| The road I take to South Tyrol is neither autobahn nor neighborhood-- it is a two lane road that makes its way unhurriedly across farmlands and villages, perfectly keyed to a visor-up pace. German and Italian lanugages are intermixed here, so route checks only seem to line up on the bigger, dual-labelled towns: Meran/Merano, Bolzan/Bolzano. I go a bit too far South, but instead of turning around on the modern road, I decide to take a Zen approach, and head North-ish by threading my way up the hillside road. The terrain is so untouched that an intersection actually looks out of place. I stop to read the sign, stuck, like a scarecrow in the middle of a sprawling vineyard, and wave to a farmer as he dhag-a-chugs by. The road he takes leads to a hilltop house and is marked only by the muddy chevrons of the tractor's tires- I decide that's not my road today. The other signs point to towns that sound like delicious dinners, including my destination, Cavalese. |
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| Even the nameless vineyard roads in the Dolomites lead to remarkable places, like this scence North of Cavalese, Italy. |
| I enquire about the hotel at the local Moto shop, and the owner's face lights up, as the proprieter is a friend of his. He unhurriedly tells me about his bike trip in Mexico, which is remarkable as I don't speak a syllable of Itlaian. The directions include a pantomime of prayer, which guides me to park at the plaza behind the catherdral downtown. I am still freshly adrenilized from the twisty roads, and my first steps on the town's zig-zaggy cobblestone roads has that special magnetic something to it that makes you want to re-live a non event in infinite loops. Eldery men and women are having ice cream at sidewalk tables, the church bells ring out the half hour (though I happily don't know which hour..), and little roads disappear behind radii built for horse carts. A classic Moto Guzzi at the doorway tells me I've found the hotel. The check in is a bit more relaxed as the hostess, Ingrid, slides me a key and asks if I want "one cold beer". I opt for a lemonade, dump my bags in the room, and follow Ingrid to a patio where I soak in the scene of sunset over the Dolomites and the indescribable essence of this wonderful town. The day end's with a hearty dinner with wine from the local vines, decompression in the hotel spa, complete with sauna, steam room, and mineral water showers. In the morning I am woken up by the sound of open-piped Harelys. Today is July fourth, and what better way to express one's freedom than to ride over the "passos" of the Dolomites. Ingrid hooks me up with a day route that is a storybook of sights and sensations. There are bikes of every type, from couples on Goldwings to young locals bripping their way up the serpentines on thumpers. There are cows next to and at times--on the roads, and there are crews hacking away at the sysyphean task of propping up alpen roads while a zillion tons of rock tries to shave them off the mountain's face. The smells of flowers in blossom doesn't espcape me, nor do the freshly fertilized fields, lumber mills, or rain-sprinkled pines in the forsests. The route covers many landscapes: Each village tapers off to a meadow's edge where the road is eaten up by a forest. The forest roads lead to the rocky moonscape at the mountain top, which in turn leads to another village where wood-trailered farm tractors haul beets, cars squeeze through medieval roads one direction at a time, and miniature shirines await the faithful with burning candles and fresh flowers. |