Beyond The Zone of Comfort

I was initially going to call this post “On The Road – Bike Training Updates,” and it was going to chronicle my exciting succession of training bike rides inside and outside of Rome.

To me this is an incredibly fascinating and enthralling subject: the minutiae of bike rides. How well the gears shifted, what bike snacks were consumed, what speeds attempted and attained — to someone of my two-wheel tendencies, this is the stuff of truly great narratives.

I used to come home from charity bike rides raring to share all of the highlights of my 30- or 40- or 60-mile ride immediately with my son. He would listen patiently for about three-quarters of a minute, before reminding me that the member of our household who would actually enjoy hearing all of this was Spot the cat. Rather than him. Then he’d smile and head off to write some computer code, or program some piece of hardware, or invent cold fusion in his bedroom.

And I’d go find Spot, who’d be sleeping somewhere but was always thrilled to see his humans, and Spot would follow me onto my bed and sprawl next to me and purr, while I told him all about my recent bike ride. My son was spot-on to remind me that Spot was an incredibly good listener. We got Spot when he was 13, already an old cat, and Spot stayed around with us till just before he turned 23, and I have to say, as Spot progressed from old cat to unbelievably old cat, his skill at being the audience just got better.

Spot was always all ears.

So this is not a post focusing only on my bicycle training rides, although there will be some details shared thereof.

If it were a post focusing only on my training rides, it would have to come with a warning.

Warning: “This material is extremely bikey. There are a lot of bicycle mentions. Bicycles feature heavily in the coming paragraphs.”

Instead, this is a post with some biking, but it is about the experience of moving way outside the space where one feels comfortable. Because that seems to be a dominant theme these days, as I sabbaticalize here and there. My life has become a sneaker-brand t-shirt slogan: Feel the fear and do it anyway. Just do it. Just do it already.

I Got a Haircut in Italian, and Did Not End Up Bald.

This seems worth a mention because I got a haircut in a foreign language. A haircut can go terribly askew even in one’s own language. The potential danger lurked in my wanting some parts close-shaved. But I ended up with exactly the right haircut.

I Declared It Was Personal Restaurant Week

Because it is so much easier for me to buy food in a grocery store and then cook at home. That is the challenge-free thing to do. There is no stress when there is no menu, no waiters, no figuring out how things work in this particular establishment. And frankly, eating in restaurants in a foreign language on one’s own as a late-middle-aged lady can be incredibly intimidating.

Some of you are nodding in agreement; some of you are baffled. My shorthand for the baffled is that you may be seated and then completely ignored, or generally treated as an unwanted guest. It happens. Some restaurants are delighted that you are there, and at others, you get the distinct feeling that you are not the sort of customer they had in mind.

But off I went, to some restaurants beyond my comfort zone, because Personal Restaurant Week had been declared.

I had a lovely dinner at Cookstock, a 60s-themed restaurant and pizzeria with Summer of Love and Motown decor, and pizzas named after famous musicians of the era. I was very happy to be seated at the Barry White table.

Because Barry White was The Walrus of Love, you know. And I felt the love that evening, from the friendly and welcoming staff. Personal Restaurant Week had started off well.

I also went to the Ristorante Antico Arco for lunch one day, a place which lists on its wine menu a bottle of Romanée-Conti 2018 Grand Cru White Burgundy for 9000 euros. That’s 9600 bucks! Or 7700 GB Pounds! Or 69,410.70 Chinese Yuan/Renminbi! Or rather a substantial sum of money!

I ordered a glass of prosecco. And decided that I probably could not taste the difference between the lower and higher priced wines on their menu, to be honest.

Personal Restaurant Week was, overall, surprisingly educational.

I Rode Longer Distances on my Bike

I started with some daily shorter rides hither and yon, and then began adding some daily miles on the mostly flat bike paths, or ciclabili, which spill from the city into the countryside. One day I rode 25 miles, and another day I rode 40. In the span of 6 days I logged 104 miles.

Some bike paths follow the Tiber river, so you get excellent views of the city from a novel perspective. You pass under the historic bridges, while palaces and churches loom overhead.

Then the path leaves the city, and you are in the countryside, with its array of some very weird giant flora.

And then at some point, it’s just you and the cows.

I often flash back to the day when I did my first-ever 40-mile bike ride through the hills of Pittsburgh and realized at some point that I was a huge distance from home with 25 cents in my shirt pocket and no underwear.

It was probably 1997 or so, and my route took me north, before following the Allegheny River east to Tarentum, west back to the Pittsburgh Zoo, and then up some hills to Squirrel Hill.

The Moment struck when I realized I’d biked all the way to Hartwood Acres, a posh mansion which hosts outdoor theater and concerts, wearing bike shorts, a sports bra, and a sleeveless blouse. But no underwear! Yes, one eschews underwear with the padded bike shorts, but the point was acknowledging the sheer recklessness of jumping on a bike and heading off to points unknown, alone, and arguably somewhat under-attired.

But it’s what we bike riders do.

I Rode Up A Mountain

My Roman pal Carlo, justifiably concerned that we have a cross-country ride coming up and I really need to see how I fare on real climbs, thoughtfully suggested a bike trek up the tallest mountain in the entire region of Lazio.

This would be Monte Guadagnolo (elevation 1218 meters or 3996 feet), in the Prenestini range east of Rome. (You can tell it’s a real mountain if it is located in a range. A range is an entire herd of mountains.)

And I said, Sure!

If you’ve been reading along on these posts, you’ve met Carlo already. He’s a neighborhood guy, with real roots in his community, and known to many. He almost has a following, you could say, because people enjoy seeing him around. He’s recognized as trustworthy, and as such he’s a regular recipient of deep confidences. I mean, I think people would actually make appointments to see him, to spend time in his presence.

Oh, hang on a minute.

That’s the long-established Garbatella neighborhood barber, Carlo. People do make appointments to see him.

This is my friend, Carlo:

So Carlo’s plan was for him, me, and his partner, Giulia, to take a train with our bikes to somewhere near the bottom of this mountain, and then ride up it. There’d be a water stop, and a lunch stop, and eventually a nice barreling-down return ride.

I felt a mixture of nerves and excitement. I had trepidation, but also some exhilaration. In short, I had trexhilaration.

There was so much UP on this ride. I shall try to convey how much UP there was on this ride.

Are you getting how much UP was on this ride? Here is a picture looking back down to the general area where we started the ride. And we are not nearly done.

Sometimes I would finish a bit of UP and start to feel relaxed and turn a corner, only to discover more UP.

There are no other riders in these pictures because I was always way behind Carlo and Giulia. I stopped for water breaks, and to catch my breath. They stopped at round-abouts and turns so I could eventually catch up.

And for several hours, we climbed. There was a lunch stop, and then we got back on our bikes.

I had decided that I was not going to make it all the way up to the top of Monte Guadagnolo, as that ended in a very steep ascent. But we all wanted to know: Could I make it to 1000 meters (or 3280 feet) of elevation?

It was hot, hard work.

But I did it. I rode more UP to a point that was past the 1000 meters mark, and which looked like this:

Carlo was perched roadside in the sun atop a hill with Giulia, waiting for me to appear. His sped-up video of my arrival captures all the effort and the ridiculousness. If it were black and white, I’d be Buster Keaton.

Here are Carlo’s stats, below; I rode quite a bit slower, with a bit less mileage, as he tends to ride back to check on the slower riders before zooming ahead again, so he covers more ground.

Despite having no idea if I could do any of this, I did my best to stay focused, not get overwhelmed, and appreciate with gratitude the beautiful scenery unfolding around me. I rode about 3:45 hours and 3700+ feet of elevation, as there was even some more UP on the way down. But I loved bombing down the hills, standing on the pedals in my athletic body tuck, feeling very aerodynamic indeed. And the next day, I felt perfectly fine, and went for a short bike ride in the park. Are you listening, Spot?

The Ukulele Jam in an Irish Pub in Rome

You put your ukulele and your tuner in your backpack, and you just go. Even though you have to find the pub, know no one there when you arrive, and will be playing ukulele with strangers, in Italian.

Oddly, when I arrived, my considerable anxieties about this event (hosted by the Orchestra Ukulele Italiana) had vanished. I think my worries fizzled when I asserted to myself, “You know what? I don’t care. I’m just going to go have fun.”

Once you’ve located the correct pub, a group of ukulele players is remarkably easy to find.

I strolled over and said (in Italian) that I don’t play ukulele very well, and I don’t speak Italian very well, but here I am. Then I went and got a beer.

There were six other players, all very full of merriment, serious ukulele skills, and after a few songs, quite a lot of beer. It was a really fun evening.

These pictures are not great, but there was some wonderful playing and singing. None of it was by me, but I had fun anyway. Because I’d made it way out of my comfort zone, and that alone is a pretty good story.