Bikers!

As I drive along any one of Chianti’s twisting, turning roads I hardly dawdle. I now confidently and (mostly) smoothly shift through the full range of my six gears at, or a bit above, the posted limit. It matters not that I am not that caricature of an old lady moseying along at her own pace, without hesitation speeding buses, cars, trucks and motor cycles pass me by. (See the post An Italian Paradox to grasp the carefree recklessness of many of these drivers!) I seldom pass another vehicle but there is one group of travelers who share the road that I will pass - bikers.

These challenging Tuscan hills invite every brand of cyclist. They descend singly or in a horde, elite cyclists mixed in with tourists on e-bikes or hardy camping types with saddlebags dangling from their bike frame. I have even seen one or two parents with a toddler on a seat on the back or - God forbid- towing one of those little, low infant wagons.

At home, I enjoy a bike ride through a park on a road closed to traffic. Here, I just shudder every time I see a cyclistor two sprinkles among the racing vehicles on any road. Except for what must be pure, death defying exhiration as you coast down the road from Panzano to Greve, hardly needing to peddle, most of the rides look to me like torture, and dangerous torture at that, especially as they battle to ascend the intensely steep elevations in mid day under a blazing sun, with cars, even like mine whizzing by. Forgive me if you are an avid cyclist who thrives on the adrenalin rush of such exquisite suffering. I can think of more pleasant aerobic activities!

Nonetheless, on any given Saturday or Sunday you will find colorful swarms of ciclisti (chee-cleest-ee, male cyclists) clogging the heart of Panzano. Very rarely have I seen an elite woman cyclist. They inevitably cluster around the public fountain at the fork of Cecchini’s corner.

The fountain is across the street, under the relief scuplture of a cyclist!

If you happen to be enjoying a morning cappuchino at Sarah’s bar, a babble of Italian, French, German and English swirls around you. After they take a few swigs, they click their refilled water bottles onto their bikes and walk by to use the toilet at the bar. Helmets dangle from their arms. You can see the dark, sweaty spots on the back of their skin tight lycra shorts and shirts. The cleats of their biking shoes hit the pavement, a staccato counterpoint to their clipped conversations. They are a brotherhood with a shared passion and competive spirit.

I admire their athleticism and passion yet have no desire to share the ride! I’m happy to enjoy these hills on my own two feet or behind the wheel of my trusty Panda!

A Sunday morning swarm of ciclisti!