Temper tantrums, cannonball run Italia and dubious travel decisions

Temper tantrums, cannonball run Italia and dubious travel decisions

Sometimes decisions are based upon other decisions and hopes on hopes. We based our crossing of Italy on the infamous Burt Reynolds movie of the 70's or early 80's, The Cannonball Run. I am just assuming Burt Reynolds was in that movie because of its total and entire awesomeness. We also based our crossing of Italy not so much on enjoyment as on the quest to view a single stage of the Giro d'Italia bicycle race. It just happened that the mountain stage that would be unquestionably perfect to view was on the opposite side of the country from us and meant we would have to basically bury ourselves to get there, riding through some of the most unpleasant terrain of our entire trip. Not hard for it's hilly qualities, but entirely because of the lack of quality aesthetics and also constant and harrowing traffic. It also meant that, you know, we would have to ride up a mountain stage of the infamously hard Giro d'Italia, with trailers, after burying ourselves riding long miles, (to us) along terrible routes through maybe the least attractive part of all Italy. Picture a frontage road of never ending giant stores, gas stations, tire stores and oil refineries. Okay, stop picturing it because that is an awful thing to picture, also an awful thing to ride along. Especially in hot hot heat. Yes, we caught no breaks. Emm, except that it didn't rain.
The unendurably wonderful Katie Leum once asked us, at a cafe in Croatia, exactly how many times we had broken down in tears on the trip, based on another friend's trying bicycle travels. At the time we answered that no tears had been shed in sadness, though maybe a few in rage. After one exceptionally hot awful day of riding with non stop traffic through towns that looked like the worst parts of America, we found the hide and seek camping area we sought. We'd ridden 74 miles, were hot and sore, and faced a locked gate that protected the creepiest campground we'd nearly ever collectively seen. Exhausted, we cared little if our organs were harvested during the night. We just wanted to shower and get some sleep first. We eventually were allowed inside the gate, opened by a disembodied voice over an intercom. Inside the gate was more unnerving than the outside. There were abandoned looking camper vans, cars also that looked like they hadn't moved in eons, and even bicycles that looked like they had been dropped mid pedal. Possibly the cyclist was darted while riding and the bicycles were left as jaunty lawn ornaments giving the appearance of light hearted play. They didn't fulfill that hope. The road to a hoped for office was long and my shins were suddenly on fire with stinging. I killed two or three mosquitoes in a swat as we passed one religious shrine after another....
The Bob trailers can tend to have a mind of their own, especially when one is tired, exhausted, in pain, and being attacked by mosquitos in plague proportions. My trailer dropped from one side to the other as I tried to protect myself from losing too much blood. The camp owner walked up just as I was kicking things, throwing my helmet and swearing. Shannon explained to her helpfully, "long day...". The woman let us camp there regardless of my behavior which somehow didn't improve. I picked up and hurled my bicycle and trailer, right before kicking my helmet one last time for good useless measure. Then we set up the tent. Immediately following that we got into the tent which was then covered by really fast, hyper intelligent and hungry mosquitos. As I sat there looking them back in the eye through the thin mesh of the tent, pondering my fate if I ventured out, I watched as the most enormous tick I'd ever seen also crawled up the tent, also smelling my rare breed of perfectly exquisite blood. That was when I once again found humor.
Another chapter to follow. I apologize for the length of this installment.



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