Saturday, June 26 (110Km, 2109m) Hans and I met around noon at the ferry dock in Brunnen, on the beautiful shores of the Vierwaldstaetter See (the lake of Lucerne), and enjoyed a lunch of fresh trout before setting out on our bike ride together. Hans had driven to Switzerland from his home in Hoevelhof, Germany, the night before, while I had arrived from southern Italy via an ill-conceived overnight odyssey that involved delays, missed connections, and six sweaty men in a stifling second-class train compartment. I had had no sleep, and felt a little ragged. But the breeze pushed us along and sunshine sparkled on the lake as Hans and I rode to Altdorf along the Axenstrasse. The road was spectacular, a series of short tunnels separating longer exposed sections where sheer rock walls rose to our left and plunged vertically into the water to our right. After a quick stop for money in Altdorf, we headed up the narrowing Reuss valley. The climb began suddenly, shortly after Amsteg, and we stopped to down Cokes in Wassen (900m) before tackling the main ascent up the Meiental to Sustenpass (2259m). (The store we bought them from took back the empty one-liter bottles and returned our deposit. I wish convenience stores in the U.S. were as well-organized and environmentally friendly.) The climb from Wassen begins with two tunnels separated by a bridge over a deep gorge where the Meienreuss River roars into the Reuss valley. Beyond the second tunnel, the Meiental opens up, broad meadows to the left, snowfields in the distance, and an unobstructed view of the road almost all the way to the pass. We climbed slowly: I was sleep-deprived and Hans suffered in the afternoon heat. Hans' face was red and dripping with sweat before we found water to refill our bottles, just below the first of the three switchbacks that crown the ascent. Further up, snowbanks appeared by the side of the road and the air cooled off considerably. The Sustenpass summit is a short tunnel that connects Meiental with Gadmental. We emerged into bright sunshine on the other side and looked for the blue Sustenpass road sign in order to take a picture. But the sign must have had an unfortunate encounter with a snowplow, so we simply posed with the tunnel entrance behind us. The western side of Sustenpass is a wonderful descent. The road passes through a series of bare rock tunnels that protect it from rushing snowmelt, sweeps past the snout of the impressive Steingletscher, winds through meadows, and then plunges into a fir forest in a series of switchbacks before descending to Innertkirchen (625m). This time, however, I enjoyed the ride less than in the past. I could barely keep my eyes open, and on a couple of occasions I caught myself just in time to avoid missing a turn. I asked Hans to stop for more caffeinated bubbly water in Nessental, and there we decided that it would be best to stop for the night in Meiringen, rather than climbing to Rosenlaui as we had planned. Thomer, another friend would be joining me for a week, had spent the day cycling from Zurich to Meiringen. We had planned to meet on Sunday, but this new arrangement was just as convenient. So after a final push up the four switchbacks next to the Aareschlucht, a scenic gorge of the River Aare, we coasted into Meiringen to find Thomer sitting outside the hotel he had picked for the night. I was so sleepy that I could barely talk. After a shower, abundant risotto, and a giant "Coupe Castello" ice cream, I perked up enough to doze through the first half of the Holland - Sweden Euro 2004 quarter-final. Then I left Thomer to cheer on his home side, and collapsed in bed for the better part of nine hours. Sunday, June 27 (72Km, 2251m) After a delicious breakfast of muesli and yoghurt and bread and cheese, I received a call from my friend Chip, who was scheduled to meet us in Andermatt in the evening. His flight from Boston had just landed in Milan, but his bicycle somehow wasn't aboard. He would need to wait at least a day to retrieve it. Disappointed but trying to make the best of the situation, I gave him my cousin Tommaso's address and phone number and suggested that he make himself comfortable in Milan. We set off late under cool, partially overcast skies: back up past the Aareschlucht, through Innertkirchen, and up the Grimselpass road. After a handful of wooded switchbacks the road opens up to reveal magnificent views of the Haslital. This valley is a small Swiss Yosemite: enormous granite walls so smooth and steep that they retain no snow, and many rock climbers. This being a Sunday, I counted 19 people on one broad rock face alone. My favorite part of the climb is just after the small village of Handegg, where cyclists must take the old road to avoid a steep 1Km-long tunnel. The old road is narrow and cobblestoned: it leaves the new one under an impressive rock overhang, and affords great views of the valley and the Aare River. Not long after the turnoff we met a group of people in wetsuits and climbing harnesses. They were planning to rappel down the cliff into the river, and then somehow kayak downstream! From there it was an easy climb to the lower of the two artificial lakes operated by the KWO/Grimselstrom hydroelectric facility, and then up another handful of switchbacks to the second lake. The water level was very low, and the Grimsel Hospiz, a mountain hotel on the shores of the upper lake, towered atop a hill that is usually submerged. We reached the summit (2165m) among the deafening roar of many motorcycles. After obligatory photos of the frozen summit lake and of the vertiginous switchbacks on the south side of the pass, we sped down those same switchbacks to the hamlet of Gletsch (1760m) for lunch. The ramps between switchbacks on this road are long and steep, and I frequently exceeded 70Km/h before pulling hard on the brakes to make the next turn. I arrived at the bottom exhilarated and with tears streaming from my eyes. Lunch was a simple tomato spaghetti affair in a large, bustling hall attached to the Hotel Glacier du Rhone. A live band reinforced Swiss national sterotypes with jovial but silly "um-pa-pa um-pa-pa" tunes (Hans, Thomer, and I concluded that the singer was probably drunk). The price was Swiss too: SFr 90 (approximately $72 at current exchange rates) for three plates of pasta! Grey clouds hid the sun as we headed up Furkapass. Many fast cyclists with no bags or panniers were out for a ride, and I increased the pace to ride with one of them. But after a few minutes I slowed down again to rejoin Hans and Thomer and take some photos of the fantastic scenery around us. The rock wall of the Rhone glacier rose to our left, and to its right the Furka road zig-zagged up the mountain face and ultimately disappeared from sight. After a short steep section we reached the Hotel Belvedere, ideal vantage point for viewing the glacier. Unfortunately, the Rhone glacier is frequently cited as an example of glacial retreat in the Alps, and it has seemed smaller each time I've seen it. This year it was a small tongue of ice at the bottom of a much larger lateral moraine. You may want to compare a photo from this year with one taken on Jobst Brandt's 1976 tour of the Alps. Admittedly, the perspective is very different, but so is the amount of ice. If you are interested, take a look at a diagram of glacial extent from 1602 to 1973, or topographic maps of the region produced by the Swiss Federal Institute for Topography (Bundesamt fuer Landestopographie) in 1960, 1986, and 1993. (I obtained all this data from the European Earth Observation website .) And here is the glacier as seen from Gletsch at 71-year intervals: 1859, 1930, and 2001. I ruminated on the lack of political will to address global warming seriously, but as we climbed further the scenery swept all these thoughts from my mind. The sun had broken through the clouds in places, lighting up the snowfields of the Bernese Alps in the distance and creating an ever-changing patchwork of light and shadow in the valley below. So beautiful! Hans continued slowly upward while Thomer and I stopped to admire the scene several times. I took a few photos, well aware that they would never convey the grandeur of what lay before us. We stopped for photos on the Furka summit (2436m), and then plunged down the 1000-meter descent to Andermatt. Conditions were perfect, and I really opened up the gas, spinning out in my 50x12 on the straight sections and hitting both brakes hard as I approached turns. On these narrow and windy roads bicycles have an enormous speed advantage over cars: I passed many cars and stayed ahead of them despite stopping to take photos. I waited for Thomer and Hans in Realp, and together we covered the long straight descent to Hospental and then the last few kilometers to Andermatt at a brisk pace. We had planned to stay in Andermatt because in the morning Hans needed to cycle back to his car in Altdorf to drive back to Germany, while Thomer and I would be riding over St. Gotthardpass into Ticino. As we pedaled around town to find a hotel, Hans' front wheel wedged into a rut between two rows of cobblestones and he went down hard on his right elbow. But fortunately it was nothing serious: the local military infirmary confirmed that there were no fractures and sent Hans home with a bandage without charging anything. We checked into the Hotel zur Sonne, where the lady running the restaurant, sensing my abundant appetite, assured us that she would bring a "militaer Portion" of spaghetti. She kept her promise, and after an equally abundant coupe of ice cream and a bit of Euro 2004 soccer (Czech Republic 3 - 0 Denmark), we were all fast asleep. Monday, June 28 (133Km, 2147m) We parted ways with Hans around 9am just outside Andermatt. He turned right towards Goeschenen and Altdorf, where his car was parked, while Thomer and I headed left towards Hospental. Hospental was quiet and beautiful at this hour, elegant baroque facades lining the cobblestoned main street. One of the hotels claims to have been the field headquarters of General Suvorov, a Russian who drove Napoleon's army out of northern Italy in 1799, and subsequently tried but failed to expel the French from Switzerland too. Thomer and I began the climb to Gotthardpass under a dark grey sky, but the clouds opened up as we gained altitude, affording us magnificent views of peaks veiled by gauzy mists and meadows dappled in morning light. The air was warm, and everything---the grass, the wet road, we ourselves---gave off steam. Gradually, the wildflowers that lined the lower reaches of the road gave way to rocky surroundings, and we noticed several roads that lead to doors in the mountainside. Gotthard is apparently one of the most heavily militarized areas of Switzerland, with considerable caches of weapons and vehicles stored underground---all very discordant with the scenery around us. At the Gotthard Hospiz on the summit (2091m), the cashier greeted us in Italian (yes!), a sign that we were in Ticino, the Italian-speaking part of Switzerland. We chose to avoid the old cobblestone road to Airolo in favor of the smooth highway built in 1970, which begins with spectacular views of the old road's switchbacks on the far side of the Val Tremola (so called because of its abundance of tremolite, a mineral that twinkles (trembles) in the sunlight under certain conditions). Further on, the highway passes through long straight tunnels and descends quickly in a succession of spectacular turns, including a couple of "flying hairpins." Alas, below Motto Bartola bikes are diverted to the old road, so Thomer and I were treated to a numbing vibra-massage before entering Airolo (1141m). We pressed on downhill, impressed by the spectacular railway engineering---trains climb the steep valley via a series of spiral tunnels---and the incredible autobahn, so high above us as to almost avoid notice from the road we were on. I wonder whether a more muted engineering statement would not have been preferable in such a beautiful natural setting. Near Faido I noticed construction equipment for the new railway tunnel being built by the AlpTransit consortium. The tunnel will connect Bodio (TI) with Erstfeld (UR) in an almost straight line, with no climbing. At 57Km, it will be the longest in the world, and in places it will be almost 3000m (2 miles!) below the surface of the mountains above. All this to enable high-speed passenger trains and competitive freight transport across the Alps, connecting Milan and Zurich at speeds of 250Km/h. The scheduled opening date is 2015: roll over, Big Dig! Faido is several hundred meters above the tunnel entry point at Bodio, but apparently it is the site of a "breathing hole" used to extract debris from tunnel construction. The excavated material is transported downhill via an impressive enclosed conveyor belt that runs next to the road for about 15Km! Considering the steep mountain road and the mass of material that needs to be extracted, it seems like an excellent, environmentally friendly alternative to trucks. At Bodio (400m) the road flattens out. I resisted the urge to explore the AlpTransit visitor center, and pushed on into a tough headwind to Bellinzona, where Thomer and I had agreed to meet Chip. Chip, his bike safe and sound, showed up one or two hours later, and the three of us enjoyed a picnic lunch together in a shady city park: six enormous sycamores arranged at the vertices of a regular hexagon, with a gurgling fountain in the middle and benches all around. We set off towards Passo del San Bernardino (2065m) in the mid-afternoon heat. I love the scenery of the lower San Bernardino, with its green fields, the rushing river Moesa, and the high cliff walls lined with waterfalls. Unfortunately, when the road began to climb, Chip got into trouble: jet-lagged, dehydrated, and cramping, he was a shadow of the strong, indefatigable rider I know. A stop for water and table salt solved some of the problems, but we decided to not climb the entire pass and aim for the town of San Bernardino (1650m) instead. As we climbed, cooler temperatures made cycling easier and we admired the afternoon light on the east side of the valley. Near Pian San Giacomo the climb becomes less steep and traverses a fragrant fir forest. It wasn't long before we were in San Bernardino, where we settled in for the night at the Hotel Bellevue. No Euro soccer was scheduled for the night, so after a delicious minestrone and the usual piles of pasta, we went straight to bed. Tuesday, June 29 (127Km, 2715m) We woke to brilliant sunshine, and enjoyed unobstructed views of the upper Valle Mesolcina as we climbed the remaining 400m or so to the summit of Passo del San Bernardino (2065m). Chip was back in fine form and really enjoying himself: the scenery, apparently, was more vertical and spectacular than what he had experienced in the Rockies on his two Trans-America rides. After a quick stop for photos at the summit, we headed down the long set of stacked switchbacks to Hinterrhein, bursting out of the last forested hairpin onto a broad sunny meadow carpeted with yellow wildflowers. We stopped for a second breakfast of pastry and fruit in Spluegen, in a little town square that seemed to be a crossroads for touring cyclists: several rode by in different directions during the few minutes that we were there. Then it was time for the second ascent of the day, to Spluegenpass (2113m). The road looks fearsome as it takes off straight up from the center of Spluegen, but it eases off soon enough, with switchbacks up a wooded hillside and then a long gentle section through open meadows next to a rushing torrent. Most of the climb comes at the end, in an impressive series of fourteen switchbacks, ten of them stacked directly on top of each other. We regrouped at the top before beginning the descent that would ultimately take us to Chiavenna, 1800m below the pass. The road descends steeply to Montespluga (1908m), a collection of stone houses with slate roofs on the shores of an aritificial lake used for hydroelectric power. Montespluga is picturesque and nestled in grand surroundings, but also grim: treeless, semi-deserted, and somehow evocative of dramatic 19th-century stagecoach trips through terrible blizzards. I heard a sharp crack from the rear of my bike as we entered the hamlet, and stopped to discover that the wooden dowel that was supporting my Carradice bag had snapped. Not a showstopper, but something I would need to address. (In examining the saddlebag, I accidentally touched the rear rim with my thigh, and was reminded just how hot rims can get from braking on these descents!) The shore of the lake offers a brief respite, but then the road plunges down again, with only one brief flat spot before Chiavenna, 1600m below. There may be longer grades than the south side of Spluegenpass, and steeper ones, but none that I have seen give me the same feeling of anxiety and claustrophobia. In its upper parts the road clings to the sheer eastern side of the Val San Giacomo, sometimes burrowing into the mountain because there is simply no other place to build a road. In other spots the hairpins are covered by avalanche shelters, so that, in total, a large portion of the road is not exposed to the sky. In one of these tunnels---unlit, and all the darker after the bright sunshine outside---Chip and I encountered an almost fatal combination of obstacles: sheep in our lane, a left turn, an oncoming car behind the turn, and a deep pothole. We were both so shaken that we stopped at the tunnel exit to get our wits together. Thomer joined us some minutes later: he had been more sensible, and had not entered the tunnel at 65Km/h. Chiavenna is a beautiful little town, sleepy but civilized and welcoming after the treeless wastes and scary tunnels of Spluegenpass. We found an attractive piazza and spent an hour or two eating and relaxing outdoors in the shade of some giant umbrellas. When we got back on the road again, towards Malojapass (1815m) and the Engadin valley, the afternoon heat was oppressive. Only after 15Km or so did we gain enough altitude that the air started to cool. Near Stampa I heard the familiar sounds of wood-cutting machinery, and stopped at a lumber mill to find a replacement dowel for my saddlebag. As luck would have it, they had just what I needed: within 15 minutes I was on the road again, equipped with a handsome beech support for the Carradice. The rest of the climb was scenic but undistinguished, except for the last couple of kilometers, where several spectacularly convoluted switchbacks negotiate a rock face just below the summit. Maloja is a one-sided pass: heading east there is no descent, and the road follows the shores of the lakes Segl and Silvaplana on the way to St. Moritz. We made brisk progress in a paceline as we watched the afternoon light bathe the lakes and the Piz Corvatsch. I had planned for us to stay at the Ospizio Bernina, a mountain hut on top of Passo Bernina, but Thomer ran out of steam just as we passed St. Moritz. Eating probably wouldn't fix him, so we stopped for the night in Pontresina. Pontresina is not the most affordable of places---St. Moritz, after all, is just a few kilometers away. But after a little bit of extra climbing to get away from the main street, we found a pension that fit our wallets. There we impressed the English-speaking Swedish waitress with how much food we could put away, and fell asleep in short order. Wednesday, June 30 (147Km, 3660m) Thomer woke up in need of a rest day. We decided that we would all climb Passo Bernina together, but then he would cycle to Bormio via Livigno and Passo Foscagno, while Chip and I tested ourselves on Mortirolo and Gavia, two of the most famous climbs of the Giro d'Italia. Passo Bernina from the west is possibly the easiest climb in the Alps, and we made great time under blue skies and pleasant temperatures. On the summit (2330m) we met several cyclists, including a middle-aged man who had ridden up from Tirano (450m---1880m below the pass!) with an 11-21 cassette and 53-44 chainrings, and boasted about how we'd find his riding buddies far downhill. He nodded approvingly at our Mortirolo-Gavia plan, so off we went. Several switchbacks later we crossed a handful of skinny middle-aged men grimacing on the pedals---presumably, they were Mr. 44x21's riding buddies. We waved to Thomer as he turned left towards Livigno while we continued the long descent towards Valtellina. We stopped in Poschiavo to take pictures of a bright red Rhaetische Bahn train where it negotiated a spiral bridge, and then raced it downhill for a few miles. The valley is so narrow that the train runs on the road in places, sort of like a city trolley, and at one point Chip actually drafted it while I tried to open my handlebar bag, extract the camera, and take a picture---all while riding at about 50Km/h. You can view my out-of-focus attempt at this shot, just after the exciting drafting part and just before I almost crashed on tracks. In Tirano we found a shady bit of sidewalk next to a supermarket and enjoyed the lunch we'd just bought: bread, cheese, yogurt, and fruit, all washed down with grapefruit juice and Fanta. I had never climbed the Mortirolo, and was a bit nervous about the climb whose name evokes "morte," which in Italian means "death." Tony Rominger, famous Swiss champion of the 80s and 90s, called it the toughest climb in the Alps. Lance Armstrong rode it earlier this year, and he had this to say in an interview to Cycling News: It's a terrible climb...it's perfect for a mountain bike. On the hardest parts, I was riding a 39x27 and I was hurting, really hurting. (Mortirolo) is the hardest climb I've ever ridden. My time up the climb? It's not important; I rode the Mortirolo to have some fun and ride with the 'cicloamatori'...there were a few raindrops, but it was a great day. Chip, of course, was unperturbed, so off we rode, up the Valtellina to Mazzo. Signs for Mortirolo take you through the center of Mazzo, a sleepy, sun-drenched little place where chickens run around in courtyards and old ladies peer from second-floor balconies. Then the climb begins: a perfectly paved one-lane road, painfully steep, rising through vineyards and then thick deciduous forest. The vegetation is too dense to afford much of a view, and the grade---10.3% average, with several 18% segments and even steeper grades on the inside of switchbacks---makes it difficult to think about the scenery. A recent repaving must have destroyed much old cycling graffiti, but the road is already covered with new messages: Pantani and Cunego are by far the crowd favorites. A local rider passed us after a few kilometers but we caught up with him later, and I rode with him for some time, until I decided to stop at one of the only two available water fountains to refill my water bottles. In the end it took us over two hours to cover the 13Km climb to the summit, including stops for water, photos, and general appreciation of the absurdity of this climb. On the summit we met a group of Romans on lightweight racing bikes who were impressed by our luggage but felt little desire to imitate us. (Cyclist 1: "Wow, that's so cool. We should do a trip like that one year." Cyclists 2, 3, 4: "Yeah right. You're crazy.") The descent to Monno in Valcamonica was almost as steep as the climb from Valtellina, but shorter and more scenic: at one point I noticed the roofs of Monno almost directly below us. Our rims were very hot when we finally reached SS39 in Valcamonica, and turned left towards Ponte di Legno. A warm tailwind pushed us along and I drafted Chip---an acolyte of the "Buddha of infinite smoothness," as he likes to say---all the way to Ponte di Legno (1260m), so I arrived in perfect form. We sat in the center of town and enjoyed pastries and fruit juice before embarking on the third climb of the day, Passo Gavia (2652m). Like Mortirolo, Gavia is part of the legend of the Giro, and has seen its share of critical cycling moments. Andy Hampsten's brilliant 1988 ascent of the Gavia during a snow storm earned him victory in that year's Giro, making him the first (and so far, only) American to win that stage race. The climb begins slowly enough, but gains altitude quickly after Pezzo, where an array of signs warns that the road is narrow and twisty, that it lacks guard rails, that the surface may be frozen or blocked by avalanches, that one should proceed with caution, and that chains are mandatory from September 1 to July 15. Well then! This time, though, compared to Mortirolo, the ride felt easy, something I attribute to the cooler temperatures and overcast skies. Above tree line the climb became truly spectacular as rays of sun broke through the clouds and lit up the mountain side. But the top of the mountain was hidden by clouds, and we covered the last couple of kilometers enveloped by milky whiteness. We spent some time at the Rifugio Bonetta on the summit, warming ourselves with tea and admiring the many cycling photos on the walls. Some of the pictures showed a middle-aged man (I forget his name) who had recently completed his 100th officially validated climb of Gavia! The descent was cold but exhilarating, and as we dropped below the cloud cover we caught a beautiful sunset over Valfurva. We arrived in Bormio at dusk after a long and very fast descent, with peaks above 75Km/h. Thomer was out watching soccer with some Dutch people he had met, so Chip and I settled into the Hotel Capitani and treated ourselves to a well-deserved dinner of pasta and ice cream before collapsing for the night. Thursday, July 1 (138Km, 1768m) The day began with a visit to a Bormio bike shop. I had worn my front brake pads down to the metal, and could not find the tiny 2mm Allen wrench required to remove the Dura-Ace-style pads. It was almost 10am before Chip, Thomer, and I were on the road to Passo Stelvio (2760m), my bike suitably outfitted with shiny new Kool-Stop red pads. Stelvio, the highest paved pass in Italy, is a long climb from either side, but it never achieves the sublimely steep grades of Mortirolo, Gavia, or some of the Dolomite roads. The southern ascent, from Bormio, is also shorter than the northern one from Prato Stelvio, and it provides a bit of a rest about two thirds of the way up, where it crosses a broad and relatively flat meadow. All this means that it is that much easier to admire the scenery, which is some of the most grand and dramatic that I know. The climb hugs the side of a steep canyon, while the Torrente Braulio that gives its name to the valley rushes far below to the left. The opposite face of the canyon, enormous and steep, reveals a cross-section of rocks from different ages. In many places the horizontal striations become gnarled and convoluted, testament to enormous tectonic forces. It all makes you feel small and temporary. The road ascends through a series of dark tunnels. Inside, water rushes loudly through roadside channels and drips down the rough stone walls, glinting in the faint light afforded by small openings near the pavement. Further up, an impressive series of switchbacks scale the far wall of the Braulio valley and lead to a broad meadow from which both Umbrail Pass (2503m) and Passo Stelvio (2760m) are visible. Umbrail Pass is simply an intermediate saddle on the way up to Stelvio, from which a road leads down to Val Mustair in Switzerland. From Umbrail, only a few hairpins remain to the Stelvio summit, an easy ride because the road is not too steep, the end is always in plain view, and there is the exhilaration of having almost finished a great climb. Just out of Bormio we were passed by four or five very strong cyclists, fast enough to be pros or elite amateurs. They were followed by a team van, and as we neared Umbrailpass we were passed by those same riders descending in the van. Maybe the descent was considered too dangerous to be part of the training routine---I don't know. It must be sad, however, to do such a great climb and then not enjoy the descent. We didn't have such problems: after the traditional photo in front of the Coppi monument, we crested the pass and Chip and Thomer stared in amazement at the incredible descent that lay before us. Only about 25 of the north face's 48 switchbacks are visible from the summit of the pass, but that's enough to provide an astounding view. In total, the road drops 1850m to Prato Stelvio, first through a barren ravine beneath the imposing Ortler glacier, and then in an attractive fir forest. We stopped a couple of times near the top to let the grandeur of the place sink in, and then enjoyed an uninterrupted descent to Prato. Halfway down we crossed a couple going the other way. The man was pulling a baby trailer. I was awed by his resourcefulness as my probable future flashed before my eyes. A few seconds later I began to have unhealthy thoughts about what great training it would be to lug a baby trailer around the Alps for a week. Probably not so great for the baby, though. We stopped in Prato for a delicious lunch of pasta with fresh pfefferlingen (a kind of mushroom), and were back on the road around 1.45pm. We would be very late for our appointment with Bernie. Bernie is a German friend who had cycled with me in Norway in 1999 and in the Alps in 2001, and who would be riding with us through the weekend. We had agreed to meet in Bolzano at 3pm, but Bolzano was approximately 80Km away. We rode in a paceline to fight the headwind and deal with the intense traffic, and by 4.30pm we arrived in Merano, where we stopped to eat some ice cream in a gelateria on the banks of the River Passirio. Warm summer rain fell as we left Merano. It was too warm for me to wear a rain jacket. The rain felt good as it cooled my body and then slowly wet my hair, ran down my neck, soaked my wool jersey, and saturated my shoes and socks. One hour and 30Km later, in Bolzano, that rain had become a torrential downpour: storm sewers overflowed, sidewalks disappeared under water, and cars stalled in intersections in a minor flood so severe that it made the regional TV news. A little before 6pm, Bernie found himself greeting three soggy rats in the lobby of Bolzano central station. Considering that we were already soaked and that we wanted to make an early start up the mountain the following day, we decided to get back on the road and brave ten more wet kilometers to Prato Isarco (Blumau an der Eisack), where we had a reservation at Gasthof Schlosshof. That small hotel is perfectly suited for cyclists. There is a drying room in the basement, and the dining room has a "no one leaves hungry" policy, which meant that Bernie and I had two or three large servings of pasta before moving on to dessert. The slight hum of traffic on the Brenner highway in the distance did not keep us awake for a second. Friday, July 2 (68Km, 2364m) It was raining lightly when we awoke in Blumau, but we set off despite Thomer's misgivings. Our initiative was rewarded: as we climbed out of the Isarco valley we moved above the clouds and were treated to expansive views of meadows and wooded cliffs interspersed with Alto Adige's famous white grape vineyards. We made good time and enjoyed the fine scenery and warm temperature. In Siusi a sign with a red light warned us that the road to Alpe di Siusi, the high plateau above the town, was closed. At first we thought that there was snow or some other obstacle, but as it turned out the road is closed routinely to limit auto access. So up we went to the summit, on a well-paved and semi-deserted road that intersects the Alpe di Siusi cable car several times. You know you're climbing when you keep passing gondolas overhead. Bernie and I reached the plateau (1950m) first, followed by Chip a few minutes later, and then Thomer. Thomer's knees were in serious pain, so much so that he decided to not go on, but rather roll back downhill to Bolzano and take a train to Zurich. So we all ate lunch together, and then, after a group portrait, we headed our separate ways: Thomer back down the mountain, and Chip, Bernie, and I east across the Alpe di Siusi plateau. I had never ridden on the plateau before, and I was struck by how peacefully beautiful it was, mellow and pastoral and utterly different from the dramatic glacial landscapes of Stelvio or Furka. Where those mountains might have deserved musical accompaniment by Wagner or Mahler, here we were definitely in the land of the Mozart violin sonata. Our paved one-lane road eventually deteriorated into a gravel fire road. We stopped seeing cyclists, and only met a handful of hikers. Chip and I fared ok on the increasingly rutted surface, but this was not the right place for Bernie's triathlon bike and its 20mm tires. He suffered two pinch flats in the space of a few miles, and it was a long time before we reached the other side of Monte Pana and regained pavement. We dropped into Santa Cristina along a narrow 16% grade just as rain began to fall. The rain became a heavy downpour. We tried to wait it out under a roof in Santa Cristina, but it became clear that this was no brief summer thunderstorm. So off we went, up the hill towards Passo Gardena (2121m). The scenery was spectacular despite the low overcast, as massive waterfalls formed on the vertical walls of the Sella group to our right. The grade remained easy, but falling temperatures made this a tough climb: on the summit I shivered uncontrollably as I put on rain gear for the descent. Chip and I shared some clothes with Bernie, who had come prepared for a weekend jaunt and had no real rain gear. When we reached La Villa (1390m), at the intersection of the roads to Passo Gardena and Passo Valparola (2190m), Bernie's lips were blue and he was shaking so hard that he could not steer straight. He assured us that he would be ok, but Chip and I both had some doubts, and personally I was not looking forward to another climb and descent in that weather. We stopped at the Pensione Astro, which provided a hearty meal, comfortable beds, and---most importantly---a clothes dryer. The rain stopped after dinner, so I went for a brief walk. La Villa, was abuzz with cyclists. Bicycles hung on hotel balconies, leaned against walls, and lay inside minivans with license plates of places as far away as Holland and Spain. They were all there for Sunday's Dolomite Marathon, a famous annual amateur race that visits some of the most renowned climbs in the area. For once, we were definitely not the only cyclists in town. Saturday, July 3 (141Km, 3228m) We left La Villa at 8.45am under brilliant sunshine and with two goals for the day: to climb to Rifugio Auronzo on the Tre Cime di Lavaredo (2400m), and to deliver Chip to Calalzo train station by 4pm. From there, Chip would travel to Milan and catch a flight back to Boston on Sunday. Passo Valparola (2190m) is a gentle climb with an average grade just above 5%. Today the scenery more than made up for the previous days' rainstorms: from the upper reaches of the pass, the view extended down Val Badia all the way to the border with Austria. For most of the ride I cycled with Chip and Bernie at a relaxed pace, worshipping Chip's Buddha of infinite smoothness. But a couple kilometers from the top I caught sight of two cyclists who had passed us earlier and who were evidently preparing for the Dolomite Marathon. Spurred by a sudden competitive urge, I switched my spiritual allegiance to Shiva, destroyer of knees, and powered up out of the saddle in the big chainring. I passed the two just before the last switchback, and found myself in a good position to take pictures of Bernie and Chip as they reached the summit. From Passo Valparola the road descends to Passo Falzarego (2105m) and its stone chapel, and then winds down to Cortina d'Ampezzo (1250m) through a fir forest. Beautiful mountains---Lagazuoi, Tofana di Rozes, Cinque Torri---rise on either side of the road, their reddish-brown rocks prominent against the blueish-green vegetation. This area saw major combat between Italy and Austria in World War I, and holes on the cliffs mark the remains of artillery positions and other military tunnels from that time. Just above the town, the road makes a left turn, passes through a tunnel, and suddenly reveals magnificent views of Cortina's famous valley: Monte Cristallo, the Faloria group, and Antelao, the highest peak in the Dolomites, lay before us like a grand canvas. We stopped in Cortina just long enough to mail some postcards before heading up to Passo Tre Croci (1809m). The climb is steep at first, but then it winds gradually through flower-strewn meadows and a larch forest, past the Monte Cristallo cable car station, and up to the pass. Conditions were perfect and I felt fine as I climbed out of the saddle in a smooth, high gear. I sat down on the grass at the top and waited for Chip and Bernie. We felt we had sufficient time, so after a brief descent we turned left and climbed towards Misurina (1750m) and the Tre Cime di Lavaredo. Misurina (1750m) is a fantastic place, surrounded by high mountains that are mirrored in the dark waters of its lake. We stopped for pastries and soda, just in time to hear a local cyclist woo the waitress: "Lucky is the man who'll find you by his side." (!) The climb to Rifugio Auronzo is both punitive and spectacular: except for one brief flat part, it consits of a long series of erratic hairpins, always above 15% grade, first through a fir forest and then across fields of scree. Jagged peaks stretched before us in every direction, and lakes and rivers glittered in the valleys as the clouds formed ever-changing patterns of light and shadow. The Rifugio (2400m) serves delicious (if expensive) food, but we barely had time to enjoy it. I shoveled polenta, mushrooms, salad, cheese, and fruit into my mouth as quickly as I could. It was 2.20pm by the time we were ready to leave, and Calalzo train station was about 50Km away. We would need to make good time, and fortunately the grade was in our favor. I achieved 84Km/h on a ramp between two switchbacks above Misurina, and we sustained speeds above 40Km/h for much of the gradual descent to Auronzo, as Chip, Bernie, and I alternated pulls. We delivered Chip to Calalzo train station at 3.40pm, covering 50Km in an 1 hour 20 minutes at an average speed of about 38Km/h. After saying goodbye to Chip, Bernie and I headed to Pieve di Cadore, where we treated ourselves to ice cream at the Gelateria al Centro. I used to come here for ice cream when I was a little kid, and neither it nor the piazza around it has really changed in twenty years. We sat on a bench and watched a group of young women play with their children. Then it was time to go again, first along the busy national road through the small towns of Tai and Venas, and then left, up a narrow provincial road to the village of Cibiana. One of Cibiana's distinctive features is its murals (called "murales" in the local dialect), created by the locals during the early 80s to serve as a tourist attraction and a sort of graphic history of slowly disappearing village life. We took a detour through narrow alleys to explore these artworks, some of them striking, and then pressed on along steep wooded switchbacks to the summit of Passo Cibiana (1530m). On the far side of the pass, the one-lane road descends through a thick conifer forest. The trees glowed in the late afternoon light as Bernie and I coasted to Forno di Zoldo, where we stopped for the night at the Pensione Zoldana on the banks of the river. We had no problem putting away what was probably the most abundant meal of our entire trip. Sunday, July 4 (190Km, 2517m) Over breakfast, the hotel dining room's television was tuned to live RAI2 coverage of the Dolomite Marathon. I was impressed that national television would cover an amateur cycling race live (albeit on a slow summer Sunday morning). Bernie dismissed the whole hoopla with a laconic, "We had that live yesterday." Indeed. And we had more of it today, as we set off towards Passo Duran (1605m) under sunny skies a little before 9am. The road climbs gently to Dont (900m), where, after a sharp left turn, it suddenly soars above the village's roofs at grades over 15%. The ascent eases somewhat after the hamlet of Chiesa, climbing to the pass through a thick forest. Just after Chiesa I noticed a cyclist up ahead and decided to try to reel him in. He was faster than most, riding out of the saddle in a high gear on an unsuspended mountain bike. It took me several switchbacks to catch him, and I was not strong enough to pass. Eventually he turned off the road onto a dirt trail and disappeared among the trees. I reached the summit at my own pace and sat down in the flower-covered meadow to wait for Bernie. We took it easy on the long descent to Agordo (611m), stopping occasionally to admire the views. These were the last few kilometers of our ride together before we parted ways in Agordo. From Agordo, Bernie headed northwest over Passo San Pellegrino towards Bolzano, where he took a train home to Rosenheim. For the first time on this trip I cycled alone, south into the Parco Nazionale delle Dolomiti Bellunesi. The highlight was a derelict old section of road that follows the river through a narrow gorge, while the new road descends in a tunnel that is forbidden to bicycles. Even though the old road is now closed to cars, the old ANAS casa cantoniera once used by road crews is still inhabited, and an old woman and her cats looked down from the second floor window as I rode by. I arrived in Feltre shortly after noon. The historic center is a handsome place, but it seemed completely deserted, and it took me a while to find a place to eat. I settled on the Trattoria Al Cappello, where I was treated to ravioli and a large sampler of local cheeses. Thus refreshed, I headed out of town behind a local amateur racer who was going for a ride to Bassano. Near Seren del Grappa (400m) I thanked him for the pull and turned left towards Monte Grappa. At first I had flashbacks of Mortirolo: the same hot summer air, the same sleepy village scene at the bottom, the same steep climb through thick vegetation. In reality, though, this climb was a lot easier. After gaining about 500m via hot, sunny switchbacks, the road enters cool deciduous forests. It rises and falls countless times as it climbs the sides of Monte Cismon and Monte Grappa, exposing vast panoramas of the Altopiano di Asiago (the high plateau where Asiago cheese is made) to the west. The last few kilometers to the top of Monte Grappa (1760m) were a real holiday area: people sunbathed on lawn chairs set out in the grassy meadows, old couples played cards, and families ate picnics by the side of the road. Something about it reminded me of 1950s car ads: checkered tablecloths and bucolic bliss in the shadow of the family station wagon. More spectacularly, Monte Grappa has a huge paragliding and hang-gliding scene, and countless sails circled in the air beneath me as I climbed to the top. The summit of Monte Grappa is a national war monument. The mountain and the surrounding area saw some of the fiercest World War I fighting between Italy and Austria, and today the results of those battles are visible in the giant Italian and Austrian military cemeteries. Unfortunately, the monuments were built by the Fascist government in the '20s and '30s, and I wonder whether giant inscriptions of Mussolini's words are the best way to memorialize all those war dead today. I left the war memorial and explored the high plateau, admiring the paragliders and the views of the Po valley 1600 meters below. After fixing a flat tire---my only mechanical problem on this trip---caused by a sharp rock on the road, I decided to head down. The descent was memorable: first sunny meadow, then cool fir forest, then lots of beech trees, all the way down to a monumental stand of cypress trees where cicadas sang in the hot dusty air. Now my remaining goal was to reach my cousin Marco's home near Padova. I cycled west to Bassano and picked up SS47, a busy but direct road that heads straight to Padova. The land here is flat as a billiard table and I benefited from a slight tailwind, so I pedaled briskly in a 50x14 and held a steady pace of 34-36Km/h. Near Padova things got a bit confusing because my map showed none of the local roads and signage was very poor. Fortunately I found a friendly gentleman on a motor scooter who was going my way and essentially motor-paced me for several miles. I arrived at my cousin's place in Teolo around 7.30pm, grimy but happy and very hungry. Marco and his wife Simona had been hosting a backyard cookout for some friends, and I made short work of the leftovers. Tuesday, July 6 (123Km, 1656m) Not much to say about this day of cycling, except that it was hot---really, really hot. Initially I had planned to cycle from Padova all the way to San Giovanni Valdarno, where Kara and her mom were taking an Italian class. But the weather forecast said high 30s Celsius (about 100 degrees Fahrenheit), and the prospect of riding 300Km in one day in those temperatures did not appeal to me. I also wanted to spend the morning in Padova to visit one of my uncles. So at 11.30am I caught a regional train from Padova to Bologna, and arrived in Bologna two hours later. Bologna is just above sea level, and the heat, traffic, and smog in the city and its outskirts made for the most difficult cycling of the entire trip, Mortirolo included. Out in the countryside the traffic and pollution subsided, but the heat did not relent. Even in Loiano (720m), up in the Appenine hills, the temperature was 34 degrees Celsius (93 Fahrenheit) in the shade. Wind as hot as a hair dryer blew from the west, and cicadas sang in the dry grass by the side of the road. The hills around Passo della Raticosa (970m) and Passo della Futa (903m) are beautiful, but I did not use my camera: it was too hot, and the light was too bright and flat for any good photos. At 5.40pm I found myself in the little town of San Piero. I could turn left and pedal all the way to San Giovanni via Borgo San Lorenzo, or ride the shorter but hillier route to Florence and take a train the last few miles to San Giovanni. Tired of the heat, I opted for the second alternative. I pushed hard for the remaining miles, and arrived in Florence in under an hour. Two local cyclists showed me the way to the train station, and I hopped onto the 7.09pm train to San Giovanni. The weather could have been cooler, but overall I was impressed: essentially all the traffic between Bologna and Firenze uses the autostrada (toll highway), but the old road is still quite direct. So it is possible to ride between these two major cities in under five hours, on scenic roads, and see very little auto traffic. Thursday, July 8 (123Km, 1646m) After a day in San Giovanni and Florence with Kara and her mom, it was time for my last day of cycling before our return to Boston. I planned to travel to Pescara to visit relatives, but San Giovanni to Pescara is well over 300Km, longer than I can ride and still socialize late into evening. So I decided to repeat Tuesday's train-plus-bike routine: I would take the train from San Giovanni to L'Aquila via Orte and Terni, and then cycle the 130Km or so from L'Aquila to Pescara, across the spectacular landscape of the Gran Sasso. My train arrived in L'Aquila (700m) at 1.30pm, almost an hour behind schedule. I climbed to the old square at the top of the town---quite possibly the only attractive bit of L'Aquila, which is otherwise non-descript---and found a restaurant where I sat out the midday heat and ate a double portion of home-made pasta with mushroom and truffle sauce. I was on the road at 3pm, late but well-fed. Unfortunately, my sit-out-the-heat strategy had not worked: a few miles down the road, at the base of the Gran Sasso cable car (1000m), the thermometer read 35 degrees Celsius (95 Fahrenheit)! My water bottles were empty, and I became willing to pay 2.50 euros for a glass of Coke. But the air cooled and the landscape opened up before me as I climbed to the top of Campo Imperatore (1760m): rugged, stony terrain dotted with wildflowers and occasional trees stretched northwest to L'Aquila, while the massive cliffs of the Gran Sasso rose to the east. The Maiella group came into view briefly as I cruised down a shallow grade on the high plateau of Campo Imperatore, and reappeared again after the short climb to Vado di Sole (1630m). Over the remaining miles the road descended gradually to the Adriatic Sea via Penne and Loreto Aprutino. The small climb to the hilltop town of Spoltore was a big-chainring affair, and from there it was just a brief descent to the congested center of Pescara. I reached my Uncle Silvio's place in great form shortly after 8pm, just in time for dinner. One more beautiful bike tour was over.