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11 Spring Chickens Frosty fly! We had experienced the coldest night of our entire trip. Sharon wore all her clothes plus my rain pants and still shivered uncontrollably. "Do some jumping jacks," I advised. My water bottle was frozen solid. Sharon had washed a pair of cycling shorts the night before. She tapped them on her bike frame. They were as stiff as a pair of Bart Simpson's gym shorts. The sun was shining in a clear blue sky. Everything looked copacetic with the world--except the little flowers--they looked a tad worse for wear after the hard frost. According to the reports on short-wave, the weather was equally terrible everywhere in Europe. A cold front extended from Norway all the way down to North Africa. The wind was more direct than the day before and didn't toss me around as much. Spring riding was turning out not to be the frolic I had first imagined--the weather was mainly suited for kite flying. We stopped to eat an apple by a little bridge at the edge of a farmer's field. Even in the sun it was chilly. Twenty kilometers from Florence we started meeting brightly attired cyclists out training. Many were elderly. I had to agree with Sharon when she remarked: "They're certainly no primavera galinas." |
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