On To Italy

I’m starting this blog in Geneva as I make my way to Venice. There is a short connection in Munich where I plan to stock up on necessary liquid refreshments for the week ahead. It’s Sunday morning here (7:41 AM) but still Saturday night (10:41 PM) in California. I’m wondering if Rosey is still up and I should call?

There was a little extra bonus yesterday when my niece, her husband, their daughter and I went sightseeing in Gruyere. After a wonderful fondue lunch at the Chalet Gruyere, we started walking back through the ancient mountain top village. I noticed a crowd had gathered while we were eating. The cobblestone road had been semi-blocked off and climbing up the mountain were guys (and a few girls) on mountain bikes. There were caked in mud, panting and looking very tired. It was the 22eme OpenBike Haute Gruyere. It was quite a spectacle as the lead riders made it over the top and started the descent on the other side of town. Most had so much mud on them that you couldn’t see their faces. 

In Italy. 

I arrived in Venice pretty much on time. However, the flight from Geneva to Munich was the roughest I’ve ever experienced – EVER. I’ve never flown through wind sheers, and hope I never do again. Let’s just say anything that wasn’t being held or in a seat belt flew around the cabin. Was that me screaming or the woman next to me? In that moment, as the plane dropped, no one cared. We finally landed and I expected people to kneel and kiss the ground, but we all ventured forward; some to baggage claim or connecting flights and others I expect directly to church or the closest airport lounge. 

Our group of cyclists is assembling at the hotel which serves as the “base camp” for our Italian biking adventure. It’s located at the base of Mount Grappa about an hour north of Venice. By prior arrangement, four of us took the same taxi from Venice or the airport to the hotel. We talked about our experiences in Europe thus far and what lies ahead.

As we got closer to the hotel, I was trying to hide my excitement about the new bike. I was holding back until I was asked, “want to see it?” After all these months and seemingly endless emails, decisions, and bank transfers, I’m not sure I even answered the question. With my cycling colleagues beside me, we descended to the basement storage/bike room where, in a large box and wrapped in tons of plastic, tape, and tubing, was the new bike. My new Pinarello. With lots of help, the bike was assembled and I took it for a quick test ride. Do dreams really come true? To me they do because it’s Christmas morning and I’m eight years old again.