Average 24.8kmph
Max speed 61.6kmph
Odometer reads 5254.9km
We awake to find the previous nights rainfall gently steaming off the pavements, another hot day in store. The hotels resident parrot is making noises akin to a baby screaming which makes for a restful breakfast, which, as we are now in Italy aproper, consists purely of caffeine and sugar. Sugar in many different forms of course, sugared cereal, sugared croissants filled with gelatinous substances, sugared trifle sponges, sugared biscuits, chocolate spread, and packets of those small dry little toasts which nobody (save Philippa) really knows the purpose of. Hazel and I struggle and quiz Philippa constantly on how the Italians survive with such measly breakfasts. Philippa drinks her espresso with 3 parts sugar to one part coffee and tries to give the impression that she is not with the embarassing English girls. Alas she has been foiled as a nonItalian by one of the other guests who approaches her at the juice servery and enquires in English "Were you cold upstairs?" A strange conversation opener and this young man, whose nationality we cannot quite fathom, approaches us later to enquire in a strange mockney accent if we are "going for a ride ladies?" Yes we respond, we are cycling 100km down the coast to Ancona, having just crossed the Alps. He doesnt really have a response to this, and with nothing to impress us with, slouches off.
The day begins well enough, and we try our usual trick of sticking as close as possible to the water, in the hope that we dont get lost. It works generally with rivers, and you know where you are with the sea, but this is no isolated mountain range. The whole of the coastline is built up, and town merges into town. Hotels and beach bars abound, but this being "winter" its all shut down, despite the warm weather theres not a soul on the sands. The roads however, are packed, mostly with old folk seemingly defying gravity by cycling at less than 2mph, at which speed logic should decree you would fall off. Still they seem to manage it, cycling three abreast on the road, making it impossible for us, let alone a car to pass them. They glide serenely through red lights, and pedestrian crossings but nobody seems to mind. Maybe they are all mindful of the fact that if once of these cyleiatrics has to stop, they might never get the momentum up to get going again. We are swept along in their slipstream, heading in a generally southerly direction and soon find out where they are all headed, the local supermarket. Philippa and I decide to restock the panniers with biscuits and other sweet treats and join in the shoulder barging and shouting that seems to constitute the elderly Italian shopping experience. It takes a while for the queue to progress as an old lady has now decided at the point of payment, that actually, she needs some Tuc biscuits. Very specifically she is shouting in Italian "Dove lo biscotti Tooook?" to which nobody responds. An elderly gentlemen in front of us lets us take his place in the queue whilst he for some reason wants to rearrange the basket system at the till. He refuses our offers of help and then joins another queue, dragging ten baskets behind him and complaining we have taken his spot.
After all this excitement we decide to leave the old folk behind and hit our new favourite road, the SS16 Adriatic superhighway. We plan to follow him for quite some time, as he will take us all the way down to the middle of the country when we plan to hit the mountains, and cross over toward the west coast and Sicily, being careful to avoid Napoli, which nobody in Italy appears to have a high opinion of. We watched on the television the other night a programme about gangs in Napoli who have taken over the streets and charge people to park in public free spaces, in return for "protecting" their cars. Fearing a fate worse than death for our steeds should we decide to leave them on the mean streets. The road continues in a beautifully straight and flat manner. The peloton is in full swing and we pass many other groups of middle aged men on £3000 bikes cycling in full team lycra at a speed of approx 12mph. Just to clarify, that is SLOW. They seem much more interested in taking up the full width of the road and chatting to each other, and of course, shouting at us. In a friendly way though, so its all good. As a point of interest, the main songs which have been in my head whilst cycling recently are "Thats Amore" and "Send in the Clowns" as sung by Judi Dench. I dont know where or how or why these songs have suddenly taken me over but they have, and I just let them continue to circle. Without ipods or other such distractions, it would appear my inner radio station is really quite old school. For a sneak into my head, click here.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yE3dLzIYKs8
Unfortunately we miss our turn off for the busy port of Ancona and end up on a dual carriageway around it, populated heavily by lorries and fast cars. Its slightly nerve wracking travelling at 10mph compared to everyone elses 110, especially as we have to keep crossing the feeder lanes going up a continuous steep hill. Before long of course, uphill becomes down and we are juggernauts, chugging down through numerous dark tunnels (where have these mountains appeared from again?!) hodling our breath and hoping a lorry will not try to squeeze past. As ever the spirit guides are watching over us and we arrive into town without incident. On spotting our favourite tourist attraction we make a brief stop. Lidl in Italy is seemingly not that popular, at least not with sane people. As we turn into the car park an bearded old man (who may or may not be extremely drunk) passes us in one of those ridiculous little Fiat Pandas, which look like they are powered by putting your feet through them inevitable holes in its bodywork and scooting along with your feet. On passing us he begins shouting and singing along to his cassette (it must be a cassette). We think this is the end of our encounter, but on reaching the turning to the main road, he must decide we might not have heard him, and perhaps we would like to befriend him. So he reverses all the way back up the ramp and stops on a steep hill, singing even more loudly now, whilst looking at us and gesturing. We are not really sure what he expects us to do in return, so we try to ignore him, although everybody else in the car park is looking over and laughing at him/us. Peculiar. It continues for a good ten minutes and we are approached by another gentlemen, who appears to be befriending everyone in the car park, for no apparent reason. We decide to send only one person into the safety of Lidltown and Phil and I stay outside, safety in numbers. Eventually Mr Fiat Panda realises nobody is going to go home with him and drives off. Mr Car Park strikes up conversation with me, in German, which is a usual occurence for me when in Europe. Although I understand him perfectly, I decide to inform him that I do not speak ze Deutsch. Alas he is also in fluent in English and so goes into detail about Manchester Citys latest signings. I dont really have anything to add on the matter but he turns out to be a lovely chap and when I tell him I live in London he is really very impressed. Hes from Bangladesh and thinks London is a very good city, where lots of Bangladeshis live. Yes indeed I say, people from all over the world live in London. Its a shame he hasnt made it to London too, he seems a little wasted on Ancona Lidl car park, what with his three or four langauges he seems able to speak in. After a while I realise why he is there. As people come out from the supermarket, he takes their trolley from their car and back to the queue of trolleys, and some people allow him to keep the Euro that pops out. It makes me a little sad, but he seems like really quite a jolly chap who enjoys chatting to people so good luck to him.
We cruise around town for a while and pass a couple of elderly cycletourists acting in much the same manner*. We eventually find the only open albergo in city centre and book into the Roma & Pace. I initially misread the sign as RomaFace, and was a little disappointed to find ourselves not in a Lady Gaga themed hotel, but the most dated room I have seen, including the Czech Republics Eastern Bloc offerings. The hotels claim to fame is that a young Stalin attempted to secure work there as a night porter in 1907. As a homage to this, it would appear they have kept all the original fixtures and fittings from that momentous day. I absolutely love the place. Its like sleeping in Mussolinis office, it has every trace of its history marked on the door handles. The phone is a dial and drag affair and Im reminiscing for times I wasnt alive for. We eat our Lidl dinner and enjoy a nice Passagiato and Gelato before bed, and strange dreams of Stalin, who now looks a lot like the singing old man in the car.
*Later befriended by Philippa, we learn the two were completing the last leg of their journey which they had started the year previous....incidentally it was the same North Cape to Sicily sojourn as us!
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