Originally published in “On the Level,” the official magazine of the BMW Riders Association.
It can be a little disconcerting when you’re on a guided motorcycle trip and your leader fishtails up a muddy slope before toppling into the weeds at walking speed. It’s kind of like watching your math teacher stumble over a single-digit equation. Should I trust this guy?
At least that was how I felt until the next day, when I did exactly the same thing. It was at that moment, as I looked at my BMW R 1200 GS upside down in the weeds, that I came to a familiar realization: hubris is the enemy. Especially on a motorcycle. On the plus side, I’ve never had such an impeccable view of a bash guard before. It occurred to me that it should have an inscription that says: “If you can read this, flip me over.”
Fortunately no humans or bikes were hurt even slightly in these incidents, which were part of a 10-day trip last September in Tuscany, the Dolomites, and Austria. You could say that pride took a big hit, though. Doppio means double in Italian and is usually applied to espresso. But in this instance, we were doppio dopes doing our best to keep the rubber side, well, up.
The trip feels a little like one of those polar expeditions where the explorer starts out basking on a temperate beach and ends up cracking his way through an ice floe. Our departure point, Barga, is hot—perfect for gelato and mesh gear. By the time we finish in Austria, we’re cupping steaming espresso drinks, pushing the buttons on every piece of electric gear in our arsenal, and staring at snow along the roadsides. You got the impression that in another couple of weeks, you’d rather have one of those ice-racing bikes from On Any Sunday. We got out just in time.
Tuscany is a favorite destination, and we’ve been several times to the usual tourist attractions of Florence, Sienna, and the towns along the famous Chianti Road, or Strada del Vino. But as with all such beautiful places, it has become the victim of its own unerring beauty. But this part of Tuscany—to the northwest, south of Modena—is somehow different. It’s every bit as beautiful, but less beleaguered by the tourist onslaught.
The success of this trip is further assured by the presence of our old friends, Jimmy and Janet, with whom we’ve enjoyed many adventures. Jimmy has the requisite skill for motorcycle touring: he’s unflappable. I’ve never seen the guy complain, and you get the impression that if you left your phone in last night’s hotel, which is 200 miles away through a hailstorm, he’d cheerfully volunteer to go fetch it for you and deliver it with a cappuccino and biscotti. He’s also a much better off-road rider than I am, which means that throughout the first part of the trip, I follow his off-road lines like a Bassett hound on the hunt.
The trip starts with a five-day on- and off-road tour in Tuscany, hosted by Edelweiss Bike Travel. I own a GS at home and often ride moderate dirt roads. I also have a little Honda 250 dirt bike that I use regularly. But piloting a big dualie in technical terrain with a passenger is a different skill set entirely, so I’m glad that the first day includes an off-road clinic. The afternoon includes a mix of difficult off-road terrain (strada bianca, or white roads) and broken pavement. The GS is a handful for the first part—but is the perfect choice for the latter.
The next day we ascend the tiny, serpentine San Pellegrino Pass (where we naturally fill up our water bottles) en route to the famed ruins of Castle Canossa, where Roman Emperor Henry IV went to seek Pope Gregory VII’s absolution in the 11th Century. Thus “Walking to Canossa” has come to signify penance or humiliation. Little did we know that we were awaiting our own kind of two-wheeled penance later in the day, when traversing a muddy farmer’s field. Meredith senses the coming catastrophe and makes one of her impeccable calls from the pillion position: “I’m off” (two words that will sound very familiar by trip’s end). At that moment we look up to see our instructor, Thomas, lose traction in the mud and begin a losing battle with gravity. His BMW F 850 GS decides to take a nap and then commence a lurid slide down the slope, sans rider. Nice to know that even guides are subject to the immutable laws of physics.
Jimmy and I slither our way to the top, without wives, and it feels like a victory. When we stop for a little self-congratulation, a handful of locals emerge from neighboring houses to view the entire clown show. They don’t speak English, and Meredith doesn’t speak Italian, but she circles her ear with an index finger and the message is conveyed with literal perfection: These guys are nuts. The smiling Italians return the gesture, and before we know it the neighborhood phone tree has been activated, and the town elders, accompanied by kids and barking dogs, emerge from nearby houses. A great chatter ensues, with clouds of cigarette smoke curling to the sky, as they comment on the entire, warped assemblage. All we can do is smile and agree. Pazzo! Insane!
After a day like that, and with the motorcycles safely stowed, we enjoy one of our five-course epicurean adventures in the company of the Black Rooster (Gallo Nero)—the small insignia on the neck of every bottle that designates its status as Chianti Classico. A perfect ending to perfect day—despite our misadventures….
I’m always impressed with the character of riders in Europe, who seem to approach motorcycling as a skill to be developed—or at least requiring more finesse than falling off a barstool. They wear the gear. They ride in all kinds of weather. You don’t often see guys riding around in gym shorts and sandals seeking their next skin graft.
Nowhere is this more evident than during our stop atop the Passo della Raticosa, between Florence and Bologna, in the Apennine Mountains. It’s the Tuscan equivalent of our own Alice’s Restaurant in Northern California, where riders assemble and trade colossal lies about what great riders they are. The café walls are festooned with No. 46 decals, and a bulletin board proffers up a motley selection of used bikes that may have only been wadded up one or two times on the local passes. It’s comforting, in a perverse way, to realize that some human traits transfer so cleanly across oceans and cultures.
Later that day we take a dirt road to the top of Mt. Battaglia, near Sassoleone. As we round the corner, we spy the bright blue Edelweiss van with its doors thrown open. A nearby table is spread with meats, salads, and an assortment of formaggio. Our hulking, tattooed guide, who could easily pass for a Harley mechanic, appears in a kitchen apron proffering a silver tray with fluted glasses of non-alcoholic bubbly. A catered picnic in the middle of the Tuscan countryside!
After lunch, we explore the remnants of the old church. Mt. Battaglia served as a defensive line for centuries, but most poignantly in the fall of 1944 and spring of 1945, when Allied forces encountered strong German resistance. Beautiful sculptures, in the form of partial human forms prostrate on the ground, perfectly convey the horrors that occurred here. The air of sacrifice and gravity is unmistakable, and for a moment, a heavy air descends on our celebration. A single thought pervades the group: thank you for your service.
The weather has been impeccable so far, which makes it only natural that we’d have an afternoon of biblical rain. This is weather with all its fancy accouterments: thunder, lighting, 50 feet of visibility, standing water, and streams of mud across the road. I spend a lot of time in first gear, peering into the mists, vainly trying to follow Jimmy’s taillight. My skinny wife fires up her electric vest, and I’m glad she has it, as she’d be going hypothermic otherwise. When we finally stop for lunch she proffers a weak smile at the whole affair. She’s a good sport, but I’m secretly glad there are no sharp implements nearby or she might kill me.
After five days with the group, and a fitting celebration of our accomplishment at the final night’s lodging, Meredith and I strike out on our own, to points north. We navigate the dizzying roundabouts of Reggio Emilia, and stop for lunch. I’ve been to Italy many times, for work and pleasure, but sadly my language skills remain barely sufficient to find the bathroom. We’re clearly flummoxed by the menu. Across the room, we notice a gentleman reading the paper and periodically casting a sympathetic toward the Americani. Before long, and perhaps to prevent us from mistakenly ordering ice cream for the main course, he comes to our assistance. Turns out he’s on his lunch break from the factory across the street. He’s also a motorcyclist and speaks broken English. For the next 15 minutes, he serves as an effective intermediary between us and the kind waitress. As we enjoy delicious insalatas, our new friend proceeds to spread out a map and tell us which roads we should take on our way north. It’s a wonderful interaction, and incidents like this make me think about the times I’ve struck up conversations with traveling motorcyclists in the U.S. The pay-it-forward ethic bounces around the world in a halting, sporadic way, but makes it a better place overall. I commit to do more of it….
Freed of the constraints of the group tour, Meredith and I splurge and book a historic hotel in Salo, on the shores of Lago di Garda. We go for a morning run along the path that traces the shore, then return to the typically sumptuous breakfast that has become de rigueur on this trip, with acres of cheeses, meats, breads, egg dishes, and other foods to power us through the day.
We do a loop ride to Lago d’Idro before dropping down to Riva, known as the windsurfing capital of the world. Meredith and I have ridden here before, and we know how daft the lake region (Garda and Como) can be at the height of the tourist season. But there’s none of that this fine September weekday, as the tourists have mostly winged their way to southern climes, like so many geese. We enjoy a coffee on the historic esplanade, watching hordes of windsurfers play the waves like waterbugs.
The next day we head north from Garda, where the country gets ever more vertiginous. We’re still in Italy, but the towns are increasingly Germanic, in cuisine, language, and culture. We summit the famous Passo Sella (7,277 feet), which forms the gateway to all good things in the Dolomites. We’ve ridden here before, and it’s some of the best motorcycling in the world.
On our final day we go through Bolzano and then north through a broad, scenic valley to Merano, where we have lunch at an outdoor café on the famed Passiria, a mountain stream that runs through town. From there we go into Austria and complete our final pass, the famed Timmelsjoch, elevation 8,117 feet, with its enormous switchbacks that seem to arch toward the sky. The pass is a big bucket list item for traveling motorcyclists, and the chilly, snowbound summit even hosts a moto museum. I’m loving it, but Meredith isn’t so sure, as some of the riders have, well, less-than-perfect cornering lines that threaten to launch them into the void.
We return the bike to Edelweiss in a tiny town outside Innsbruck, after 1,100 miles. I wake up to church bells, the anthem of every small mountain town in Europe. It’s Sunday, which seems like a revelation—normally I’m acutely aware of my proximity to Monday and the daily grind. It occurs to me that if you have an existence that requires asking what day of the week it is, you’re living life as it should be. On the roads of Italy and Austria, they’re all Sundays.