Why are you late?
Stopping
The morning was warm, the sky was a deep blue, there was no wind and summer kit could still be worn. I’d intended to ride fast around a familiar circuit, and I was end of season fit. The day in short, was heaven-sent for bike riding. The route I knew, and had used many times before, so I rode fast overtaking cars on the descent from the town and I grinned with the thrill of it.
The road stretched upwards and downwards, curved and twisted as it rolled over ridges and dived into damp, fecund valleys. That is the fun of this route - the road is never still. Fast descents, and full work-out ascents.
Colours of the season-changing woods flashed past.
Beside the road the boughs of trees were bent under the weight of their fruits; grass-green apples, earth-stained pears, tannin-black walnuts, red-cheeked pomegranates, golden quince, green/black olives.
And on the crest of a ridge I stopped. Nothing was wrong. Bikes and legs were well tuned and rode in perfect harmony. The head was in the right place too. The day was a perfect cycling day.
But.
A mountain view
A sky too blue
And fire colours in the trees around
And when a country sings with the joy of things
What are we to do?
Ride on and ignore it?
One stop to take a photo.
Just one.
Or maybe two.
Just to record the delights of the day.
I rode on and then stopped again as a red kite rested in the supportive air with its wings outstretched, its tail fanned and ochre red, its shadow on the road. It twitched and it’s underbody shone silver. I watched transfixed as with the silken ease of its flight, it glided over the green and tawny fields. A golden light reflected from its twisted talons as it flew from view.
How could I not stop when such majesty passed over my road?
This was meant to be a ride I reprimanded myself, not some re-worked version of Autumn Watch. Chastised the feet once more clipped in and the road blurred past.
Cum’on, focus.
Ride.
Let’s have sweat.
But then as I rode the autumn light caught my eyes as it strobed through an olive grove. Late season butterflies flittered urgently out of my way and there was an desire within me to see where they alighted.
So I eased the speed, and pulled the brakes and unclipped again beside a field whose earth resembled the bobbles on a woollen jersey and whose air smelt of earth and stone. There was a sting of green in the nose too, from the wayside nettles and fading flowers.
The road through the oak groves up to Corpi Santi
The Garmin whined a complaint. The only noise in the windless day.
In the warm air, over a distant field, a kestrel, the colour of copper, rocked and drifted like a boat at anchor on an incoming tide as it hunted over rough abandoned farmland.
Other than the flighted bird, the world around me was still.
The sky held the sun
The wind did not blow
And a silver river far below the ridge seemed not to run.
Such stillness in a frenetic world!
I clipped in again and rode on in an open-eyed way. All these delights were there to please me.
What luck!
Lago di Casoli
After a short tunnel through a hill, there was a closer view of the mountains with a glinting lake of aquamarine in the foreground. This forced another stop. It would have been a crime to ride on.
And after another kilometre or so further on, some wild apples full and ripe.
I stopped again.
Picked one.
Ate it.
And its juices a little sour perhaps, dribbled down my chin.
Another hundred metres on, the last of the blackberries were there to forage, and later some rose hips to stuff into back pockets for making into a syrup which will be poured over ice cream. The thorns of the briars scratched my skin, the juices of the berries shot onto my jersey as I picked . Stains appeared on clothes. Blood traced lines upon my naked arms.
I know not how for I did not feel the thorns.
The route passed through Fara San Martino, the ‘home of pasta’, where in the De Cecco factories a third of the world’s pasta is made. I’d never stopped before to read the story of the famous family on a notieceboard erected by the town, but the day was meant for stopping. So I did.
For over 150 years, ‘Fara’ has been the home of pasta, I read.
Under a thousand metre cliff face, silos and low slung, blue banded, factory buildings looked small against the grandeur of the rock walls. A gentle hum hovered in the air as the huge bronze drums dried the pasta inside the closely fenced off buildings.
I googled Fara and pasta and learnt there and then that it takes up to 36 hours to dry the pasta in bronze lined drums, giving the pasta a rough edge which holds the sauce, the website said. (You can read the full story here)
The pool of Venus - with waters so mineral rich and pure
Nearby was a pool. I rather thought that Venus herself must appear, so lovely were the clear translucent waters of the Rio Verde. So I stopped and waited for her.
Time passed. And I watched the waters pattern upon the rocks.
Still, she did not come.
So I rode on
Reluctantly.
Slowly.
There were other times when I was forced to stop;
to admire the mountain walls and gorges riven into rock
to see how the sun caught the early dusting of snow on the tops
and to look more closely at the banks of wild pink cyclamens, and large clumps of yellow autumn crocus growing through the grass beside the road.
Wild cyclamen
An hour, no two, or was it three - passed in an Arcadian dream.
I did not notice the hills - although the bike computer told me that there were many. My legs were not tired. I’d seen no traffic and heard no sounds other than the soft fall of leaves. The sky was blue and the grass was green and berries were on the thorny branches.
And all had been perfect with the world
I said
By way of explanation
As to why I’d been so long
And why
my jersey was so stained.
Have you ridden this ride?
Share your experiences with the ‘Wheels’ community and tell us what you discovered/enjoyed on your journey. Feel free to add your comments below.