On My Horizon, A Mountain

No, I am not being poetic about life’s obstacles, and overcoming the challenges we each have to face.

I am referring to an actual flippin’ giant mountain.

So back when I was planning out this sabbatical, I decided that it would be a nice idea to see if I could attend a writing retreat at some point. To meet some other writers and have writerly conversations with the other writers. And then go write stuff.

I of course harbor highly romanticized notions about writers’ retreats and the magical combination of peace and productivity one would inevitably find there, having never actually been to one.

But this May I am spending 2 weeks at a writers’ retreat, in the bucolic Marche region of eastern Italy, at a farm nestled in the hills, surrounded by orchards, with my own room and plenty of indoor and outdoor space in which to be a highly productive writer.

Currently I am in Rome, which is on the western side of Italy.

And me being me, I decided that the optimal way to travel to my writers’ retreat would be:

On a bicycle.

My plan is to take 5 days at the beginning of May to bike across Italy, arriving at my writers’ retreat in the hills near San Severino, Marche.

And the single only real problem with this plan is: the middle of Italy is full of mountains.

Real mountains. Like with 4-digit altitudes no matter how you measure them. 1305 meters. Which is 4281 feet. For once I prefer metric. That is the measure of the mountain currently sitting in the middle of this ride.

Can I complete this ambitious, vertiginous ascent? I have absolutely no idea.

My Italian buddy, Carlo, an old friend and experienced cyclist who has offered to come along on this excursion, with his Italian experienced cyclist girlfriend, Giulia, currently thinks the answer is No, and Carlo is very concerned.

Which I find to be very charming and gallant! To have such concern for a friend. Carlo’s knowledge and insight in many areas is deep. And in addition to being charming and gallant, he is a person of culture, very self-assured, and one who can finesse most situations. He is at home in almost any milieu, unfazed by and equal to the heights of intellectualism, never seduced by superficial glamour, but also at home in the streets, a genuinely debonair Man About Town in Rome.

Hang on a minute. That’s not Carlo.

That’s Marcello Mastroianni in La Dolce Vita. The 1960 film by Federico Fellini.

Carlo is this guy.

I have always had trouble telling them apart.

Anyway, Carlo, who I will admit is often right about things, contends that I may be a bit undertrained for the extremely challenging ascent part of this planned ride.

While I, acknowledging that his opinion may be both factual and correct, maintain my central reflex to most upcoming challenges in my life, which is: How hard can it be? It’s just a little old mountain which will probably take me about six hours to ride up. If I don’t collapse first.

Do stay tuned. I have less than a month to prepare for this. (And send any and all advice! Immediately)