Day 12—Bella bloody Italia

Torino to San Benedetto Belbo
So exhausted I forgot how to count

Getting out of the Turin area the following morning was a bit rough. Luckily I met 2 professional Brazilian cyclists training for the Giro as I reached the outskirts, who kindly told me that I should turn back and take an alternate route if I didn’t want to be competing with all of Piedmont’s truckers for our own bit of the autostrada.

A whole new state of mind.

But the moment I crossed into the region of Liguria and started up into the hills of “Le Langhe”, the world was transformed. It was postcard gorgeous, hilly as hell but covered in vines and olive trees and rambling rust coloured farm houses. Everything was so perfect that I ended up having to indulge in some unjustified eye rolling when I passed my fifth black-veiled nonna, in the interest of maintaining some remnant of ironic distance and to avoid imposing an entirely purple post on you, dear reader.

I lunched on bunches of fallen grapes which I had collected in the roadside vineyards throughout the morning. Sweetest little morsels I have ever tasted, just on the verge of being transformed into raisins by the surprisingly strong September sun. It’s soft and sweet up until midday but from then on it singed my moon legs on a daily basis.

Sweetest grapes we had ever tasted.

I appreciated the idyllic scenery and the quaintness of the villages all the more so thanks to my trusty Podpanion, who had picked out for my listening pleasure that day the following gems: Louis Theroux’s memories of meeting Ike Turner, some salacious dialogue between David Sedaris and a dirty-minded New York taxi driver and Yo Yo Ma’s classic soundtrack for the Good, the Bad and the Ugly. And that’s how the image of rolling hills of olive groves will forevermore evoke in my mind coconut air fresheners and lesbian pornography. Thanks a bunch, Genius!

Digging the roadside chapels as always.

The day had been pretty, but as night started to fall I began to worry a little about where I was going to stop for the night. There were signs for “agriturismi” every few kilometres among the road, but these fancy B&B-type places were aimed at the budgets of wealthy Milanese yuppies, not those of bicycle bums such as myself. So on I pushed, on and on until I got to the wee village of San Benedetto where a young family informed me that I could camp in the church garden for free. In between the play area and the graveyard. I slept like the dead who lay just a few metres away from me...

Le Langhe--hot stuff...

Day 10—Dove fuggi? In Italia.

Mônetier-les-Bains to Pinerolo
107 kms

Knowing that yet another summit awaited me before the border, I got off to an early yet pleasant start, pushing off from Mônetier-les-Bains and rolling on down the last part of the Lautâret towards Briançon, hair a-floating in the morning breeze. I met a kindred spirit, Jannot, who was setting off on a tour of Switzerland. He and Abz got on like wildfire.

Jannot.

After passing through Briançon, I started my climb up the Col de Montgenèvre. Although it stretches over a lesser distance, it is much steeper than the Lautaret. Most of the way there was no point even trying to ride. I just trudged upwards, pushing the Git alongside me. And the higher I got, the less I could see through the soupy layer of fog that had engulfed the entire valley. The terrible weather conditions put a damper my photographic impulses, so you can thank mother nature for sparing you many a gooey-eyed landscape stupid.

OK, grant me one!

The one thing I CAN say about the mountain top ski station of Montgenèvre is that it would be far prettier had it been obscured by snow. As it was in mid-september, the architecture of the hotels reminded me a lot of some of the most misguided attempts at housing the poor in the Northwestern suburbs of Paris in the 1960s. It's just not designed for half-seasons.

Montgenèvre: two down, one to go!

I thus waved goodbye to Douce France and sailed down into Italy, with nary a border official in sight. Take note, drug/arm smugglers: bicycle saddle-bags are the new double-lined truck floor.

As happy as I was to have passed the symbolic milestone of the border, however, I was decidedly displeased when at the bottom of the hill, the road started climbing yet again. Having thought that Montgenèvre would be my last serious climb, the summit of Sestriere was an unwelcome surprise—by now, I had fully had enough of the grind. But there was little choice, so I gritted my teeth, pushed on, and ended up being fully rewarded by the postcard prettiness of the mountain villages perched along the ascent.

At the summit, I stopped to warm my bones with a cappuccino and test-drive my Italian by asking for some directions. I had never before spoken Italian to anyone but myself, so I was eager to find out whether it was as comprehensible to real people as it seemed during my long chats with my imaginary Italian friends Nicola, Pier Paolo and Dario. The barista didn’t burst out laughing and finger pointing or blank out with a “say wha?” look on his face, so I took it as a good sign.

From the summit at Sestriere, I had a grand old day. I could literally feel my bones thawing with every passing kilometre despite the gale force wind from the high speed. The sun was shining, the houses were colourful, and despite being confined to a fairly anonymous and trucky road I got my first glimpse of some pretty sweet-looking Italian olive groves.

I arrived in the charming town of Pinerolo in the early evening, and decided to stop for the night. Feeling confident in my rolling Rs and budding hand gestures, I stopped at a fruit shop in the centre of the old town to inquire as to the whereabouts of the nearest youth hostel, “ostello della giuventu”. Perhaps I can put it down to the fact that hostelling is far less developed in Southern Europe than in the anglo-saxon world, or perhaps my Italian wasn’t actually as good as I had been telling myself. In any case, the shop owner sent me to the nuns who ran the “casa delle giovane” on the other side of the piazza. I reiterated my original inquiry to the lovely old nun at the reception. She told me to wait in the courtyard whilst she made some calls, then sent me without explanation up a couple of hilly streets to the Casa Betania.

Via Principe d'Acaia, my home for the night...

Waiting there on one of those granite doorsteps eroded by centuries of ins and outs was another no-nonsense lady who told me that they had been waiting for me. A few ladies came outside to help me carry the Git into the foyer and two little kids came running to see what all the commotion was about. I was given a grand tour of the rambling ancient house and the indoor chapel, shown where the shower was and told that dinner would be at seven. It was only when I asked where I could pay that I found out that I was actually in a shelter for women in difficulty that was attached to the town’s convent, and that I was welcome to stay for nothing and for as long as I wished, as long as I helped with the dishes from time to time.

And so I stayed.

Day 11--First Italian friends, first Italian pizza...

Pinerolo to Turin

50 kms

Having decided that I should sing for the lovely supper I had enjoyed the night before, I offered to look after two-year-old bambina Sarah, one of the children living at the Casa, whilst her Mum went out for the morning. Apart from the obvious, we turned out to have loads in common and had a grand old time chasing each other around the convent’s stony courtyard overlooking a lovingly-tended kitchen garden with rows of tomatoes running in between the apple and fig trees. I even tried out my none-too extensive Italian song repertoire to comfort Sarah when she fell off her tricycle. She preferred Fabri Fibra to Bella Ciao, but still I could tell she wasn’t impressed.

Sarah with Abz. Besties!

I was happy to have made my first Italian friend. However, the reason Sarah was left at home with me was that she had some sort of throat-ailment which everyone was calling “plache” whilst pointing to their tonsils. I still have no idea what exactly it was but I sure got a walloping of it myself, with runny nose and sore throat following me all the way to Rome.

I left Pinerolo after lunch and set off towards Torino, where I was to meet up with Cristina, one of the girls from the Casa Betania. She had offered to give me a little tour of the city before having my first true Italian pizza at her parents’ house in the suburb of Nicolino.

As I arrived in the outskirts of Torino, I met an old Sicilian cyclist who had caught me poring over my map with an air of bemusement. He proclaimed himself my guide and took me all the way to my youth hostel along the banks of the Po river, a lovely detour which I surely would never have found on my own.

Piazza Castello.

Cristina showed me around the fanfare-some Piazza CAstello and the very imposing Palazzi Madame and Reale which seemed a tad too Germanic in the I-smell-the-Mediterranean balmy atmosphere. We were then joined by her lovely older brother who gave me a tour of the Cathedral and ended up in a café to indulge in the most excellent Northern Italian tradition of aperitivo: if you order a glass of wine in the early evening, it comes to you with an amazing selection of Parma ham, mozzarella and tomato sandwiches. Oh yeah.

Aperitivo, baby!

We caught the bus out to Nicolino and I was welcomed like a princess by Cristina’s wonderful parents, who kindly ignored the fact that I was trying to pass a nightgown off as a casual dress, given that it was the closest thing to street clothes I had brought along. Cristina’s dad served us a succession of delicious homemade pizzas. Then Cristina gave me a skirt to wear so that we could go out for drinks on the town without having stuff thrown at us. Torino has a very pretty, glittery riverfront nightlife, though the cleanliness and the enthusiastic use of recess lighting made the whole place feel very prosperous Mitteleuropa-esque, all the more so when you discover that the flipside of the immaculate pavements of the city centre are some pretty grungy northern neighbourhoods populated by Northern African immigrants, broke students and nasty looking dealers.

After a great evening Cristina and her brother drove me back to my hostel (in the aforementioned grunge-hood). I could not have been more grateful to them and their wonderful parents for this warmest of welcomes.

Cristina and her wonderful Mum, who called me 'bambola' despite the truly offensive state of my hair. I wanted to hug her.

Day 9: Just move on up

Grenoble to Le Monêtier-les-Bain
96 kms, 2058 m. Up and down.

Oh Alps ! This was the source of all my anxiety. For the past week, I had been asking every person I spoke to whether they knew the Alpine passes along the border and, if so, where they thought it would be easiest for me to cross the mountains into Italy. I had boiled my options down to two finalists: either the Col du Mont Cenis or the Col du Lautaret. In the end, I plumped for the Col du Lautaret, partly because I realised that without noticing, I had literally ridden past the former without even noticing. What can I say. I’ve never been very observant.

In any case, the Lautaret turned out to be an ideal choice. As luck indeed had it, I left Grenoble early on a Sunday morning after a delicious breakfast of fresh bread and homemade plum jam with the Bailly family.

Hroops, they named a massif after us!

Halfway to Bourg d’Oisans, , up rode a fellow cyclist who told me his mother-in-law was from Naples, and then proceeded to tighten my brakes and straighten my wheel. Hurray for the lovely man, his kindness spared me many a perilous skid on the other side of the Col. Arriving in Grenoble the day before, I had been pretty much scraping my feet along the ground to halt my flight, which is actually fine considering how flat the Bresse region is. Well, those dancing days were now gone.

C'est toujours Noël dans les Alpes...

Once I passed Le Bourg d’Oisans, a town wedged into the valley between about 5 different mountains, I spent the entire day on 1-1 speed, creeping upwards at about 5 or 6 kms/hour and often coming to a slow wobbly halt and toppling sideways clean off the Git. Abz said I reminded her of a kid learning to ride who hasn’t yet understood the “stabling” (remember, Dad?) virtues of speed. In the steeper bits, I even had to get off and push the lovely girl up. Sounds hideous from the telling, but in actual fact it wasn’t so. The sun was shining, the air was Fresch, the audiobook was enthralling (“The making of a president”—Hillary declined to join the Obama ticket because the Hopesters refused to pay off her campaign debt!! That made me pedal real fast...). Most of all, I was without doubt moving on UP (with Curtis and his sax in my ears), high up, as opposed to the frustration of the tiny ups and downs of the Morvan.

Someone I think was watching over me...

It was, however, a very long day, and when I finally reached the summit of the Col du Lautaret the sun was on the wane behind the peaks and all the hotels and fondue-restaurants were saving themselves for the winter. I kitted myself up for the windy descent, donning pretty much every item of clothing I found in my bag, aswell as two pairs of socks over my hands. I tightened my helmet, pedalled once and let gravity do all the work my poor knees had done on the way up. Can knees purr with contentment? I think mine did.

Abz, white-faced from the chill, but happy to have made it.

I arrived in the adorably old-timey hameau of Mônetier-les-Bains just as night was falling, had a lovely dinner with the family running the excellent-value town auberge, crawled into bed at 9pm and slept like a baby.

All downhill from here...not in a bad way!

Day 8--Kindness of strangers

Serrières-de-Briord to Grenoble
107 kms

Woke up to a lacey violet dawn, and had coffee on the banks of the Rhône in the company of its resident crew of swans, who seemed more preoccupied with their morning toilette than my witty répartie.

OK, I get the message.

Having run out of porridge oats, I decided it was time for a trip to the market. The camping ground owners told me there was a good one about two villages away. So off I headed in quest of some yumminess, convinced that I wouldn’t have to wait too long until breakfast. But this market, you see, was in Montalieu, not its neighbour Montagnieu, and I only realised the difference between the two after what seemed like a few hours of combing the entire village thrice over at a crawl, peering down every alley way to find the market. I like to think that my facial expression was inquisitive. However, I wouldn’t blame anyone if, in my full biking get-up (bum-bag-style rain coat and all), they mistook me for a mental ward fugitive and/or child molester. I’m pretty sure I heard some mothers call their children inside, interrupting their game of street football.

In any case, the market turned out to be fantabulously abundant, with local goat’s cheese home-made apéricubes and the first comice pears of the season. Happy as Larry (and Bob and Eugene), I filled every available space in my saddle bags with fruit, cheese, a pain au chocolat (a mere 80 cents and better than Fauchon), and crawled off in the direction of Grenoble, the Git’s joints creaking and re-adjusting to the extra weight.

Abz and I, ready for the best lunch imaginable.

Strange that these things are even noticeable when one is travelling so slowly, but I actually felt the temperature shift around mid-day. It wasn’t just the blazing sun and blue of the sky; the air had all of a sudden become softer. I decided that I had officially entered the South.

The road towards Grenoble started getting a tad hilly, with the mini “Col du Banchet” standing in as a taste of what was to come. I got lost in the tangle of interconnecting roads leading into the centre of town and almost got stuck on a godforsaken highway, but happily was turned back at the péage. So I was tired and grateful when a couple of guys cycling back from a mountaineering expedition offered to guide me halfway to the youth hostel I was looking for. And even more grateful when the Bailly family, of whom I asked directions, offered to host me for the night. Oh shower! Oh warm dinner! Oh sleeping in a real bed! It’s hard to express how appreciative one becomes of these simple offerings after a mere week on the road. But it felt like a little slice of heaven.

Bailly, père et fille. They were heroes.

Day 7—Platitudes sur la platitude

De Cluny à Serrières-de-Briord
116 kms

Réveil de bonne heure à Cluny, et petit déjeuner bon à penser et surtout à manger constitué de porridge parfumé de mûres récoltées sur les bords de chemin le jour précédent. Depuis mon départ, je n’ai pas encore eu du tout à acheter de fruits, grâce à l’abondance de pommiers dans les squares bourguignons et aux mûriers qui longent le chemin qui n’attendent que moi pour cueillir leurs fruits. I fancy myself as a resourceful hunter-gatherer, living off the land, making the most of the bounty of the earth. Which just goes to show you what a coddled city-girl I really am.
Very tempted to get in on some of that action. Political statements aside, I'm jonesing for some dairy...

Je me dirige ensuite vers le centre historique, histoire de voir l’abbaye et de communier avec l’esprit d’Abélard au lever du soleil avant d’attaquer les kms de la journée. Abz insiste que je la prenne en photo devant la tour des fromages. She wants to be able to say « Cheeeeeeeese » and really mean it. I roll my eyes and comply.

Vient ensuite le grand plateau de la Bresse, un grand calme avant la tempête tectonique des Alpes, qui ne me font plus attendre et surgissent de nulle part à mon côté en fin d’après-midi. Pour le reste de la journée, je décide de faire comme si je ne les avais même pas vues, dans l’espoir que cette indifférence les intimidera, en attendant l’offensive que je lancerai sur elles d’ici deux jours. L’âme du monde à vélo, quoi!

What's in store...

Mon shout-out du jour s'adresse aux Cyclonautes Jean-Luc et Edouard Mercier, friands de relief contraiement à moi. Je penserai au succès de leur périple du mois de Juin pour me donner du courage dans ma propre campagne d'Italie.

Day 6—The sweet side of the hills

De Marmagne à Cluny
113 kms

The Vieux Jambon being a favourite dining spot for long-distance truckers, I had the pleasure of having the company of a few of them at dinner last night. It seems they are afflicted with 2 Great Injustices: the police and foreign competition. The former see truckers as “vaches à lait”, knowing that if they haven’t made their incident quotas for the week they can rely on any given trucker to be on the phone/eating at the wheel/three minutes over the time-limit between rest stops to stick him with a fine, which most of the time the company refuses to cover. The latter have swept in from the east since the last extension of the EU and stolen all their jobs, apparently whilst watching porn on portable DVD players and driving at the same time. This last revelation I take to heart, and vow to steer as clear as possible from the giants.

Dinner, in any case, was a triumph of French Golden Oldies—onion soup, boeuf braisé aux carottes, cheese plateau, raspberry bavaroise. Whole world away from camp-stove-cooked pasta with a sauce of chicken bouillon, always slightly redolent of gas, which has been the staple of my diet for the last week. After which I slept for about 12 hours, and woke up to slightly better weather.

After pushing off around 12, I climbed all the way up to Le Creusot, for the sole reason that it is the birthplace of Schneider Electric, the company at which I interned this summer. However, my leisurely tour was rudely interrupted by some mean looking security guys, who objected to me stationing my loaded bicycle anywhere near the Château de la Verrerie which was about to host the employment minister Xavier Darcos for some super-important meeting. Les vélos piégés, c’est la nouvelle forme de terrorisme du 21ème siècle, it seems.
I therefore came away with but One picture as proof of my passage, which goes out along with my Daily Shout-Out to Violaine, Cécile, Aurore, Pen, Hervé, Alban and the rest of my peeps at Schneider.

Le Creusot: seule preuve de mon passage. (Darcos, si tu m'entends, je suis fâchée contre toi).

Such stuff as dreams are made on.

From there, I cut cross-country to reach the lovely “voie verte” that runs along the old train tracks towards Cluny, pretty much letting gravity just pull me down out out of hilly Morvan and down into the plain of the Saône. Oh the clear blue afternoon sky, the riverside châteaux and the heavenly ease of it all. I reached Cluny in time to see the sun set over the old spires of the Medieval monastery, my leg muscles purring contentedly.

Château de la Jmenrappelleplus. All very pretty, though.