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Work On That Timing In the next village we stopped to buy groceries. One fellow spotted our bikes and discovered our English was much better than our Italian. He called a passerby and they invited us for a coffee. They were crazy about cycling. Scads of pictures of racing cyclists adorned the walls in the coffee bar. The village even had its own racing team. There were scores of hats from bike races hanging from the ceiling. As we prepared to depart, the English speaker said: "You can stay in my garden if you need a place to stay." Why did we meet these folks too early in the day? The next day was Sunday and we didn't know if things would be open or not. Grocery shopping was an ordeal again. Four stores, one cappuccino, an offer to allow us to camp in a garden, we finally finished shopping. We were on a small road but it was busy. I stopped after going downhill to let traffic by. Just as I started again I felt my bike was not handling the same as usual. A quick glance at the rear tire told me it was flat. No doubt I had picked up a thorn from our camp spot when I rode over the thorns rather than pushing my bike. The heavily trafficked roads were horrendous. No escape seemed imminent. We looked desperately at our maps, but every road was busy-even those marked as minor thoroughfares. Cycling wasn't much fun with vehicles belching fumes and horns blowing in our ears. In smoggy Como we headed smack downtown before we discovered we had to climb out again. We found a path along the side of a small forest and pushed our bikes up the hill. Burrs from horse chestnuts stuck to my clothes, panniers and tires. I hoped I wasn't going to get another flat. Where was the offer to sleep in a garden when we needed it? Our timing was off. We would have to work on it. Sherry said we had to stop more and look at our maps around four thirty each day. That was an idea. We waited at a good spot while farmers worked their fields. The sun was drenched in crimson blood. |
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