Before entering the Pyrenees we collected our extra gear and sent our third and final package to Susana’s parents, lightening our load that much more. But it was largely a symbolic gesture, like throwing a deck chair off the Titanic, since our bikes are still tanks.

The Pyrenees are great, much like the Cascades at home, but with granite rather than volcanic rock, so the mountains are much steeper. And even though many of the peaks are at 2000 meters insteead of 3000+ like in the Alps, they’re every bit as steep.

With all the writing on the road cheering on cyclists from this Tour de France as well as years past (Ulrich, Voight, Vino, Beloki, Basso, and “Armstrong on the Moon”), it occurred to me just how great it was to ride these roads. You can’t shoot hoops at Madison Square Garden or play catch at Fenway Park, but you can ride the same roads that you see the professionals riding on TV, with all the painted cheers, too.

And speaking of the pavement, I was face to face with it early on the climb to Portet de Lers. I was waiting for Susana, enjoying the scenery and hardly moving at all, when a barricade caught my handlebars and knocked me over. Fortunately it was an empty road and nothing came of it and we went on, just a stupid mistake that could have been worse.

While Susana gets nervous the day before big climbs, I remind her that the pros do too. In Hell on Wheels, a documentary that followed Team Telekom in the 2003 Tour de France, each night Erik Zabel, a veteran sprinter, would confess to the camera how nervous he was about finishing the climbs in the allowed time.

But Susana had no problem today, as we crushed our record and climbed 2155 meters (7070’) over three Cols that took us into Spain for 18 km before returning to France atop the Col du Portillion, which was also part of this year’s Tour. We celebrated by purchasing the most expensive wine in the grocery store (Ok, it was €7.50, and a small store).

On the Col de Menté, we rode by the memorial for Fabio Casartelli, the Italian Olympic cycling champion who crashed and plunged to his death near that spot in the 1995 Tour. He was a teammate of Lance Armstrong at the time and years later Lance won the stage and dedicated the victory to Fabio. I’m usually not one for memorials, but this one was quite nice, a statue of a winged bicycle wheel.

With our focus purely on cycling these last few weeks, we’re in much better shape than when we reached the Alps, even better than when we started the Pyrenees. At this point, climbing is all I want to do. It’s part Zen, part intoxication, and the agony is all but gone.

Susana says she likes listening to the cowbells clanging around from the cows as they chew on grass on the way up. In fact today she reached the top and exclaimed, “I have a disease, and the only cure is more cowbell!” (with apologies to Christopher Walken).

Today marks another milestone for me: reaching 3629 km (2255 miles), this trip becomes my longest bike trip, surpassing my 1995 Nebraska-Canadian Rockies trip.

Tomorrow we have an easier day (I call them rest days) with only the Col de Peyresourde before we reach the pinnacle of the Pyrenees on Wednesday, the Col du Tourmalet.

It’s been over two weeks since we first set foot in France and we’ve had that much time of extremely pleasant cycling. French roads are in very good condition, French people are very friendly and courteous to cyclists and there is a French bakery on every corner. Even the kids are polite as I’ve never seen before — always willing to offer a “bonjour” first thing in the morning in the coed bathroom when I am still trying to fix my âbat-jour shaped hair from the night before.

French people are also more talkative and ask a lot of questions about our trip when we stop to fill our water bottles at a public fountain. When we say goodbye, they always wish us “bon courage”, whereas in Italy people used to tell us “buona fortuna”. I find that interesting, since the first translates as “good courage” and the latter “good luck”. Languages often give away cultural differences, as if French believe our destiny is within oneself and Italians attribute it more to outside factors. I tend to agree more with the former.

It’s been almost one month since we last stayed at a hotel (Viterbo, Italy was the last time) and it’s with some surprise that I have to admit I do not miss it a bit. Campgrounds are so much more biker-friendly. However, this is also to say that other than occasionally eating at a restaurant (we cook the majority of our meals) we haven’t spent any time indoors in a long time. On the other hand, I suspect it will be weird to come back to our house and have that much space again after living in our small MSR tent for such a long time.

Our time in France has been so enjoyable that we haven’t taken one day off the bikes in 17 days, making a concession today by taking the afternoon off, after a climb to Col de la Core at 1395 meters, a 900 m gain from where we started this morning. We’re now in our second day in the Pyrenees, relaxing at our nice campspot by the river and eating some fresh fruit. The Pyrenees have made for some hard days of climbing although the scenary is well worth it, with long valleys, cows going on with their business, and green, lots of green.

I always get quieter and quieter with apprehension the night before a big climb, not knowing if the steepness ahead is within my cycling abilities. Scott, on the contrary, gets talkative and excited as if he can’t wait to go. It turns out that i’ve been living up to it so far. No pain, no gain.

Yesterday morning when we arrived at the bottom of the mountains in Tarascon sur Ariége (just north from AndorraU, we joined a route named the Raid Pyrénéen, which crosses the length of the Pyrenees mountain range. It was created in 1912 by the Cyclo Club Béarnais, but not ridden until 1950. The route starts in the Mediterranean village of Cerbére and travels west 817 km over 28 cols, or passes, with 16,000 meters (52,500’) of climbing, ending in the Atlantic town of Hendaye, and is intended to be done in 10 days. We joined it at the beginning of its fourth day, the first serious day of climbing, going over three cols.

Yesterday had about 1705 meters (5600’) of vertical gain in a total of 70 km. I was proud of myself for not having to walk my bike for any length, although I struggled in the 10% stretches. Luckily, there were only a couple of those. I came to realize that I am confortable up to 8%, not so good at 9%, having a hard time at 10% and pushing my bike up at 12%. I always get words of encouragements from Scott — who manages to stay positive the whole way — and that helps a great deal.

Tomorrow’s ride should be hors categorie once again — three cols in a 76 km stride from our base town Castillon en Couserans through Spain for 18 km and back into France.

As always, in the eve of a big climb, I get antsy and little nervous. Scott, on the flip side, is so excited that if he was a dog his tail would be wagging right now.

This dish has evolved over the course of our trip and ends up being more of a pasta salad since the sauce is intentionally spread thin. That’s ok because the leftovers go in a tupperware container and become our lunch the next day.

250g (half a box) pasta, such as fusili or penne
1 small jar tomato pasta sauce
Any of the following:
garlic
onion
bell peppers
grilled eggplant
artichokes
white beans or chickpeas
green olives
can of sweet corn
mozzarella balls
fresh tomatoes
peas
squid, shrimp, mussels or clams
ants, gnats, and other incidentals

The main thing is getting enough complex carbs for the next day’s ride, with simple carbs (sugar), from juice, granola bars, snacks, before and during the ride.

In France, we’ve moved a little away from pasta and into couscous, potatoes and vegetables with ratatouille sauce, sides of fish with French sauces and of course cheese. We’ve had roquefort for the last seven or eight days straight, in addition to harder cheeses for sandwiches. Sometimes we eat out for lunch but it’s usually a mistake to eat out for dinner because we’ll never get a well balanced meal and the pedals will be heavy the next day.

Nearly all of the campgrounds in France will take a bread order for the next morning. Our standing order consists of two plain crossaints, two chocolate rolls, and a baguette. As good as the bread is in France, which is my favorite of our trip so far, it must be fresh. In addition, we split four yogurts with granola, bananas or other fruit, and we’re ready to conquer the road. We must remember not to eat as much on rest days.

Italy had so much fine sparkling water that we became very fond of. It has the fizz of soda or beer without the empty calories, helps digestion, and is just more interesting to drink with dinner than the plain water we drink all day. There were so many brands that we’d develop a favorite and then never find it again. They listed their mineral content as well as such details as the temperature at the spring and electrical conductivity.

We’re currently in Carcassone, a city with a popular medieval, fortified center. It’s a popular tourist attraction but it looks best from afar — aside from the old walls it’s just full of souvenir shops and tourist traps, and says nothing about the area.

These past few days have taken us through vineyards, arid plains, deserts, river gorges, pine forests, fields of wheat, caves, and plenty of charming villages. One highlight was camping on the rocks above a river when we couldn’t find a campground, near St. Guilhem a le Desert. It’s hot in the lowlands, 40 degrees (104F) or more some days, a little cooler in the hills. It’s still an enormous treat to find a village with a public fountain and cool off with fresh water for a few minutes. Tomorrow we point our bikes towards the Pyrenees and hopefully out of the heat for a few more days.

We found more yellow roads on the Michelin map that were practically bike paths, with so few cars and splendid views for dozens of miles on end. We call them Hors Categorie, or beyond classification for their bikable perfection.

Getting around in France is the easiest of any country we’ve traveled this summer. You get at least the same respect from motorists, with periodic signs that remind them to pass cyclists no closer than 1.5m, and the road signs are crystal clear — the roads even have numbers that correspond with the numbers on the map — what a novelty! And arriving in small towns without motorscooters buzzing about, there is just less chaos in France, and we like that for the time being since we’re constantly out of breath from the mountain we just climbed.

The French care more about aesthetics, too, with the roadsides tidy and even the fields mowed in an aesthetically-pleasing way. We rolled our eyes on one empty mountain road that had no more than one vehicle every 15 minutes where even the hedges were trimmed, one kilometer after the next.

The landscapes have gone from high alpine meadows and forests to drier scrub as we’ve descended to the Rhone River valley. We averaged well over 1,000 meters of climbing our first eight days in France, but today had only 80. Yesterday we saw our first vineyard; today we spent the entire day among the grapes. And we have the heat to go with it — this year’s harvest should be very sweet.

There have also been enormous fields of lavander, and when they’re harvesting the flowers the smell is so overwhelmingly pleasant, like riding through a bubble bath (since we’re already soaking wet anyway).

Today we stopped in Orange to see the best-preserved Roman theater in Europe, with a stage wall 36m high. Louis #14 called it the finest wall in his kingdom. I enjoyed some Roquefort pizza and Susana some Creme Brulee before we split for Avignon. We’re now settled in a four-star campground (only the finest dirt patch for my wife and I), have sampled the local wine (Côtes du Rhone is one of my favorites), had more Roquefort to drown out the smell of sweaty cycling clothes, and just heard the good news that Floyd Landis completed his comeback and is poised to win the Tour de France.

We saw the riders off from Bourg-d’Osians — from the signing-in ceremony to the starting gun. Floyd led the group through town wearing yellow. George was still eating a sandwich. And we caught a glimpse of Lance in the Team Discovery car.

In years past, whenever I went for bike rides when the Tour was on, it gave me extra energy thinking about the riders and what was happening with the last days’ stages. After seeing the Tour live, that effect has been compounded for us. We found some quiet yellow roads on the Michelin map and blazed up the climb to Col Orlon and back down down great narrow river gorges. The road to Mens where we camped for the night was exceptional, with a gorge so deep to advertise bungy jumping from the bridge, and quiet enough for Susana and I to ride side-by-side for long periods of time.

Some final thoughts on Alpe d’Huez: Floyd Landis was the fastest on the final 13.8km climb at 38:34, with Andreas Kloden a second more — this at the end of an already difficult 187km stage. Marco Pantani set the record in 1995 with a time of 36:50. After climbing it the second time, I verified that the the steepest portion is at the bottom, for the first kilometer or two, which is psychologically tricky and explains why the devil guy hangs out there. After not being a part of the tour for decades, it was reintroduced in 1976, and was climbed twice on consecutive days in 1979. Since then it has been a part of the Tour for nearly every year since.

I actually wore a green sweater; it cooled down. After securing our spots by the barricades near turn #2 (from the top), we made friends with our German, Dutch, and American neighbors, listened to the band play, until finally the sponsors’ motorcade arrived to wake us up after spending the afternoon in the sun by getting us excited about catching a free packet of gummy bicycles from a moving vehicle.

Meanwhile, we had no information about who was leading the stage as it reached the final climb. There was a long moment of silence as anticipation built around 4:30, and the helicopters moved closer, up the mountain. More strange silence from the crowd that had been noisy all day. Finally, way down the mountainside, we saw some slow movements with motorcycles going at about the pace of bicycles. We’d have to wait another few minutes for them to enter the series of switchbacks closer to us, and finally, in the mess of vehicles, two riders emerged. They seemed to be going at a good pace, and as they rounded the turns and neared us, I understood from other fans that it was Frank Schleck of CSC and Damiano Cunego from Lampre. And after a couple glimpses, riding right in front of us, they were gone.

Our position was on the inside of a slight curve which meant the riders passed so close to us we could touch them, and I had to put my arms down so I wouldn’t hit them.

Then came another group, and I yelled to Landis, and then Hincapie a bit later. I recognized other riders, and consulted my newspaper for the numbers of others.

Beyond the first few groups, the domestiques and sprinters looked like they dropped their game faces long ago, such as Robbie McEwan who was clearly struggling. Others seemed to be enjoying the crowds. Susana cheered for José Azevedo of Discovery, the only Portuguese rider in the Tour, and we later saw a plaque on one of the lower turns that the Sporting Club of Portugal had erected earlier in the day for Joaquim Agostinho, a Portuguese Tour rider of a previous generation.

You only see the riders for such a brief moment before they pass you by, that if you don’t recognize a rider immediately, they’ll pass by before you know who it was. This makes watching the actual race pretty sparse with so much build-up.

After the autobus made its way through, perhaps a half hour after the leaders, along with the team cars with a few abandoned and sleeping riders inside, the race was over.

We slowly made our way to the finish line through the crowds where the jersey ceremony was long over, but did see a few team trucks with their mechanics cleaning up bikes and a peek inside the trucks where dozens of nice bikes and hundreds of wheels, rows of cogsets and all kinds of tools were stored. The mechanics for Illes Baléars were changing the handlebar tape on several bikes which made me wonder if they get new tape every day or just on particularly sweaty days.

We still didn’t know who won the stage. For as much organization that goes into the race, there isn’t much for the benefit of the spectators, who of course line up for free (no porta-potties for hundreds of thousands of fans?) And so I waited until John sent me the report by email from Seattle to our phone (where I’m writing this) that I found out that Frank Schleck wound up attacking Cunego on the turn beyond us to win the stage and Floyd Landis beat Oscar Pereiro by enough time to win back the yellow jersey.

So would we do it again? If I was passing through France at the right time, yes. But if I was going to make a special trip to France to watch the Tour, I’d make sure I had a camper with a satellite link (like most do) to watch the action up to the point that you see the riders and follow the rest of the stage, be able to drive to several stages, and I would of course bring my bike again to do more famous routes.

Now we may get a chance to see the riders off from Bourg-d’Osians as they head toward Col du Galibier as we head south.

Susana and I found our positions at 11:00 a.m. near the top of the climb, inside the 3km mark, around the hairpin turn, and immediately across from the sign for the town of Alpe d’Huez. We’re not in a photogenic spot as the barricades start 5km from the finish, but we’ll be able to see the race for almost 2km below. For those following on TV, I’m wearing a dark blue shirt, red hat, Susana a yellow jersey and blue hat. Now we just need to wait 5 hours for some action, beyond the shopping cart races, marching bands, and other spontaneous parades.

Go Floyd!

After Col Agnel, we continued down to Briançon, and west to the gentle pass, Col du Lautaret. I unloaded my panniers and took the spur up to Col du Galibier while Susana was smarter and ate lunch. The climb up to Galibier was great on a lighter bike. From 2058m up to 2646m in 8.5km, the ride took me 58 minutes.

After rejoining Susana we descended down a fantastic river valley to Bourg-d’Oisans, our base for a few days, and the town at the base of Alpe d’Huez. The Tour fever is everywhere and building with each day. Campers and tents are set up on every available patch of land. It’s a mixture of Mardi Gras and Critical Mass — I’ve never seen so many bikes in one place before. Everyone is out riding the routes that the pros will ride in a few days.

Today we climbed Alpe d’Huez, the climb on the famous Tour stage, 13km at 8.5%, and 21 notorious switchbacks. The climb is often a turning point in the Tour, and thus it attracts large crowds. It’s as if the rest of the tour doesn’t matter to a lot of people here.

The climb was tougher than expected for me after my strong day yesterday. There was no warm-up — the climb goes straight up immediately, which didn’t quite agree with me in the heat of the afternoon and cold legs. On the first switchback I told Susana she could pass me and after doing so I didn’t see her for another two hours. But there was a steady stream of every kind of cyclist imaginable — young and old, in all kinds of physical condition, some with dogs in tow. Everyone wants to get a taste of the climb.

Aside from being tough, the ride was amusing — constantly lined with RVs with flags, posters of riders on display, lots of funny hats, DJ’s with booming sound systems, elaborate costumes, karoake, and lots of messages painted on the road with riders’ names, teams or countries, or in one case, “Basso? Ulrich?” with syringes pointing to their names (two of the Tour favorites suspected of doping and suspended from the race).

While I stayed in the granny gear and took over two hours, Susana made it to the top in 1:40, passing many others along the way (some who evidently didn’t like being passed by a woman). We had a great picnic at the top, with glacier-topped peaks in every direction. The television broadcasts don’t focus on the beauty in this area — it’s really wonderful. And I am continuously amazed that a bicycle race takes place here.

I think I spotted a pair of Cervelo-mounted CSC riders doing the climb on the Tour’s day off. We looked in vain for the OLN truck, so my photo with Bob Roll was not to be, but on the way down, we passed “the Devil Guy” and I took Susana’s photo with him. (The Devil guy runs beside riders and has been a fixture on the Alpe d’Huez stage for as long as I can remember).

Tomorrow the Tour resumes and we’ll ride up again in the morning to secure our viewing spots before the road closes, and watch the spectacle with as many as 800,000 other cycling fans.

We got a late start due to morning rain, but after it cleared off we made the Col Agnel (“Lamb Pass”) at 2pm local time, so if you were looking at the webcam at 5am Seattle time, we were both wearing red.

Susana took the lead for the first half of the day, a gradual valley floor following a creek before we passed the last Italian town and the real mashing began.

I insisted on riding the whole thing — with plenty of breaks. Susana walked the steepest parts and I wasn’t going much faster than her on those sections. There were a lot of cyclists, too. Most rode alongside us and then gradually pulled away (of course they didn’t have 60 pounds of gear), but some shot up the mountain like a rocket, which really made your jaw drop. We even passed a few, too, which must have been discouraging for them (with our loads). Some hikers on the road cheered as Susana rounded a corner, then pushed her a ways up the next hill.

The price of the average cyclist’s bike is much higher here too… obviously only dedicated cyclists would be found on this road: Time, Lightspeed, Look, Pinarello, and other nice frames.

It was pretty cold at the pass with some patches of snow. Everyone donned jackets for the descent. No customs check was required as we sped downhill into France; I reached 67 km/hr, but it’s pretty hard to stop a heavy bike on a steep downhill, so I braked more than normal on the curvy road. Overall it was a fun day. One or two percent less would have been more enjoyable though. The current grade was posted on every switchback, along with the distance it was in effect for (11.65% for .9km, for example), the current altitude, and the distance to the pass. Very helpful. And the steepest section posted was 14%.

We rode straight down to the first campground and are now going to bed at 9:30, despite Bastille Day fireworks. We’ll see how the knees and muscles feel tomorrow.

>From Siena we rode along more perfect roads to San Gimignano, finding frescoed churches that were as packed with painted scenes as a biker’s tatooed forearm, and many medieval towers — if you were anyone back then, you had your own tower. Riding on to Florence the streets were empty because it was a Sunday, and emptier because Italy would soon be playing France in the World Cup final.

We found the campground and had a passeggiata before the game, then parked ourslelves near one of the large screens in a hilltop piazza — there was literally nothing else you could do in the city and probably the entire country while Italy played.

When Italy scored to tie the game, the place predictably went ballastic. Even the copy of Michelangelo’s David in the square was waving a flag (as well as the people perched on his shoulders). We watched the second half back at the campground to get a better view of the screen, and found the French fans were holed up there with their chants for the bleu, which only got louder when Zidane got ejected. They finally turned quiet when France lost in the penalty round, and we headed out to the square to the screams and traffic and mayhem all around the city. We finally went to bed at 2:00 when fifty thousand car horns could still be heard.

The rest of our stay in Florence was counter to everything we’ve been experiencing so far on the trip — museums, tasty vegetarian restaurants, a storm of tourists, and long lines everywhere. It’s a drag when we’ve been so independent and self-reliant to follow the rules and timetables that the system mandates.

Florence’s Uffizi Gallery houses so much great art, it was not to be missed despite the 2+ hour wait. Boticelli’s Birth of Venus and Primavera, Da Vinci’s Annunciation, Rembrandts, Rubens, Caravaggios.

But what started with awe as we visited the museums and frescoed churches of Tuscany turned somewhat flat after seeing so much art in a short time. I thought I’d be sick if I saw another variation of Madonna with Child. Still, most suprisingly, what moved me the most at the Uffizi and perhaps all of Tuscany was Michelangelo’s Madonna with Child (so sculptural looking — as if the Virgin had been hitting the gym). Susana’s favorite was the Birth of Venus.

On our last night in Florence we ran into Philip Glass giving a free concert in Piazza della Signoria, and then said goodbye to the crowds and lines and great Tuscan riding by taking the train to Cuneo the following day, to keep up with our schedule. Actually we took five trains which was required in order to take our bikes along.

Cuneo sits at the base of the Alps in Piedmont, where we plan to ride up and over into France, at the Col Agnel, 2,744m (9,002ft), along a route featured in this year’s Giro d’ Italia. It didn’t phase me when various people gasped that we’d be doing this by bike, until talking with a bike shop mechanic in Busca who raised an eyebrow at that prospect and warned us of the 13-15% grades. But we continued on and are now in Sampeyre for the night (978m), just before the real climbing begins.

We’ve noticed that in this part of Italy people are more curious and likely to ask about our trip, as the woman at the grocery store did just a moment ago, then told nearly everyone in the store “these two have ridden around Croatia, Greece, Italy and are now in magical Sampeyre!” A stream of people wished us a good trip as we continued shopping for our dinner.

Since we’re in the mountains where more people are hiking and biking, we’re finally able to find all kinds of energy drinks and power bars that are handy while riding, and even a goo-like milk concentrate that you can ooze into your mouth. Mmm, it looked too good to resist that I’ll have to report about it in France.

After getting out of the Rome mess that extended for 100km out of the city, the scenery got dramatically better. So many unmarked intersections and maze-like country roads had us constantly lost and headed towards Rome, as every road sign told us (if only I could find an appropriate cliché).

Riding into Northern Lazio and Southern Tuscany was like stumbling onto a vein of gold that will eventually lead us to the mother lode: Florence. We’re currently situated in its medieval rival, Siena, that has more archways, bell towers, and churches than, say, Seattle. This is postcard Italy, and until reaching Siena, we’ve been enjoying small villages untouched by the crowds. We’re even a little surprised we have these medieval villages to ourselves, with open piazzas, pedestrian walkways (free even of motorscooters), fountains, and I even saw a car getting a parking ticket, something that didn’t seem to exist in the chaos south of here. There are many more public parks and public benches in these small towns and along country roads. Such a simple thing: a place to sit when you don’t want to buy something, and enjoy the scenery. Their absence for the better part of our trip has been driving me crazy.

One of the towns we spent some time (sitting for free) was Viterbo, where the Popes resided for a short time during the middle ages. We got a private tour of the papal quarters where a conclave took place for three years. The cardinals ate, drank and be’d merry and sponged off Viterbo until the locals finally sent them and the papacy back to Rome.

The Romans claimed that the demi-god Hercules lived in Viterbo, but the Romans copied everything from the Greeks — art, architecture, religion — evidently changing the stories of the latter to fit their needs.

Another unpretentious village was Capodimonte, built on the shore of Lake Bolsegna, a lake in the crater of a long-extinct volcano. We went swimming on its volcanic-black beaches before riding around the rim of the crater the next day, with views of wheat fields, vineyards and pines.

As popular as Tuscany is in the minds of tourists, the roads we’ve found are empty of cars and have fabulous riding, as good as anywhere on our trip. While some days have as much climbing as the Peloponnese (1500m or more), the grades aren’t as fierce and the descents are like roller coasters, with just enough momentum to get you over the next hill if you’re brave enough not to apply the brakes. Pitigliano was one great looking village built on a big rock that popped out around a corner at the end of a long descent. And there are hill towns like Monalcino that were built long after Pax Romano ended, and the villages moved from valleys to hilltops for better protection.

The heatwave that we experienced the first 10 days in Italy has also disappeared and we’ve had a few days of thunderstorms with passing showers which have dropped the temperature from 35-38 to 30C (95-100 to 80F). While I had convinced myself that I’d adapted perfectly to riding in the heat, I suddenly found a lot more energy when the temperature became bearable.

Susana is holding up well as our account supervisor, dealing with tourist offices, campground officials, asks for directions 12 times per day and demands the correct change from vendors when we’re about to be ripped off.

And the bikes haven’t complained at all, just needing some oil on the chain and air in the tires every few days. The tires have passed 2000 kilometers without a flat despite much abuse. Even when riding through dog poop and then immediately over a cactus, they kept me from a stinky flat repair. We’d like our good luck to continue.

With Portugal out of the running on questionable terms, we’re left rooting for our hosts, the Italians, against those undeserving French in the World Cup final. Until we reach France.

Outside of Naples, in the town of Castellemmare di Stabia, we attended the wedding reception of our friends Loredana and Steve. Beyond the seven courses of food to feed these hungry cyclists, seeing friends for a few days off the bikes helped replenish our spirits for the next part of our trip.

We joined Steve and Jane, other Seattlites in town for the event, to visit Pompei, the site of sites for Roman history — an entire city preserved in ash after Mt. Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD. Some of the buildings were so entact that you could see 2000-year old grafiti on the walls. In other buildings, bodies were cast in plaster, exactly as the archeologists found them during excavation. Most striking, the bodies were so small — you only had to be 5-feet tall in order to be a Roman soldier.

Naples is a gritty city and we spent one day there, most of it in the Archeological Museum, and that felt like enough. But Naples is also the center of pizza, and we discovered that the best pizza has provola cheese (smoked mozzarella) and arugula. The cuisine of Italy is perhaps the best suited of any for endurance sports, with all of those delicious carbs — bread, pasta, risotto. The only problem during the course of a day’s ride is planning ahead for siesta since supermarkets (and most other businesses) are closed from 1-5.

After our stay in Castellemmare, we decided the best way to bike out of the area was to take a vacation from our vacation and ride down the Amalfi Coast, to the southwest of the city. The coastal road is famous for being attached to the sheer cliffs, and it made for some of the best riding of our trip. Sorrento, Positano, and Amalfi are all overpriced tourist locales, but the road itself was the draw. Despite warnings, traffic was light and not very high speed with the constant turns of the road around and through the rock.

The ride had a touch of a James Bond chase scene — whizzing over cobbles as well-dressed couples stepped out of a limousine in front of a 5-star hotel, through a piazza in a flock of scooters, around a tile-domed church and suddenly back out on the edge of the cliff, looking down at some ridiculous megayacht.

The coast is also known for its lemons, and we saw some that were larger than cantelope. I’m not referring to the megayacht owners.

In Amalfi we took the ferry to Pozzuolli, a suburb east of Naples, as our strategy for bypassing a lot of the Neapolitan traffic. In addition to Vesivius, the region has a lot of thermal features and we rode to a campground located in the caldera of a low-lying volcano. I understood that this volcano, La Sulfatara, which means “rotten eggs” in Italian, was inactive, but still had bubbling mud pits and steam spewing forth, much like you see in Yellowstone.

Something very unusual happened next, and that was the flatness of the roads we encountered. We rode 130km the next day to celebrate, our longest day. We also encountered bits and pieces of Via Appia (the Appian Way), the old Roman roadway. When the Romans weren’t having orgies or throwing victims to wild beasts for amusement, they were building great roads. Via Appia is known for being completely straight and flat, even cambered for drainage purposes, and the 260m “pass” that we climbed was evenly graded.

The sections we rode were asphalted, but we could often see the old cobbles on the edges of the road. Evidently much of it closer to Rome has been excavated and preserved.

Via Appia gets busier, and without a good alternative and after much discussion we have decided to bypass Rome. Major cities are not the friend of the bike tourist, and it boils down to the idea that these trips are designed to visit the places you don’t see by plane, train, and car.

So instead we’re making our way up the coast, through not-very-pretty coastal development built for Roman holiday seekers, but at least we have the sea. We stayed in the largest campground imaginable that had all the amenities you’d find on a cruise ship — hair dressers, Latin dance classes: a bit surreal.

And what’s also happening everywhere you turn is the World Cup. The three times Italy has played (and won) since we’ve been here, we’ve had the temptation of riding on the deserted traffic-free streets, but the draw of watching the local team with the locals is stronger. And we’d need to be promptly off the streets by the end of the games anyway to avoid the swarms of scooters adorned with Italian flags and the storm of horns and chaos, with each Italian victory.

But we care more about Portugal, who along with Italy, Germany and France have advanced to the semi-finals. The 80km of riding yesterday was nothing compared to the stress of watching Portugal squeak by England last night.

Soon we’ll be in Tuscany.