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Free Food
Golden morning light dripped its honey-glow on distant peaks. We had spent a peaceful night on the rocky shores of tiny Lake Gusana. The Gennargentu range stood majestically behind the lake; jagged crests and pinnacles draped in milk-white snow. As I stood admiring, little did I know we would soon be grunting up those rugged spires. On the rooftop of Sardinia, in the heart of the Gennargentu Massif, we passed Fonni, the island's highest village, and yet we continued to climb. I had assumed that once we reached Fonni it would be downhill all the way to the sea. But I was wrong. We continued up, ever up. Amidst the peaks I gazed skyward and noticed the sky that had held such early morning promise was now filled with troops of dark Pac-man clouds. With a vengeance, they gobbled remaining patches of blue. And still we climbed. We approached a trio of foreboding road signs. The first had the familiar black outline of a skidding car, while the second cautioned to watch for snow and ice, and the third graphically depicted diagonal slashes of lightning streaking from a black cloud. I nervously scanned the sky again. Those dark clouds had taken over the heavens. There was an ominous nip in the air. We were well aware that mountain weather could turn nasty in an eye-blink and cycling could become an ordeal within minutes - hypothermia a reality - the kind of day we wished we were anywhere but sitting on a bicycle. When the elements conspired against us, our mode of transport didn't offer much pleasure or protection. Luckily, we dropped off the peaks and into Tonara township's rarefied air before any of the road signs' malicious fates befell us. At the first grocery store, I hustled in to buy some world-famous (in Sardinia) nougat before they closed for lunch. "Nougat?" was my one-word utterance to the ebony-haired clerk. With nary a moment's hesitation, she retrieved a packing box from a nearby shelf and supplied my request. Brandishing my acquisition, I triumphantly returned to Sharon, and glanced around for a spot to indulge in our "world-famous" treat. A nearby sign portrayed picnic tables. (Picnic tables were such a rarity in rural Europe that we were determined to use them whenever we found them - even if we had just eaten five minutes before!) We set off in the sign's direction. After ten minutes of slogging up an ultra-steep San Francisco-like street with no end in sight, and not one glimpse of the elusive picnic tables, we reached a hairpin corner. "This is as far as I'm going," I announced, calling it quits, and mopping my brow. Already exhausted from our morning's tough ride, I leaned my bike against the rock guardrail that prevented vehicles from plummeting over the precipice. I plunked myself down on top of the stonework and immediately certified there was something more uncomfortable than a bicycle seat. I tore open our hard-earned nougat, snapped off a chunk and popped it into my mouth. It was great! The bar was chockablock with almonds and syrupy sweet wild honey - laden with calories for hardworking cyclists. I ate a second piece and felt a sugar-buzz as I got to my feet. "Whew!" I said, wrapping the sticky remainder. "I think that gave me enough energy to make it back down the hill." We went uphill out of Tonara. Then we went downhill. Then back up. Then back down again. We pedalled miles, but had only travelled a short distance as the crow flies. Our self-propelled roller coaster ride continued all the way to the mountain village of Aritzo. On the outskirts coming into town, we stopped to admire the pastel pink, orange, and green-hued buildings. Interwoven on the mountainside, the multi-coloured dwellings made an eye-arresting combination. I took out my camera. But in the midst of focusing, a thick cloud bank tumbled down the mountainside and descended over the setting, gauze-like, completely enshrouding the buildings. Visibility dropped to ten meters or less. I replaced my camera, and pedalled slowly uphill through fog. Partway through town, we passed a gathering of school kids waiting for their bus. The children, still too youthful to have acquired social niceties, didn't hold back their thoughts. They laughed hysterically, pointed, shouted, and made derisive comments I couldn't fully understand. Apparently, our panniers hanging off our bikes like bulging potato sacks, we were the most hilarious thing they had seen in a long time. "Obviously," I said to Sharon, "it's the first time they've seen a loaded touring bike." Feeling sweet (it must have been the nougat), I waved cheerily and called hello. "It certainly is fun bringing such joy into young lives," I said. We pedalled out of Aritzo, and were faced with more of the stiff climbing we had grown accustomed to. My butt ached. My calves ached. My thighs ached. I began to worry. I had started our trip at five-foot-nine, and was positive I'd already been ground down two full inches. If the mountains kept up, my legs were going to be mere stumps. I at least should have been enjoying the descents, but they were so fraught with sharp corners (and the road surface was slick from fog) that I braked constantly on the downhills. My hands were cramped and aching. I had the feeling that some days you just couldn't win. Our map showed we were on the edge of the Gennargentu Massif - the most demanding mountain range on the island - so I figured we had to be getting close to the end of the torturous terrain. After all, the highest peak, Mount La Marmora (6,017 feet [1,834 m]), was a mere stone's throw away. Shouldn't that mean the climbs were going to start getting smaller? But still we climbed. It was fortunate we had been initiated to impossibly steep gradients on Corsica and had built up our climbing muscles (at least that was what I kept telling myself as sweat stung my eyes). I talked to myself, giving pep-talks, hoping my voice would provide comfort and encouragement. "Just keep those pedals turning," I muttered. "You can do it. It can't be long now. Soon you'll be freewheeling." That vision of downhill thrill kept those pedals going round, one slow painful revolution after another. Rounding a corner in the crisp mountain air, I noticed a pallid column of smoke rising from a ledge below. I glanced down and nearly rode over the edge in surprise. A fellow, in apparent meditation, sat cross-legged on a piece of purple cloth like some transported India mirage. Somewhat delirious from the ascent, I wondered if I were hallucinating. But he was there all right. So skinny I could count his ribs and wearing nothing but a pair of skivvies. It made me shiver just to look at him. I was sure his small fire was the only thing that kept him from freezing to death. If he was praying for clear weather, he had his work cut out for him. The fog practically enveloped us. In the swirling mist I could see individual water particles. Visibility had become like when I played Pin the Tail on the Donkey as a kid and peeked through the blindfold. I was apprehensive about being on the road with vehicles and kept as far to the edge as possible. Fortunately, there wasn't much traffic. It wasn't far before we happened across the remains of a collision. One sorry driver had rear-ended another. At the accident scene, five dapper police officers waved little white wands with red reflectors affixed to the end. They weren't doing much good - I nearly bowled over the first poliziotto before I saw him. I pitied any drivers who came upon the scene faster than our fifteen kilometers an hour. As I passed the crumpled fenders, I uttered, "Ai-yi-yi." (Like kaput, it was one of those universally understood phrases.) A few hundred meters past the accident (but long since out of the police officers' sight), we happened across a crate of oranges dumped in the ditch. I stopped and inspected them. (Sharon was appalled that I could even consider picking them up.) Some were rotten, but, to my joy, most of the produce was edible. I got out plastic grocery bags and salvaged two full bags of mandarin oranges. Oh, happy days! The only thing that makes a touring cyclist more delighted than food is free food! We ate several on the spot. Sharon changed her mind about cast out fruit! Refreshed, we took leave of our roadside fruit stand. I hadn't thought it possible, but the fog had intensified. We were cocooned inside a thick layer of cotton batting. The fog completely obliterated the landscape. I could barely see my hand in front of my face. It was time we got off the road. "This is the worst I've ever seen it," I complained. "Cheer up," Sharon said. "It could be worse." "How's that?" I asked. It began to rain. "That's how!" she crowed. Humidity had hit 100 percent. I wasn't surprised - after all, we were cycling inside a cloud. On a dark uphill stretch, a truck driver stopped and asked Sharon if she wanted a lift up the hill. "No thanks," she politely declined. As he pulled around us, I yelled into the gathering gloom: "Hey, what about me!" The fog thickened to pea soup consistency, and it began to rain in earnest. In bucketing rain we chanced upon a forest and decided the wisest course of action was to seek shelter amongst the trees. We dragged our bikes over a tumbled-down spot in the rock fence, and wandered around in the haze and hosing rain, until coming across a semi-level patch. "This is perfect!" I said. We hastily setup the tent, tossed in our sleeping bags and food, then jumped in. "Break out the tortellini," I sang, happy to be out of the rain. Stripping off our sodden clothes, we piled them by the door for morning. I pulled on a dry pair of shorts and sat with my sleeping bag wrapped around my shoulders (not unlike that meditating fella we had seen earlier). We boiled up some pasta, ate our fill, then stretched out, ready for a good night's sleep after our tough day of mountainous terrain. A hushed silence descended over the forest as the rain brushed pine-scented needles, and slowed to a drizzle. It was almost too quiet. I slept peacefully until around midnight, then suddenly woke with a start. Something had disturbed me from my deep slumber. I lay listening hoping I was mistaken. But I wasn't. Husky breathing and ominous grunts outside our tent door made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. A troupe of wild boars had invaded, perhaps lured by Sharon's aromatic cooking. After knocking my bike over, they rooted around, grunting and squealing. I laid deathly still, my heart thudding so loudly I thought they must be able to hear it. The boars snuffled around for what seemed like an eternity, then departed as quickly as they had arrived. But I still couldn't sleep. Whenever I managed to doze, I dreamed of voracious flying Miss Piggys intent on eating me. Where was Kermit when I needed him? |
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