I was determined to bike the Tuscan hills in January.
Filippo was the the only guide in Florence who would take me. (I called every bike shop in town, but everyone said it was too cold and rainy for such a trip.) Because he liked my voice, Filippo told me to show up at his store early the next morning. Later, I learned that 30 year-old biker was also a semi-professional cyclist who biked over 30 miles a day.
I had dreamed of biking the Tuscan hills, which I could see from my hotel window across the Arno River. Maybe it was the romantic notion of taking in huge gulps of Tuscan air and open views of hills and farmhouses I had seen only in magazines and movies that made me blindly pursue such an activity, because the only biking I ever did was in a gym. My goal to accomplish this particular objective blinded me to whatever else Florence had to offer, including the statue of David, which I never got around to visiting. Even so my Americanized version of the trip consisted of a van driving us out of the city limits for a leisurely two hour excursion with a wine and cheese lunch at a charming Tuscan farmhouse at the end of our trip,
It's funny, I never asked about the particulars of Filippo's itinerary and assumed the trip would be suited for my beginner's level as I expressed I was. I even assumed there would be other beginners like me who sought him out with the same goal of biking the hills in January.
The next morning, Filippo fitted me for a mountain bike, gave me sunglasses, warm head- gear, and a quick lesson on how to shift gears. He warned that the wind chill would make it uncomfortable going downhill and quickly mentioned that over 2000 people were killed on bikes annually due to a lack of designated biking routes, and he said this as he biked away on the cobbled stoned streets. "What?" I said, but he was already too far ahead to hear me.
Biking the city felt like being in a video game--cars, buses, pedestrians loomed in and out of view. "Don't give in," Filippo ordered from up ahead, as did no no else making it a point to get their way regardless of street signs, lights or impediments. Brakes were to be used very lightly or not at all.
I do not remember seeing much of the Tuscan hills. I do remember not being able to breathe from the chilly air. I remember my legs felt like lead after biking out of the hilly city. I remember not shifting gears correctly so that I was working too hard or not hard enough (sometimes I dislodged the chains for shifting too quickly and Felippo screamed instructions on how to re-track them from up ahead. His expert ears always heard my fumbled pedaling.) I remember he pointed out the mile markers of different hill towns and hamlets, but I never noticed.
He also constantly ordered me to "keep the line," because cars and hills were dangerously on either side of us. I remember going downhill at such dangerous speeds I rattled as much as the bike did. I don't remember what Filippo said about wine production, life in Tuscany, or the history of the farmhouses. I do remember the old lady who gave me a tongue trashing -- in Italian -- because I almost ran into her car. I remember that the few times Filippo pedaled beside me he talked about his tortured love life with an Australian woman his mother refused to meet because she was not Italian. And I remember wanting to tell him to shut the hell up so I could focus. I also remember calling out God's name in vain, many times. Finally, I remember falling flat on my face at the entrance to the bike shop after pedaling 7 hours and 27 miles.
"I can't believe I wasn't the first casualty of the
year," I said to Filippo when we arrived.
"What do you mean?" he asked in broken English. "Didn't you say there are 2000 bike fatalities in Florence annually?" I asked.
I thought then about how that misunderstanding kept me alive that day.
Read My Exciting Memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at: http://www.amazon.com (Because sometimes love, hate, living and dying all feel the same)
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