Saturday 22nd May 2010
Today I needed to make
I ‘ve spent too much time gawking and not enough time riding, but ‘je ne regret rien’. Nonetheless I needed to make up some time, so I took the high-speed autostrausser to Bologne then turned off towards
Braaaaam-braaaaam, vroom vroom…braaaaaaaaam. Screaming superbikes were everywhere, I’d pulled straight onto a race track with a loaded up touring bike that had the handling ability of a boat in a forest. The road ran from Rioveggio across to Loiano, a distance of about twelve miles give or take a snake-turn or two, and it was where the boys came out to play. If I thought the road through the
But the thought of doing it all again was too much for me, so I turned off into a pretty little woodland where bunnies and fairy’s lived, and made a cup of tea and had a sandwich, and considered an afternoon nap.
As the water boiled, and steam filled the high-octane air that intruded into the waterside woodland, I could feel the adrenaline being carried away on a fast-flowing stream of fairy-tale lullaby music. Presently serenity returned, and the rush of nervous energy was drained, and I again became as one with the world. I drank my tea whilst sitting on a rock in the water, dangling my feet like a dreamy child into the cool mountain stream. I wondered whether there were any Trout nearby, and sat there with my eyes peeled looking for the tell-tale sign of a feeding fish. Then a rustling of leaves from the other bank caught my attention, and a barefoot woman stepped down to the waterside.
“Dario, Dario”. She called. But Dario didn’t answer, so she slipped out of her jeans, pulled off her top and stepped into the water wearing just bra and knickers. Oh thank you, thank you, thank you. Obviously she hadn’t seen me sitting there in full-view on a rock hiding behind a tree branch, wearing nothing but a camouflaged jacket and my drab khaki greens, and holding a camera in my hand. I remained perfectly still, uncertain exactly of just what to do. The ‘Click’ of the camera would be a dead give-away, but what an opportunity to miss; so I sat there in perfect stillness and silence, enjoying my privileged treat. She started fumbling around her back, nooooo, she was going to take off her bra. Take it off, take it off, take it off, take it off, but then more rustling occurred, and a man arrived and stole the woman away. That was it, the moment was gone and the magic was over; my bubble was burst, and the pricks name was Dario.
I peered down the flow of water. Was that a rising Trout I spied? There it was again, and again. I put my socks and shoes back on, grabbed my affairs, and started back to the bike to get my rod and reel.
I considered setting up camp for the night here, but it was obviously in regular use as Brick bbq’s and litter-bins however discreetly erected, were nonetheless there. I jumped on the bike and sedately rode a mile downstream where I found a track that led to the water’s very edge. There I found a perfect grassy spot hidden from the road, surrounded by trees, the water at my feet, and firewood in abundance. I parked the bike, and without bothering to unpack the rest of the gear, I got my fishing rod together, selected the perfect fly and crept down to the water’s edge. Several minutes went by without tempting a fish. I cast into streams, riffles, eddies and swirling back-flows where large boulders blocked the waters flow, and insects swept round behind into the open mouths of waiting trout…nothing. I walked downstream to where the water divided into two separate runs, and chose the fast gravel one first, leaving the deeper slower pool for when the sun was lower and the Moths came out….still nothing. So the sun wasn’t yet low, and the moths weren’t out, but a caterpillar fly would probably do the trick. No? Maybe a Tadpole pattern then, I’d seen them swimming in the shallows further back. No? How about a Greenwells Glory then, or a Cinnamon and Gold; a Grey hen and Yellow maybe? A cock-y-bundoo, a Black gnat, a bit of bread on a bare hook?…what then? I threw a stone in the water and hoped I’d knock a fish out instead. Down but not out, I walked back to my campsite and set the tent up, and made a cup of tea on a raging fire of driftwood and yesteryears green, green boughs. As I sat sipping my tea and considering what cunning plan to execute next, a movement in the trees caught my eye. What was that I wondered, it did look very big, sorta like a Bear, but surely not in here, not in downtown
Sunday 23rd May 2010
I woke up alive and unscathed, which was a good way to start the day I thought. I considered tying on another fly and having a go at the elusive trout again; but then, given my appalling lack of success the previous afternoon I actually wondered whether there was even any point. I made a cup of coffee instead, broke camp and then headed onward towards
Once again, I found myself entering the racetrack Rioveggio where superbikes played and cars simply didn’t fit in. Within minutes of leaving the babbling brook behind, I was in the heady fuel-injected realm of leathered Lorenzo and his knee-scraping horde of gut-wrenching cornering crusaders. The road now wound its way up the other side of the valley. The engine revved hard in third and second gear corners as I leaned the bike into anti-gravity mode and dared myself lower and closer to the smooth, dark bitumen. The well-versed and infinitely more experienced riders than myself though screamed past me at an alarming rate, leaving me coughing in their exhaust fumes and feeling more than just a bit pathetic and green at this game of ride as fast and skilfully as you can up a road built for speed and high adventure. I pulled into the side of the road at an early opportunity and gave the racers the space and freedom they needed to do what they seemingly did best. I lifted the camera to my face and photographed the madness as they sped adrenaline fuelled into tight, tight corners with knees out wide and dipped down low. The noise filled my senses, the deep, deep strumming of high-tensile pistons pounding inside a fire-filled chamber, and roaring from the machines exhausts intensified and fortified the arena as if a great clamp had been placed around the entire scene and tightened to maximum pressure. I lifted the lens repeatedly as Ducatti’s, Triumph’s, and Suzuki Gixxer’s blurred on by in a mighty rush of power and unimaginable speed and agility. Out of the blue a tourist bus chugged its way awkwardly onto the scene, closely followed by four impatient bikes champing at the bit to get past, and snarling in aggravated impatience. The bus chugged by slowly, and one of the bikes pulled in to where I stood, and parked up. It was a BMW 1200S, a race-built machine ridden by Marco, who regularly races this road
“I had to pull in here for a few minutes,” He told me. “The bus holds us up and so you end up with several bikes all grouped together, wanting to go fast but going way too slow; it’s very dangerous”. I told Marco how Impressed I was with the riders and bikes I’d seen and their ability to handle these insane corners at such high speeds. “Don’t be too impressed” he said, “There are as many bad riders here as there are good ones, and plenty of them come off and end up with very expensive pieces of machinery twisted into nothing but mangled wrecks. Quite a few have died on this road too” he added. “For the likes of Valentino, it is okay, he can afford to go fast, and he can afford to fall off also, but for the rest of us it is still only Sunday, and the sun is shining”. We shook hands and wished each other well, then Marco flicked his machine into life and blasted out of there; the sound of his howling engine still audible long after the sight of him had vanished.
I still had to get to Florence though, that was my goal for the day, so I upped stumps and rode ever upward to the accompanying music of throbbing pistons and snarling exhausts. I reached a plateau quite unexpectedly, and saw Marco’s bike propped up on its stand. Beyond and all around it I saw what must have amounted to over two hundred bikes and bikers, comparing rides, comparing bikes, sharing the thrill and devouring the tales of danger. This was their 19th hole, the bar at the top of the hill called the Chalet Raticosa. With a constant braaaam-ing of bikes coming and going, I parked my tug-boat amongst the throng and set out with my camera to capture what I could see.
Colours, colours everywhere. Racing Reds, growling greens, blasting blues and fiery oranges. Leather jackets, leather trousers, leather suits. Sponsors names, Agip, Pepsi, NGK, Shell, Playstation, Lucky strike. Helmets and gloves, guys and dolls.. The bar was full and overflowing as I walked up to order myself a beer, and bikers spilled out of there in happy, back-slapping enthusiasm for who they were and what they were doing. Bikes around me everywhere; BMW’s, Buell, Yamaha, Honda, Suzuki, Cagiva, Aprilia, Ducati, KTM’s, Harley’s and Triumphs; virtually every make of bike ever to hit the road had a representative there, and every rider had a story to tell about broken bones, shredded flesh and very-near misses. More than one knew a rider who would never meet them there again, and more than one had attended too many bikers funerals. ‘It’s the rush though’ a young guy on a Ducati 888 told me, ‘when you’re pushing yourself to the very, very edge of where you can go, and you can stay there longer than the other guy, and go faster than the other guy, then there’s nothing else like it in life…except maybe sex of course’.
I pondered the idea of sex on a motorbike for a while, but the thought of clutches, gear levers and throttles somehow tangled with bra-straps, knickers and shoe-laces just didn’t quite cut-it for me; besides, there’d be nowhere to rest an ashtray or a can of beer would there? I came down off the mountain and saw my first of two road accidents involving bikes. Both of them were from too fast, too hard and possibly too deep, and both of them ended in wrecked bikes and bruised but still-breathing riders and pillions. I may not be the fastest or the best rider in the world, I thought as I rode by surveying the carnage and debris-strewn scene, but at least my bike is still upright, with all its bits attached. With time though the mountain became a hill, then in turn a level road. Pine trees gave way to grassland, and then rural became suburban, as the road began to descend again. A river snaked along the valley floor, taking my eyes along with it, and leading me onwards; on towards the city of
I pulled into the first Piazza I found and parked among a string of buzzing scooters. It was quaint, with a cobbled road and a statue of someone apparently quite important, standing in the middle of the square, looking vaguely imperial and wearing a cloak. I looked around the square a little, then spied a pizzeria and headed towards it.
“G’day. Yeah the one with the Salami on it thanks…cheers mate”
“You’re from
“Lyndal says Hi Dave” I told the huge towering statue set high on a plinth beneath a vast glass dome. ‘Hi Lyndal’ replied David. “Look at the size of your hands’ I said to him, ‘and your feet too, there not really in proportion are they’. “And oh dear… “ I added. “You’ve got a very small willy for a man of your stature” I looked up at David from way down below. His hands and feet were definitely way too big for the rest of his body, and his head looked like it belonged to the Elephant man on a good day.
“Of course Michelangelo deliberately sculpted David disproportionately to emphasise the magnitude of his strength” I heard a female guide telling her massed audience of wide-eyed American followers. I wandered around him, noting the sling hung over his left shoulder and the stone held loosely in his right hand. Oh, David as in David and Goliath I suddenly realised. “And the reason he was sculpted with such enormous hands” She continued, “was to emphasise this strength even more so, for even as a young and slender man he was able do defeat the giant marauder that was his enemy, namely Goliath. Big hands or not I thought, he’s still got a tiny willy.
I’d seen what I’d come to see in
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