Greve-in-Chianti -- Day Five

Brother-in-law Steve, wife Karen, sister Molly -- and me, doing my best George Hincapie

We ended up catching just one stage of the Giro, but it was a good one: the long time trial along the Cinque Terre, which it looks like is going to end up being this Giro's deciding stage.

The Giro's organizers clearly took some risks -- and some liberties -- in developing a route that they hoped would show Italy in all its glory. From unsafely gerrymandered laps around Milan to a stage starting on the spectacular Amalfi coast and ending at the world's most famous volcano, their emphases clearly are scenery and history, and not necessarily spectator access or cyclist's safety.

Consensus around the Cinque Terre stage, though, is that it was a success on virtually all fronts. Spectator access was indeed limited; to get there, we took the train from La Spezia to Riomaggiore and then hoofed it up about 800 steps to the finish. But cycling fans are famously willing to exert effort for fleeting glimpses of their favorite riders, and we were indeed rewarded for our exertion, with close views of the race on one side and sweeping vistas of the Mediterranean on the other. Meanwhile, over 60 kilometers of sinuous road over two major climbs proved to be the eye candy the organisers were hoping it would be, and also shook up the race's standings considerably -- though not to the satisfaction of the Italian hosts.

It was a very long day, one that began with a lack of coffee back in Greve -- we'd run out at home and then discovered that even in the birthplace of espresso, one can't rely on Starbucks-like access, 24/7 -- and a long drive to La Spezia. It was hot, and far more humid than any of us non-Mediterraneanites were accustomed to; before long we'd soaked through our decidedly touristy garb. And we stood in the sun for a good four hours before the top riders came through.

Earlier we'd walked around the cliffside village of Riomaggiore, climbed those 800 steps to catch our first views of the finishing riders, and then dropped back down to town for a bite to eat and some shade. After climbing back up to the road, we stood in a cooling wind on a bridge about 400 meters before the finish, cheering one rider after another, the first fifty of whom were clearly phoning it in; some didn't even have clip-on aero bars for this hilly, twisty course, though a number did think to put on a show for us spectators, abruptly but earnestly standing and stomping the pedals through the final stretch.

Like I said, the Cult of Pantani is alive and well.

Eager to get a sense for how the stage was unfolding, we walked towards the finish, but the crowd had swelled, and even turned just slightly snarly, as shirtless, sweaty and overweight tifosi jockeyed for space behind the barriers lining the course. We spent some neck-craning time watching second-and-third-ten riders come through, including Lance himself, and then decided to retreat to the area beyond the finish, the up-close-and-personal land of team cars and exhausted riders.

For a truely devoted cycling fan (or as I've heard it crudely put, a "chamois-suck") it was a great place to hang out. Walking amid the team vans and campers we could see bizarrely, seemingly unhealthily gaunt racers with their jerseys off and bibs pulled down, with their sharply two-toned legs and arms on display. I recognized a few riders, including Dave Zabriskie, to whom I called out, "Dave Z! How'd it go?" (He responded with a big thumbs-down.). Lance had disappeared quickly, but we followed Johan Bruyneel as he yukked it up -- likely with potential Astana replacement sponsors.

When the final racers started coming through the finishing area, things got exciting. Italian bad-guy (and crowd favorite) Danilo DiLuca had started the day in first position, 1;20 ahead of Denis Menchov, and thus would ride last. We found a TV and watched one rider after another put up fast times -- earlier David Millar had posted the day's fastest, but soon many rode faster, including Valjavec, Armstrong, and then Bruseghin and Wiggins. On TV it was clear that the podium hopefuls were taking risks, flying down sinuous descents and through unlit tunnels. Garzelli (who won the Giro in 2000) came through with the day's best ride -- but then was beaten by Leipheimer, and the crowd seemed aware that the day would not the Italians'. Soon was Menchov, besting Levi's seemingly unbeatable time by 20 seconds, and the clock began to tick. I started my watch at the moment that Menchov crossed the line, and after a couple of minutes -- the interval between starting times -- I saw DiLuca not even to the final tunnel, before the bridge where we'd stood earlier. He finally crossed the line nearly four minutes after Menchov, and thus nearly two minutes slower -- good enough for sixth on the day, but far enough behind to knock him into second place. The press and LPR team staff mobbed DiLuca at the line, and we were getting awfully hungry, so we never saw him emerge.

In all, a great day, but not the kind of cycling fan's dream-day that I've been fortunate enough to enjoy at other races. This was due, I think, to the surprisingly low level of interest in the Giro here in Italy. Far from France, where during the Tour's three weeks cycling graces the front pages of most newspapers, or back home, where the Amgen Tour of California garners more attention every year, Italy's home Grand Tour runs a distant third to football (soccer) and Formula One racing -- even while it's going on. In Riomaggiore, just 400 (mostly vertical) meters from the race itself, most tourists and shopkeepers seemed oblivious to the Giro; back in Greve and Panzano, when we'd mentioned to locals that we'd be visiting a Giro stage, they asked, "Oh, is that happening?"

But in the pits -- around the team RVs and among riders, directeurs sportives, soigneurs, mechanics and, yes, chamois-sucks -- we still found a devotion that I've not seen elsewhere.

From Greve-in-Chianti -- Day 3

Today we rented bikes from Marco at Ramuzzi and rode from Greve to Siena and back, a popular Tuscan ride. I'd heard much about cycling these roads, and I wasn't disappointed.

We arrived at Ramuzzi at 9:00 a.m., opening time, and Marco's assistant was opening the shop. He wore coveralls, as did Marco when he arrived five minutes later. (I'm definitely passing along to the guys at Cycle Sports back home that they need to go auto mechanic-style; no more ironic t-shirts and jeans.) I told him that my brother Dave, Karen and I needed three road bikes -- two 60 cms and a 50, and he looked at me a bit puzzled, as if to say, "Hmmm...not sure about that." Remember: I'd emailed him twice, called once and stopped by the day before.

But as I've learned in the few days I've been here, if you're willing to trade some solidity of planning for graciousness and hospitality -- to loosen up any rigid plans you've made -- Tuscany is a great place to spend a week.

Marco found bikes for us, all Carreros, a brand I'd never heard of. Karen's looked a few years old, while Dave's was quite new and mine was -- wait for it -- still in the box. We waited in the shop, finding classic Italian frames crowded by new mountain bikes on the shop floor, as Marco's assistant assembled my bike. Once together, it looked like a more-than-serviceable bike to ride for a couple of days: all aluminum with Xenon components, which I've learned rest at the bottom of the Campy hierarchy, but which worked smoothly the entire ride.

We left the shop after Marco waved off my attempt to give him ID or a credit card. From Greve we climbed to Panzano, the hilltop town I wrote about earlier, and then on to Castellina, where a little castle indeed sat atop another picturesque, verdant Tuscan hill. The roads were much as I'd heard, and better than I'd hoped: sweeping, smooth and well-maintained (hmm...maybe there's something to be said for a more prominent role of the state and even higher taxes...); earlier I'd noticed the very narrow shoulder and worried, but found that tiny Smart Cars and Fiats whose drivers give a wide berth around a slim strip of pavement are far less threatening than the SUVs that bear down on us when riding the wide roads of, say, Danville.

In all, the ride was glorious. Vistas of churches, vineyards and castles; cresting steady climbs in classic villages where Strega Nona lookalikes carried baskets of bread or flowers; careening around curves down the backside of those climbs, pretending to be il Falco -- it all amounted to the kind of ride that Backroads promotes as classically Tuscan, only we were guiding ourselves, making our own way to our destination in Siena.

Sitting at the foot of Chianti, Siena was spectacular, and archetypically old-Europe, but it also felt like every tourist in the area had funneled down through the region and collected in its narrow, cobbled streets. We had to walk our bikes through the crowds to the central piazza, where we met the rest of our group. After a very pleasant lunch in a very warm sun, we decided not to negotiate crowds for long, and rode those same serpentine streets back out of town.

Soon it became clear that the trip home would be a very warm one. We plodded up a never-steep, but seemingly endless climb back to Castellina (as I thought, "No wonder the ride this morning seemed like such a breeze!), taking a moment to catch a spectacular view of Siena in the southern distance. From Castellina, after a couple of three-Euro Gatorades and some gelato, we descended, and then climbed back up to Panzano (stopping to take another photo), and again on to Greve, where Marco was waiting for us and our bikes. He seemed very pleased that we'd enjoyed the ride; it must have been very clear that we had.

From Greve-in-Chianti -- Day 2, Part 2

A good two months ago I Googled around and found Ramuzzi Cycles, right in nearby Greve. I emailed the general address and received a prompt, friendly reply from the owner Marco. Turns out they rent road and mountain bikes, and that Marco himself is a dedicated triathlete. I asked him to hold onto a few bikes for us and felt happy that I wouldn't need to ship my bike over, and hopeful that we'd enjoy a bit of cultural exchange, visiting the kind of bike shop you imagine finding in a little Tuscan town.

I wasn't disappointed, though as is often the case, the reality departed sharply from the imagined. I'd pictured a shop like a museum, with framed photos of Francesco Moser, maybe a shrine to Fausto Coppi, and vintage Colnago frames encased hermetically. Instead, Ramuzzi is dusty and cluttered. Bikes hang from the wall, a mix of brand new road racers and older touring bikes. Bunched into the front of the store, just allowing room to walk to the counter, and then to the mechanic's area in the back, are mountain bikes new and old, along with a brand new, top-of-the-line Felt, and another Felt, this one Marco's tri bike, replete with aero brake levers and custom-labeled Spinergy wheels. Jerseys and hats hang and sit piled in a display case that you can't reach without moving bikes. Hanging on the walls are photos of Marco competing in Xterras, and couple of shots of the local club, posing in Greve's piazza.

I imagined walking in and shouting to Marco, "It's me, Michael, from America!" He would hug me, and ask if I wanted to go for a ride with his club, and offer me a Pinarello for the day. But Marco is a soft-spoken guy, and he gave me a nod from the spot where he turns wrenches, below a couple of black-and-white photos of men in suits. I asked if he would have bikes to rent, and after looking around at the various racks and rows, he nodded, and said that yes, he thought he would have bikes for us.

Before leaving I asked if I could use a bathroom, and he sent me up a staircase into an apartment. A rack holding about 30 dust-enshrouded bottles sits at the base of the stairs, alongside a couple of helmets and pairs of cycling shoes. At the top of the stairs I found the bathroom; a yellow robe hangs on the inside of the door, and some personal effects sit on the sink counter, as well as degreasing hand soap. Had I wanted to, I could have used the toilet and washed up at the same time; a showerhead looms just above and across from the toilet, catty-corner from the bidet.

I descended the stairs, bid Marco ciao and told him I'd see him tomorrow.

From Greve-in-Chianti -- Day 2

We spent most of today in Florence, including a lovely lunch on a main piazza. A couple of (clearly) Italian guys sat next to us, talking very fast to each other and on their cell phones.

These guys were as smooth as I've seen in Italy, and that's saying a lot: dark, tailored suits, textured shirts with open collars and designer sunglasses. Slicked-back hair. Sweetly-scented cigarettes.

Thing is, they were incredibly friendly too. They overheard us talking and asked what we thought of Florence. They told us about their business -- leather goods, real estate and nightclubs (classic!) -- and we discussed US and Italian cultures and economies.

At one point we mentioned riding bikes and the Giro, and they stared back blankly. My mom asked if they knew where Friday's stage ending in Florence would finish, and they had no idea. They mentioned something about soccer, and then suggested we Google it.

This, we've found, is disappointingly typical: we've found very little interest in the Giro here in Tuscany, certainly less than in the Tour of California at home. The day after a crucial stage, we turned through 10 pages of soccer news before finding the single page devoted to the Giro. We've found no TV coverage.

I'm still hoping we'll get a feel for the passion of the tifosi on Thursday and Friday, our two days to catch Giro stages -- but I just learned that tifosi is a general term, for all fans; the Wikipedia article lists soccer and F1 racing before a brief mention of cycling.

From Greve-in-Chianti -- Day 1

At 8:30 this morning, having been jogging with my dad and brother for 30 minutes, I remarked, "You know, all the cyclists back home think that in Tuscany cycling is this religion, and cyclists ride up and down these rolling hills by the hundreds, but I'm not seeing it. If we were out on roads like this on a Sunday morning back home, we'd have seen 50 cyclists by now; here we've seen three."

Not long after that we turned around and headed back to Panzano, the little town where we would meet our wives; we'd passed through ten minutes earlier and the Sunday marketeers were beginning to lay out their wares. Our run had started at the house where we're spending this week, climbed a steep dirt road and met the Tuscan thoroughfare connecting Florence to Siena. As we crested the hill at Panzano the second time, we were met by a handful of cyclists, but still too few to convince me that I hadn't been deluded about Tuscan cycling culture.



And then another group arrived, in matching kits, stopping for espressi and pastries. Then three more rode through town, and then a group of six or seven, these looking fitter and more determined. Over the next half hour, as we drank our lattes (full-fat, one size) at least a couple dozen others rode through, and my mind was changed.

Cyclists in groups, and others riding solo; some cruising comfortably up towards Panzano's peak, but most struggling. A few on Cannondales, Treks and Specializeds, and more on Colnagos and Pinarellos, though not as many as I'd expected. Most legs shaved, and everyone in full, matching kit.

The cult of Marco Pantani is alive and well here; on my run back along the road between Panzano and Greve, riders with shaved heads or Il Pirata do-rags climbed in the drops, out of the saddle with one hoop earring dangling. Others evoked Pozatto and Pelizotti, curled locks flowing behind -- though none of the cyclists I saw seemed to ride as effortlessly, or certainly as fast, as any pro.

My brother remarked that here, cycling is as much social as athletic. He posited that you join your local club, and you ride on the weekend, probably just one day. You struggle through the ride, but you talk along the way, and you stop for coffee, and when it's over you enjoy a hearty lunch of red wine and cinghiale. Many of the guys we saw sported paunches, and paper-boy weaved a bit up the steeper sections; their average age had to be 50, maybe older.

The run was nice, but I was wishing I could be riding over the spectacular, green hills, putting as much effort into communicating as climbing, linking town to town and, yes, stopping for espresso. I doubt I'll have much company later in the week, when I rent a bike and ride these renowned roads, though I do think I'll ask if there's a weekday club ride; maybe some cyclists here ride during the week.