Day 2: The Going Gets Rough, Bozen to Trento

Awaking in the strange room, I had that momentary disorientation of travel. Where was I? What was I doing? Before wakefulness really took hold there was a slip through panic even as I realized I knew where I was. But was I really crazy enough to think I could do this, ride all the way to Venice? It was still early, maybe 7:30, earlier than my hosts were getting up. I sat on the side of the bed, looking at my pack and its various contents strewn on the floor. Well, I have to keep going now. I can’t give up. I shook my head at myself.
Before long I heard Igor and Anna moving about the apartment. We said good morning and sat down to coffee and coffee cake on their small balcony. Igor told me it was the first time this year it had been warm enough in the morning to eat outside. I was glad he let down his joking at my wonderment of spring, taking me in on this small but important event. He added that since the cherry trees are blooming now they will probably have cherries by mid May. They noticed I was nervous and assured me that the way to Trento wasn’t hard, and not long. I would be there in a couple hours, they insisted. Then I could head up into the Valsugana like we had discussed the night before while leaning over my map. But Trento was 60 kilometers off, and I was not so sure it would be quite as quick as they were claiming. Then there was a hill climb up into the Valsugana. I had visions of Tour D’France alpine stages, and was not terribly keen on the idea. Igor showed me where to pick up some provisions, and I bade them both farewell. I truly hope to see them again someday, those generous new friends of mine.
Feet in my clips, I felt at once eased from my earlier anxiety. The immediacy of the pedals gave me a grip. I wound my way back to toward the main square. Crossing the bridge, I thought of the distant greenbelt so like this one I am on. Nature uses the same patterns in Idaho as Italy, and the cottonwoods smelled of home.
Coming around a corner in the city I stumbled on a street market. The sun streamed down the long alleys and illuminated eggplants, daffodils, and spring greens. A stand loaded to groaning with giant pale cheeses had a long line. I can’t help but think Italy must be like this everyday. In the alleys I heard hearty greetings in Italian and Südtiroler dialect, watched an old man stop his bike to chat with a friend, passed two nuns quietly. Finally, I sat in the town square, drinking a pattern garnished cappuccino in the sun. The Italians next to me had stylish sunglasses, light tailored suits, and talked animatedly before reading the newspapers. I didn’t understand a word, but the urgency of their voices worked at me until I paid my bill and swung up onto my bike and headed for the river and the edge of town.
As I left the industrial zones of the city’s fringe behind the valley opened up before me. The day before I had been squeezed next to the river by the steep valley walls. Only bends in the river or large valley branches had allowed enough flat ground for towns, and many were built on the steep mountainsides anyways. Now I followed a wide flat valley floor, full of orchards and vineyards. The bike path was built up on an old railroad dyke, sometimes so steep off each side that it had to be enclosed with a fence. The elevated route gave me a view over to the russet roof tiles of each village I passed. Some of them were right up at the cliffs, and had waterfalls plunging into their midst. Other cyclists were also more regular, from a huge group of young racers forming a candy colored peloton to the groups of four or five middle aged men that would stream past me in a few seconds, pedaling for the imagined leaders jersey. I was the only person with a pack, and the only person with wool pants. I quickly shed them and got used to the spandex shorts, it was just too warm for Swiss military surplus.
As an older couple was coming toward me, I heard a sudden hiss, and felt as deflated as my tire. I pulled over, flipped the Peugeot onto its back like a dead bug, and had a look. My rear tire was worn though completely. A section of rubber the size of my thumb was missing, exposing the fibers to the road. They had given through at one small point. I was going to have to shim the tire, and if that didn’t work, I would have to walk the two miles or so to the next town. Patching the tire went quickly, and many of the cyclists that went by tossed me inquiring glances, and a few asked if I needed help, some in Italian. Fairly quickly I had things back in order, and carefully folded a granola bar wrapper into the inside of the tire at the point of the laceration. I inflated the tire. It had a dangerous bulge at the shim, so I let out some air, mounted the wheel, and tried not to think about it. My ears were over alert to every creak and squeak of my bike now. I came to a sign directing me to Auer or Trento. Two kilometers to Auer. No distance marked for Trento, but another village in 10km. I decided to go with Trento, taking a chance but perhaps saving time. I would try in Neumarkt. Those 10 kilometers were tense, several times I thought I felt my back wheel settle down or jump, only to keep riding with nothing the matter.
I got to the little town at about 11. It boasted a station of the ancient Roman road up through the alps and again, it was market day. Perhaps I was right in my suspcion that every day was market day in Italy. I asked a woman looking at some shoes if she could direct me to a bike stand. She looked at me with wide eyes, then lit up a tad and called her daughter over. I inquired again, still in German, and the girl replied with a friendly school level German in a strong Italian accent. A bike shop was at the end of this road. I thanked them both, and found the shop easily. Unsure whether to greet them in Italian (one of my few mastered Italian phrases) or German, I stood unsure of myself until they noticed me. They looked mildly perturbed to see a helmeted backpacked cyclist in their shop. I asked for a tire, showed him my bike, and he quickly replaced the tire with a slightly wider one, the whole while speaking the tough dialect of Südtirol German. He smiled when he pulled the tube from the old tire and the wrapper fluttered to the ground. The whole thing two about five minutes, and he charged me only 12 euros total. It would have been twice that in Innsbruck. Italy was a good land to land a deal in, it seemed.
Back on the road, the day slipped by, and I slowly rolled down the valley. A great bird of prey with a mouse in its talons swooped only a few yards over my head when I was near a cliff at one edge of the valley. It had to be a golden eagle; the fierce symbol of every empire which ever conquered this area. In the distance the cliffs towered vertically several thousand feet up, lending the valley an almost Yosemite like feel. Glinting snow capped peaks were visible up the sharp side canyons and in both directions up and down the wide valley. I stopped for lunch at an old section of roman road, no longer seeing the stones but the route described by an info board. North and south the valley was taking on a more lowland feel, the air was slightly gauzy, blueing the distant hillsides and drawing out distance.
After lunch, I met with my own exhaustion for the first time. As I pedaled, I couldn’t seem to find a single comfortable position on the saddle or the handlebars. My legs were resisting me. Every time the path took turn that seemed to aim me away from the ever nearer midway goal of Trento, I groaned. I tried pedaling faster, aiming to get more speed, and make the exhaustion end more quickly. I tried shifting gears, getting my pedal rotation quicker to ease the individual turns of the pedals. I tired reciting things in my head, singing songs, thinking about Venice, thinking about the coming summer, thinking about anything but the growing fatigue. I passed a man on a nice road bike, just to make myself feel better. He quickly passed me back, and pulled into the distance.
At one point, with only a hundred yards of flood plain between me and the river, I saw something I couldn’t quite believe. For just a few seconds I saw a lamb. It was white from head to toe, somewhat stretched and gangly in the way of young animals. There were no other sheep that I could see. I never saw another, or where that one could have come from. I only barely saw it long enough to be sure it existed. In the first moment it was so unexpected that I had no idea what it could be, so ghostly and silent and wandering up the riverbank, white and clean against the muddy spring flow. In a blink it was behind me, and I never saw any sign of why it had been there.
Finally, legs, neck and shoulders aching, I hit the outskirts of a large town. In a matter of minutes I was sitting in cloud swept light on the main square. The steps of the fountain were cool, and the square was full of Italian flair. A great cathedral made an angle with the battlements of a castle, both straight from the middle ages. Women of sixty and girls of sixteen wore the same styles, the older women simply with the expensive versions. I rested, in a blank state of waking that comes after exertion and achievement. Slowly, I noticed the vibrancy of this Italian town. Two toddlers excitedly showed each other bugs in a corner of the square. I watched them, then their mothers. There was an ease in the way the mothers chatted which was deep rooted. When one of the children sprang over to his mother, she squatted down next to him, and her joy was in his joy at the antics of some tiny critter.
As the sun again prompted me to get going taking on more a dustier hue by the moment, I set out to find a route out of town. I headed in the direction my map suggested, looking for Via Valsugana. In a park in front of a university building I stopped two girls carrying English dictionaries. They told me there was no bike route. They told me to take the train. As I hesitated in responding to their suggestion, the dark eyed one laughed, “But you are brave man, you must take bicycle!” she grinned. I nodded, glad she understood. They wished me luck, and I set off again. In the same park I found a sign pointing a route to the Via Valsugana, and headed up hill. Before long it seemed my route was ending, so I asked another brace of Italians, this time an old woman and a teenager with a guitar. They at first looked at me with wonderment, then the old woman nodded vigously as the teen explained what I had said. “Si, si, Valsugana!” she said loudly, pointing up the road. I thanked them and moved on. Too soon the sidewalk puttered out, headed off down a long flight of stairs and dumped me at a Franciscan monastery. I tried another couple of passers by, and not a one could help me. I finally headed back into town to ask at the info desk.
The woman at the desk was equally as astounded by my plan. “There is no bike route,” she said, obviously worried about my sanity, “There are tunnels. You must take the train up to the valley.” With these words I relaxed. I was going to have to submit some bit of my journey by bicycle to the rails again, but at least it was another uphill section. I then set out to find a hostel. Luckily, the info desk was more helpful on that more common question. Within half an hour I was set up an a dormitory for the night. After cleaning off the grime, I set off into the twilight.
Being on the road alone had been a joy. No one to explain things to, no one to question, no one to hold up or wait for. I had been completely free. Now, in town, the loneliness that was never there on the road started to take hold. I searched for at least an hour for a restaurant that wasn’t too chic but still more than a pizza stand. I finally found something, but it turned out to be too nice for me anyway. “Solo?” the host asked, as I entered. I nodded, a bit ashamed. I tried to get a plate of local specialties, and ended up with a cafeteria style tray with schnitzel, sauerkraut, spaghetti, salad, fries, and green beans. It was less than what I had hoped for. The whole mean cost me as much as the rest of my first two days, excluded my hostel (which it also eclipsed). The city was beautiful, and walking home I even discovered what seemed to be a spontaneous student party. But even after two days on the road alone, I didn’t have the guts to approach foreign students on their home turf. I headed home for an early bed, to get an early start the next day.
Nodding off, I felt both accomplished and discouraged. I had made it this far, but things had gotten rough. I was going to get through, but I was reminded that it didn’t just happen the way I wanted it too. I did have to work, and deal with problems. But the next days problems were a nights sleep off, and I would worry about them tomorrow.

Day 1. The High Valley: Brenner to Bozen

My train left at 11:12 for the top of the pass. That meant leaving at 10:30 from the apartment, giving me time to make it down to the map store, buy a map of Südtirol, then go to the station and get my ticket. Maybe even get a first aid kit at the station pharmacy. I hoped I had everything I need for departure, but if I didn’t, I could probably buy it on the way. Italy isn’t the moon. In the map store I was lucky, the first pastel paper packet I picked up had my start and finish points: on the top edge Brenner, in the bottom right hand corner, Venezia.
At the train station, I got my ticket to the Brenner pass. Three euros without a bicycle. I headed to the counter to get the bicycle pass and buy a return ticket. The girl at the ticket counter eyed me a bit incredulously when I ask for a return ticket from Venice short on the heels of asking for a bicycle ticket. One eyebrow raised, she pecked at her computer and told me it would be better to buy one there. Maybe it was best to travel opened ended anyway, I thought. Back upstairs I tracked down a first aid kit, stowed it in my pack with my few t-shirts and a pair of jeans, and went to unchain my bicycle. Wheeling it toward the platform, I noticed an all to familiar sluggishness. Looking down, I saw an inauspicious beginning to a 300 km journey. I had to pinch the front tire to assure myself. Sure enough, a flat at the train station.
In the train, I examined my old Peugeot. I probably should have given him a more thorough combing over prior to this point, but I was hoping for adventure. For the most part everything looked up to snuff. The wheels were a bit rusty, and the saddle old and hard, the shifters on the down tube, but there were no functional problems, flat tire aside. I greased the chain recently, I had a pump and my tools in my pack, and I could essentially rebuild the bike if I had too. But I was hoping the 12 speeds tacked on to a formerly flashy white, red & orange striped frame would hold out all the way to the Adriatic. I rummaged in my tool kit, looking for the tire repair kit. I couldn’t find it, and decided I would buy one, along with a spare tube, in the tiny hamlet of Brenner, straddling the Italian/Austrian border and the main comb of the Alps.
Getting out, I noticed right away the Italian influence, unfortunately not the renaissance sort. The train station wasn’t up to Austrian standards, mildly grungy, the buildings hunched over the platforms all an odd yellow brown brick. Shouldering my pack and my bike, I headed into town. The folks at a fruit stand sent me to a clothing store. He sent me to a bicycle clothing store. He shook his head. Outta luck. I barely caught the train to the Stertzing, thanks to a helpful conductor with heavily Italian accented German. I pay 4 euros from the 4.10 I happened to have in my pocket. Should carry more cash, I guess. I feel bad that I will miss out on those first 10 kilometers, feel like I am betraying the spirit of my journey, but it was that or walk it.
The train had ads on the walls encouraging people to preserve food from their gardens for the sake of sustainability. I decided I like South Tyrol.
In Stertzing I picked up new tubes, repaired the old one, decided cycling gloves might be a good idea, and bought food for the road. Finally ready to head out. On the edge of town, I heard the air hissing out of my tire again. Stopping, I watch another cyclist go by, and this time found Innsbruck’s parting shards of glass. So, up to now, 2 kilometers down, and 2 flat tires. The stats aren’t with me at this point. Doubts about the practicality of my journey started to swim at the edges of my mind, but pedaling alongside the Italian motorists quickly focused my mind on the present. To my delight, after a mile or so, I saw a sign pointing to a bicycle path. What a pleasant surprise! Peeling away from traffic, following the river and the dark pines, I started to gain my confidence back.
As I crossed a bridge, a large track-suited man on a small mountain bike called out to me. “Not that way!” he rumbles, “You have to follow the signs!” I look around, and sure enough, a small brown sign with a bicycle points me to an overpass. I catch up with the man, and thank him. “Where you headed?” he asks.
“Venice, eventually,” I reply. He likes that, laughing just enough to not steal his energy.
“And today?”
“Bozen”
“And from there to Trento and the Valsugana. That is a nice route. I am only going to Franzenfest,” he replied, knowingly. “This part is pretty up and down though, it isn’t as easy as the next few days.”
We chatted a bit, about my bike, his, how far the path goes, (at least to Trento he is sure) and then part ways. I was a bit faster on the hills, having the bike more inclined to the asphalt path. I waved goodbye as I pulled away, and he wished me luck. I was fully encouraged.
The hours slipped by, my seat grews more and more uncomfortable, and it seemed my pack got heavier with every kilometer. But I am free. I rode through forests of pines, next to the river, usually lower in the valley than the great freeway that winds up this pass. I didn’t have too much time to think at length, mostly being busied with the minutiae of riding. Watch out for that cone, don’t hit the gravel patch, I wonder what that mountain is called, how far to the next town? The few patches of snow grew fewer, the grass greened up.
I was almost the only person on the bicycle path until most of the signs said “Brixen”. Just before town, I had to negotiate a section of gravel and earth path, and the mountain bikers gave me nods, surely thinking I am nuts with my skinny tires and red handlebars. When I come out of the woods, I found spring.
Apple orchards and free stone terrace walls stretched to the slopes of the opposite mountains. A woman with a branch of blooming magnolias called after an old homespun vested farmer, they both nodded hello as I whirred by. The bike path took me straight into an orchard, the small trimmed trees only a few feet form my tires, not much taller than me on the bike. Tiny crystal clear streams overhung by thick daisy strewn sod skipped towards town. In Brixen, the population was out walking, riding bikes, chatting. I heard mostly German, but there was Italian interlaced as well. It was reassuring to see so many people again, for some reason the high valley induced a hurry, which melted away in this spring time crowd.
Just outside of town, I paused at a little bicycle rest area. After three hours of riding, hunger, thirst, sweat, and exhaustion need to be eased. I felt good. I was actually putting my crazy idea into action. The route that I first typed in as a fancy a week earlier to Google maps is now unrolling before my eyes. I am riding my bike to Venice. Eating my energy bars, fruit, and cheese, it struck me how often I fail to recognize the simple act of starting. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. True, Confucious, but Newton was also right when he said that a body at rest tends to stay at rest. It takes a lot of impulse to make that one step. I made it, and now I can’t be stopped. What a world we live in.
An older man sitting across from me said something, startled me out of my thoughts. I didn’t understand. Apologetically, I tell him I can’t speak Italian. He turned to his wife, said something to her, and she began to speak to me in German. I told her my plans, and she was impressed, but warns me that I won’t be able to get to Bozen on this bike path. I will have to bike on the street for a bit. I thanked her. After wishing me luck, she and her husband started back to Brixen on foot, and I mounted up for another couple hours pedaling down to Bozen.
In just a few minutes, I came around a corner to see an amazing castle-like building perched on top of a cliff comes into view. The towers of what I learn is a monastery and the town mirror each other, one high and one low. In the middle of town, I get my biggest surprise. This is the village of Klausen. I knew it was on the way, shortly after Brixen, but I didn’t know it had a castle. After snapping a few pictures, however, the orange tinge in the afternoon sun was enough to speed me on my way. I didn’t want to get caught in the dark, especially because I hadn’t worked out a place to stay in Bozen for the night yet.
Since the bike route was built mostly on an old railroad bed, and since the valley is getting narrower and narrower, I started to go through tunnels. It is cold inside, once I was hit in the face by dripping water and nearly startled into a crash, but I hung on. I had to stop and eat some more of my energy bars, and I feel the hours wearing me down. Then, at the end of one of the tunnels, there is suddenly a delightful spray of graffiti, much more artistic than the typical hiphop names of the various vandals. Blue and white sketches of bicycles, six feet tall, are scattered onto the pillars of an avalanche portico. Such a simple display of affection for bicycles is enough to invigorate me, and in only a few minutes, I see the sign welcoming me to Bozen.
In the town square, golden light is playing off the fountain and the delicate filigree of the gothic church steeple. Everywhere the sandstone buildings seem to glow with spring warmth, and there are even a few potted palms sitting at the corners of the café patios. If only I knew where I was going to sleep.
Luckily that problem was resolved in a matter of minutes. After a check at tourist information, instructions to an internet café, an email check and a phone call, I have affirmation that my attempt at couch surfing will be a success. Both of my emails to Bozen were accepted, Igor and Anna, just 20 years old, invited me stay with them for the night. Happily surprised, Igor told me he will be in the middle of town in half an hour.
The rest of the evening was pleasant, a totally disconnected from the cycling of the day. I wash, change out of my wool knee pants and bike shorts, shower, cook a pizza and chat with these total strangers who offered me a bed for nothing more than asking for it. They have rough South Tyrolean accents, vowels mashed and bent, consonants slipping and scraping. This is a language of avalanches and tumbles, of hard winters and a life scraped out of scant means. They can also speak Italian, and cook me a delicious pizza. I help wash up, offer to do anything I can, go shopping the next morning, and they refuse it all. They are happy just to get to know me, they insist. I tell them about Idaho, about going to school, about Innsbruck, about my journey. They tell me about South Tyrol (unemployment of 1.2% and the biggest political strife is over towns having Italian names as well as German ones on the signs). They are students, hoping to move to Vienna next year, but planning to come back to Italy to live. Igor, born in Poland, wants to write. Anna is studying agricultural science and wants to farm. The world moves in mysterious ways.
Falling asleep on their generosity, I am buoyed up with the munificence of the Lord and have more faith in humanity than I have had in months.