Saturday, June 4th.
4:45am. Wake up. Didn't sleep much last night. Dinner didn't agree very well with the ol' tummy. Raw veggies, hummus, pesto, and crackers. Sounds pretty harmless, right? But one of the veggies was broccoli which, despite its impressive resume of vitamins, minerals and being hated by children, is a bit difficult to digest when eaten raw. I know this. But I was caught up in a quest to get more iron into my vegetarian system and I forgot.
The problems began while laying in bed; there was churning and burbling, there was gas generation without expulsion. I lay there with my hands on my belly feeling it expand like a fleshy balloon.
And that’s uncomfortable physically, but it’s also uncomfortable mentally given all the ruckus created by the recent and "worst-ever on the planet ever for reals" outbreak of e-coli here in Europe. Germany has been hit hardest, and Switzerland is right next to Germany. The problem? Animal feces on vegetables. What did I eat last night? Note to self: in case of severe intestinal cramping and/or bloody diarrhea, cancel fun bike ride in alps.
5:35am. Catch the first of three trains that will take me to St. Moritz. You know you're living in the boonies when the train station platform isn't long enough for the train. As usual, the bicycle car is at the ass end of the train. Unfortunately the end of the train was past the end of the platform. So I get on the train, but I have to stand there with my bicycle next to the door for a bit. I can switch at Rotkreutz, the nice man informs me. It's only two stops away, so no problemo.
INTESTINAL STATUS UPDATE: So far so good. Internal pressure lowered following atmospheric venting. Fortunately, the train is uncrowded.
6:22am. Train number two. A less fancy train. No bicycle car this time, just the luggage car. A rather unsophisticated and not-so-elegant way to transport my highly sophisticated and elegant road bike. Also a great way to transport a side of beef.
Oh yeah. I'm totally comfortable with that.
The luggage car is two cars away from where I actually sit. Thanks to Caroline for recommending that I bring a bike lock. Still. Must. Resist. Urge. To check. Bicycle. Every. Five. Minutes. But people don't steal things in Switzerland, right?
7:58am Train número tres.
Ah, that's better.
Bike safe, and in a much better spot. Two hours to St. Moritz. Scenery spectacular. Lakes full of crystal-clear water. Giant rock formations looking down on us silently. So much water, so much green. Everywhere I look is a postcard.
If you suffer from motion sickness or are afraid of heights, this is totally the train for you.
View alternating between typical postcard and output from weekly oil painting class at the retirement home.
A buddy for my buddy. That great looking mountain bike belongs to the woman sitting on the other side of the aisle.
First sign of cyclists outside the train! I see them out there on road bikes rolling up from hairpin to hairpin. Happy to think that that'll be me soon.
9:49am. Fourth and final train to Pontresina. Of course mountain bike lady switches to the same train I do. We are two cyclists on a mission. Almost there!
10:05am. Arrived! And! The train stops right in front of my hostel! Oh Switzerland, I love you for your looks AND your convenience. Check-in goes smoothly, and I frantically change into my cycling gear and ride to the fancy hotel where my friends Arnd and Daniel are staying.
10:15am. On my bike on the way to the hotel I experience typical mountain weather. The mountains are like a crazy weather whirlpool - temperature, wind, and precipitation are constantly shifting. It's tough to ride in because you Have to strike a balance between enough clothing to stay warm, but not too much so you can stow whatever you're not wearing in jersey pockets. It can be surprisingly hot going up, and unbelievably, brutally cold going down. Ideally you have a sag car ... But that only happens on organized group tours or if you can somehow manage to have a mate that is willing to give up the whole weekend to drive, stop, wait, drive, stop, wait, drive, stop, wait, for the whole damn weekend. Oh, and he or she has to like cycling enough to want to go, but not so much that he or she would rather ride. Oh, and you need a car.
Some people ride with a small rucksack hanging from their shoulders. I prefer to bring only one bottle, and use the second water bottle cage to hold my rain jacket. The rain jacket works great on descents because it's totally water proof and therefore totally wind proof. Arm warmers, knee warmers, and wind vest can all go on or come off and be stuffed into pockets.
Anyways, we decide on a 90km route that will take us over two medium sized climbs, into Italy (!), to a restaurant for lunch, back into Switzerland, through the Swiss National Forest, through the valley, and home again. Like this. Arnd and Daniel H go upstairs to get dressed, and I go back to pick up my passport and some knee warmers.
One last check of the ol' email. Can't help it.
10:30am. We have lift-off. Arnd and I head out of Pontresina towards Passo del Bernina, with Daniel H driving his car. Poor guy! He caught a cold shortly after arriving at the cycling vacation that he organized and isn’t up for riding. So he’ll drive and meet us at a few stopping points along the way, and then we'll do lunch. He’ll go back home after that, though, so no sag car. But he has graciously offered to take awesome pictures of us along the way.
The weather is cool and we have a pretty good tailwind. The scenery is gorgeous - we're in a valley, so Alps with snowy hats surround. Arnd and I are at about the same fitness level, and we work well together from the first pedal stroke.
There's more traffic than I was expecting, and more motorcycles than I've ever seen. It's a little noisy when they fly past us, but they are respectful, which I appreciate. They wait until it's safe to pass, give plenty of room, and I didn't hear a single honk the entire weekend. Arnd yells at them anyway, calling them fat idiots and pointing out repeatedly that while we are huffing and puffing up the mountain, they choose to puff on cigarettes. Apparently this is because they are "lazy assholes". Fortunately the bikes are loud enough that the riders can't hear Arnd's rage against them and their machines.
11amish. We arrive at the top of Passo del Bernina. Perfect climb to start the day with - not too steep, not too long. There's restaurant at the top, as there so often is, and we pee and put on our descending gear. The backside is just like the front - neither too steep or too long. So far I'm feeling good. The roads are wet, but not dangerously so.
12ish. Climb number two, which seems to be the second part of Passo del Bernina, is steeper than the first. For the first time we get passed by a pretty professional-looking rider - a woman. My male hetero ego penis brain insists that I tell you we were stopped at the time, eating bananas*. I wave as she passes, which is something that I try to do whenever I see another cyclist. Feels good to know we're all in this together, brother/sisterhood, camaraderie, etc. She acknowledges my wave with a nod, and is polite enough to only call me "wanker" in her head.
1pmish. Arrive in Livigno. Italy! Still find it odd to say "we rode to Italy". But it's really just like riding from Northern California to Southern Oregon.
But it's the descent into Livigno that is the highlight of the ride. The rain is coming down hard and sad at the top of the climb. Arnd and I quickly put on everything we had and headed down a wet, wet mountain. This descent is mostly straight, so you just have to sit there, watch out for bad pavement and think warm thoughts. There are thin streams of water crossing the street and juuuuust enough traffic to make you worry that one of these motorcyclists might try to make a balls-out pass right into your 3T Ergonova drop bars.
But then a wonderful thing happens: the rain dissipates and the pavement dries as I approach a mild left-hand bend. Dry pavement means no more nerves. And the turn leads to a valley full of sunshine. No kidding folks, it’s a northern Italian valley bathed in warm, golden sunshine. Green fields kissed by wildflowers. Road magically empty. Coasting, I sit up, drinking it in like a perfectly crafted cappuccino and thinking to myself "this is why we do this". Elliot and ET have nothing on me.
For some reason, Arnd brakes on descents when the road is straight. He says it's because he has kids and that one day I'll understand. I think it's a matter of choosing which risks one feels more comfortable taking; I choose to go fast in a straight line, while he chooses to yell at bikers that outweigh him threefold. Anyway, he catches up to me in my moment of bicycle euphoria, and we gawk at the scenery like kids on a field trip.
Libere indeed.
2pmish. Lunch in Livigno. The thing about Italy is: the waitstaff is very disappointed in you and your order and probably your outfit. I first noticed it on a trip to Rome where every time I walked into the coffee bar and ordered an espresso, the guy would role his eyes and reluctantly pull a shot. And I always thought dude, I'm sorry, but I want an espresso, and I want to pay for it, and you are the man who makes the espresso and takes the money. Amico, we are both just pawns in this larger coffee reality. And besides, I'm the only one here, and that Italian accent that I whipped out when I said “Espresso, per favore” ain't bad enough to get snooty.
It takes about four tries to tell Mr. Waiter Man what I want to order. He was clearly disappointed in my choice of vegetable soup and mixed salad, and positively insulted that I didn't want something drink. The whole ordering process is an awkward mix of English, German, Italian, and feigned enthusiasm.
Food’s good though, and we have a nice lunch and then a tour of the local bike shops. The thing about this part of the world is: they take road cycling seriously. So the two bike shops we went to had serious, seriously beautiful road bikes on display. Fantastic! Not like most shops where you find a ton of bread and butter commuter bikes laced with a few higher-end mountain bikes and then a single token mid-range road bike with reflectors and a layer of dust. Oh no. The first shop has a rack of Colnagos, with the high-end Specialized Tarmacs serving as the bread-and-butter line. That's what I'm talking about! And FYI: no kidding, everything in Livignio is duty free. I don't know why, but it seems like a good place to buy a new road bike and not ask any questions.
3pmish. Daniel H leaves us, and Arnd and I are on our own for the ride from Livigno back to the Swiss border. This takes us past the long and skinny Lago di Livigno, on a road that is mostly covered in one of these strange half-tunnel structures. It’s a tunnel built into the edge of the mountain so there’s a wall on your left side, a ceiling, and it’s open to the right. The scenery is part beautiful, part wasteland.
We get passed by a team car from the MCipollini - Giordana women’s cycling team, with a rider riding only a few centimeters from the rear bumper. They are FLYING. Someone’s getting in her high-tempo training. They pass us in both directions, twice. Impressive (and fun!).
After half an hour or so of this long half-tunnel thingy, we arrive at the Italy/Switzerland border. But it’s not just some typical border crossing - It’s a border that goes accross a huge dam, and into a tunnel that’s too narrow to allow cyclists. So there’s a shuttle service consisting of a van for riders and a trailer for the bikes. We wait a bit, trying not to get cold. The sun is appearing and disappearing, and there’s the occasional cool gust of wind which always signals that it’s about 4pm and it’s time to ride in a homeward direction. The van arrives, and we go through a very narrow tunnel.
4pmish. The ride through the Swiss National Park is gorgeous - a curvy road with a gentle rise through a big beautiful forest that goes as far as the eye can see. The sun is shining again, so the layers come off again, and are stuffed into pockets again. You get used to it.
The climb is spectacular, but the descent is spectacularer! Fast, fast, fast, with excellent hang-it-all-out corners and good pavement. Funny thing about the pavement - if you close your eyes, you could tell whether you're still in Italy, or crossed the border into Switzerland. Because the pavement goes from shitty to shit-free.
5pmish. We arrive in Zernez, and turn left. I'm starting to feel it. Whereby IT, I mean the early start, the long ride, the climbs, the cold, the heat, everything. And unfortunately, this begins the long drag through the valley, back to Pontresina. For the remaining, 30km, theres a headwind, cold and strong. And just plain rude. Arnd and I do our best to slipstream through it, taking turns pulling, trying to laugh it off. But it's just brutal, and it seems to last foooooreeeeeeverrrrrrr.
I try to think of other things, happy thoughts, but the roar of the wind in my ears blows them away and brings me back to reality. It's a long struggle that has me questioning again why we do this. But brief thoughts of the descent into Livigno, and dreams of the hot shower that awaits (Arnd and Daniel H's fancy hotel has a fancy Hamam, and Arnd thinks he can get me in!) keep me going.
6:30pmish. At last, we arrive in Pontresina. Total time in the saddle - about seven hours. Quick internal check from head to toe: Eyes dry, face salty, neck tired, shoulders tight and painful, belly delightfully recovered, low back tired, ass sore, legs depleted.
We go to the fancy hotel to ask about me and the Hamam. I can get in for 10 francs (the cheapest thing all weeked!) but it's closing at 8. So I have an hour-and-a-half to rush back to the hostel, change into some normal clothes, rush back to the fancy hotel, get a robe and a towel and a tour of the facilities, and enjoy some steam rooms and stuff. Seems worth it. And it is.
Back at the hostel. A few minutes later I'll be smiling again. And then we'll eat Risotto!
* Male hetero ego penis brain would also like to inform you that "eating bananas" is not some sort of sexual slang - we were literally eating bananas. One each, hence the use of the plural.
