. Every turn was 180 degrees, making for a continually haulted downhill. Over the mountains was not the sea, but yet more mountains. I took a more main route from there and after a few more big climbs, I was gazing over the Mediterranean from the cliffs of Cinque Terre, only three days from Bologna.
I took refuge with Momma Rosa. She approached me near the train station in
the east most village, wielding a folded piece of cardboard. When the old lady unfolded her sign, it showed the nightly rate of her hostel around the corner. She showed me the funky and dodgy little hostel and I agreed to stay after meeting one of the other patrons. Momma rosa spoke not a word of english, yet with the hunchbacked woman´s wild body language, I understood every word she said. Cinque Terre held me longer than I expected. I made friends with my british roomate and nighlty, we drank beer with apack of new Zealanders on a seastack near the tiny port, and watched the sunset slowly fade into midnight. By day I hiked between the villages and drank many cappuccinos.
From Cinque Terre I chose to save some of the cartiladge in my knees and trained it out of the big hills, west, just past Genoa. From there, the nasty roads of the French Riviera quickly rolled under my tires.
The French Riviera is the groin flab of a fat german tourist, which squeezes outwards from a tight pair of speedos: over populated, over developed, over rated, extremely over touristed. It is a massive traffic jam
of cars, scooters, and pedestrians. There is no place to stand, walk, ride, or drive. you cannot see the rocky beaches under the endless carnival of beach umbrellas. I did 125 miles in one day, through Monaco, monte Carlo, Nice, Antibes, Cannes, etc., riding down the middle of the road, between the cars, swerving past the scooters, to escape its terror. The roads of the riviera broke one of my spokes and the wobbly wheel I rode on, trying to find an open bike shop, eventually ripped the rear derailer off my bike. I was waylaid a whole day repairing the bike, but eventually I headed north into the quiet and pleasant Mountains to the north of the coast.
In Montpellier I stayed with a crazy old frenchman. He was on the internet list of bike touring hospitality(the warm showers list). He spends eight month out of the year on his bike, mostly in south america. From Montpelier I headed to the coastal border of spain. There, I met an old Kiwi woman travelling with two amercan girls. I met their train in Figures by bike and we went to the Slavador Dali Museum together. Afterwards, we spent the
night by the castle, on a windy hillside, with views of the ocean and the Pyrenees. We drank many bottles of wine in the moon light and went our separate ways the next morning.
And so came Spain.....
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Sasquatch
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Estaban, Sasquatch continue to live real life through your text and pictures; ride the Vuelta and the Tour and the Giro through your legs (and, ahem, "bottom bracket"). And I thought I was tough--a slightly taller, slightly hairier primate--doing the 33-mile Crater Lake loop (4,000 vertical feet of climbing) in 5 (Where's my EPO!?!?) hours. It'll be good to have you back in the Republic of Cascadia. Yr. Pal, Sasquatch