Italy or pilgrimage into the past

1st day: Faverges (2 a.m.), Albertville, Aiguebelle, Moutiers, Bourg St Maurice, Pass of the Petit St Bernard, Aoste, Ivrea, Vercelli, Robbio, Mortara; 206 miles.

After I was done with the packing, as I was not feeling sleepy, I decided to set off in the middle of the night, without sleeping at all, ready to swim upstream like a salmon (or rather bike uphill) in order to gather information about my ancestors.
Well, dear forefathers, I left Faverges with anxiety that Sunday, at the time when night birds flutter about and exude their loneliness.
It is for me an opportunity to test my glittering outfit (1), my bicycle lights and my lucky star.
The traffic is calm, the valley is heaving quietly.
Moutiers: my first fright; I am set on by some drunken young people of North African origin (2) coming out of a night club.
After Bourg St Maurice, on this dull valley road, yet quiet at this time of night, I start the long ascent towards the Pass of the Petit St Bernard, the boundary between France and Italy.
The sun is already up and the mountains of the Vanoise light up little by little, the Dent Parrachee, capped with its glacier, is majestic and beautiful.
My pace is gentle and smooth, but I have to make pauses, because I didn’t get a wink of sleep.
After La Rosiere the conditions change. This is the mountain, the real one, the vegetation is sparse, a facing wind rises, making it more difficult to climb.
But the former hospices are still standing, just before the pass itself.
Phew! The peak at last! On the right, Lancebranlette, with its funny name (3); on the left, the Mont Blanc; seen from this angle it is particularly impressive.
That’s it: Italy. Now traffic is heavy, it conjures up some memories of older times, the trips “in Italia colla Fiat”.
Here I am, on the main road; Aosta is stifling with heat and I break down when a spoke unexpectedly breaks off.
But fortunately, thanks to the relaxation therapy of old Mrs Blondel, I repair it quickly in spite of the sweat dripping on my forehead. “Sono bagnato” (4) from head to foot.
In this ugly valley a gale and the heat make it difficult for me to cycle, despite the green foamy waters of the Dorea Baltea.
Ivrea, Vercelli, rice and corn as far as the eye can see.
Soon after Mortara, beyond the corn a splendid field welcomes me.
After a shower with water bottles, but soapy and hot, since the bottles had warmed up all day long on Fanny (5), I crawl into my tent in order to escape the hordes of mosquitoes.

Monday, 2nd day: Mortara-Nervesa; 225 miles

I am really tired, though the night was still; I am roused out of sleep by the mosquitoes, and without thinking twice, I am soon “on the road again”, in less time than a squad on the alert.
Indian corn, rice, trucks and vines, intense traffic on a road called “statale” but quite narrow, however Italians are not good shots, because they miss their mark several times and come so close that my cap falls off.
Italy is swarming with people, I speed up so as not to end up in a stew.

I opt for the town centre in Pavia in order to see other things.
Lovely ochre facades, pretty tanned girls, cobblestones, cafe terraces and dolce vita, this town is appealing, but I have to go back to the asphalt.
The heat is unbearable, I have to stop several times.
In Crema, a cup of coffee of course (6), to try and get over the previous sleepless night.
I keep on visiting gas stations which offer energy drinks and beer at reasonable prices.
Traffic is awful, terrible, the slightest swerve can cause my death; it is Italian roulette. Am I going to become ground beef for risotto?
Luckily we are not far from Modena, the region of Ferrari cars; continuous lines on the road and traffic lights point to this.

Promised, “no more of this”!

I have enough of corn, of rice, of trucks. I choose to go downtown in Lodi. “What gorgeous buttocks!” I love Italy and Italian cities!
In Desenzano, along the Lake of Garda, a whiff of the Adriatic Sea wafts up: palm-trees, tourists, and numerous streetwalkers offering their charms between asphalt and corn fields. Shameful and pathetic.
They beckon to me charmingly, to cheer me up, unless it is a distress signal... “No, sorry, thank you, I have my bike”, I reply.
Since there are no nice sights, I have time to look at the countless road signs along the “statale”. Some are amazing: “Mr Casanova offers weddings dresses” _ I have not made it up!; the next one advertises a sex shop! Italy is stunning!
After a diversion on the speedway that I have to leave with Fanny on my back, at last beautiful Verona!
No time to visit, for I still have my bike; besides, it is already time for aperitif before dinner, and Franco, my Italian cousin, must be fretting in front of an Ombra beer.
Round the arena, people strolling by, Verona, you are lovely, I’ll come back without my bike, with another lovely one, maybe...
Finally, Castelfranco. The Veneto region, the real one; on a narrow country road, vineyards, trattorie, the strong smell of corn, everything reminds me of the Italy that we used to visit (“una volta”) (7), during the holidays.
410 miles of hell for a touch of happiness.
Now we are well into the night, Italians are chatting in village squares, frogs are cawing, the Italian night is spellbinding.
At present it is completely dark and as there are no signs in Italy, “Scusi, la strada per...”. I have to remember my Italian, haunted by the fear of ending up at the bottom of a corn field, but I muddle through and I am almost there.
Giavera, Bavaria, la via del paradiso at last, the last hill leading to my grandfather’s house, now my cousin’s; it is so steep it kills me.
9 p.m. Franco is quite worried, but waiting. Wow! “Ciao, bevi un’Ombra...”

RETURN

In the morning the church of Nervesa rings the chimes; thunder is rumbling in the distance; the Venice region which is suffering from drought is yearning for the rain.
I choose the minor roads; indeed the route in the countryside, between the irrigation canals, is enthralling, but I wander about, adding up the miles when I make loops.
I have to overcome my habitual reserve: “Scusi, la strada per...”, “Prima a sinistra, dopo il secondo grain de mais...” (8).
After this outing in the country, in Vicenza I am back in a town; the centre is so beautiful that I cycle round it twice.
I manage to avoid Verona and its jammed highways.
Here I am back in Lombardy, “the sound and the fury” (9), the sky is streaked with big flashes of lightning, the rain lashes against my raincoat, but Fanny holds up.
Bent over the handlebar, my eyes closed, I am almost asleep. “Ciao, ciao”, I hear all of a sudden. “Hey, an angel welcoming me into hell?” “Ma Dio bestia, it’s Pretty Butt from Mantua that has just passed me!”
Here is Miss Corn, on a mountain bike, drenched in her bodysuit, so lovely she would tempt a saint.
“Where are you from?”, I asked her in Dante’s language. We talk a little, too little. I offer her part of my umbrella, half of my raincoat, but damnation! the rain stops and we have to part company.
We go our separate ways, each of us in a different direction, once the rain has stopped, and I am going uphill again.
Solferino, Rivoli, no, we are not in Paris, but on the sites where Napoleon waged battles.
As the rain starts again, I decide to sleep under the awning of the parish centre, in a hamlet near Castiglione, where Don Andrea and his flock treat me to a cup of coffee. “Roula-blabla”, that’s how we spoke Italian, true Italian, with the help of some beer; it’s a nice occasion, the priest is interesting; here people speak only patois, the local dialect.
And if in Veneto I understand its gentle melody, here, in Lombardy I don’t get the language of the barbarians.
I will then spend the night sheltered by the chiesetta (10) headed by Don Andrea.
The gentle chime wakes me up, I am exhausted, I quickly set out since I don’t need to fold the tent.
Here is the Piedmont now, with its immense rice fields lined with cypress-trees, but I am still far from home.
I manage for quite a few miles to cycle on nice deserted roads and admire the lovely countryside.
But as I come close to Turin I have to go back to the main road in a scorching heat.
The flow of the traffic and the beer makes me drunk.
Turin is awful, dreadful, with its 20 miles of ugly thoroughfares.
10 p.m. I have a break at a watermelon shack and buys a nice slice of life along this noisy road and among the natives out for a good time.
When I am finally out of the city, I creep into a bush from which I’ll get out bitten by mosquitoes.

3rd day: Torino-Faverges (150 miles)

It is still dark but I must leave before the traffic and the mosquitoes kill me.
Here are the Alps again, in front of me, the road is deserted, trucks considered as indesirable on Sundays, and I can’t help scratching my body devoured by mosquitoes.
Susa, enough of rice, things are getting serious, I am at the bottom of Mont Cenis.
After getting a good stock of food and drinks, I am getting ready, with some apprehension, to tackle this last obstacle, which will no doubt be tough.
The speedometer displays a single digit during the 20-mile-long ascent, difficult and endless in spite of the wonderful scenery.
If there is hardly any traffic at first, it becomes busier near the summit where all the rednecks are in their RVs.
Han, han, the pass, France, the Dent Parrachee is facing me, unless it is another peak, I don’t care!
Whooee... here we go! Down, but the strong wind in the Maurienne valley makes my progress difficult, even if the traffic is fine owing to the new expressway.
Aiton, the baker’s wife, has rested her butts/put away her loaves (11) because it is Monday, so I have to tap my last resources (my fat) to get back home painfully.
It is then 7 p.m......a well-earned rest/the fighter’s rest (12).

• (1) “Habit de lumiere” in French is used to describe the torero’s outfit; here it refers to his (perhaps?) fluorescent clothes.
• (2) Impossible to render the alliterations! “Beurs” are 2nd-generation French people whose parents are from Morocco, Algeria or Tunisia.
• (3) This name sounds like a French slang word for “masturbation”
• (4) = “I am wet”
• (5) It is the name given by claude to his bike!
• (6) Play on the name of the town Crema and “cream. In French, cafe-creme=cafe latte in Italian
• (7) = “formerly”, “in those days”
• (8) “The first on the left after the second corn cob...”
• (9) Literary allusion to a French play by Corneille: “O rage! O desespoir”; “orage” in one word means “thunderstorm”. The closest literary allusion I have found is to Faulkner!
• (10) = “little church”
• (11) Play on a French word which means “bread loaves” (therefore, the baker’s wife has put away her loaves) and in slang “buttocks”! (So she has gone away)