Traveling Home

I love seeing people as accumulations of everything they've ever done, every interaction they have had.  As if we are all sponges absorbing each moment of our lives, some moments connecting deeply and drastically changing our composition, others passing superficially and leaving a light residue.  Either way, every glance, reaction and interaction a person has is a product of all the moments that have come before.  Life is beautiful that way.

Hey, Missouri ain't so bad!  View from my Uncle's house at the Lake of the Ozarks.

It's interesting to see how much the same and how differently we perceive places from our past when we return after so many moments spent elsewhere.  For instance, the warm, outdoorsy smell of the coatroom in my childhood home transports me directly back to myriad moments growing up.  I am Tumbleweed, waddling up from the pond with specks of mud in my bright blonde hair.  I have just returned home from a high school cross country practice, filled with hope and certainty.  I absorb this smell in my clothes, and it always lets me know my last stop was home.  It hasn't changed, and I still feel a warm peacefulness when it greets me.  

Experience has given me the tools to see some parts of home differently.  For instance, the Kansas City area is, perhaps, not the most progressive area in regards to road cycling.

I get it, when I was a teenager driving our curvy, shoulder-less roads in my big red truck, I would despairingly shake my head at the crazy cyclists I had to swerve around.  My part of Missouri is not optimally safe for bicyclists.  However, it's architecturally no more dangerous than the sweeping, narrow roads of Tuscany, which is a verifiable cyclist haven.  I decided to give MO a chance on my new bike, which deserved to log some miles, and maybe I'd find that I could bike at home.

I met up with a group of riders at a local bike shop on Saturday morning.  I was the only female in our group of 20, and the only rider below 40 years of age.  Despite leading bike trips every week with Backroads guests of an almost identical demographic, I was intimidated.  I realized that I had forgotten to attach my new water bottle cages, so I quickly grabbed my multi-tool and screwed one on in the parking lot.  Total noob.  

I easily settled into pace with the boys (my God, I should after riding in Tuscany!).  We were aiming for a diner about 16 miles out, then we'd retrace our pedals back to the shop.  We took relatively quiet roads, with decent visibility for cars.  With every "Car back!" we would more or less fall into single file, not with military precision, but respectful enough.  

Ten miles into our ride I heard a driver laying on the car horn behind us.  We were already single file on a long straight section, but the car wasn't passing us.  When I heard a loud, "You stupid Mother #&%@!D$, get off the road!", I realized the driver was taking his time to greet each one of us individually before driving on.  The guys at the front of our group were training for an upcoming race, so they were drafting and pacing with each other in a group.  The nice gentleman driving the huge silver SUV really had fun with this group, swerving back and forth pretending to hit them.

I can empathize with drivers being frustrated by cyclists on small roads.  What I refuse to understand is how someone thinks it's funny to play their gigantic SUV against a human being on a bicycle.  Do you know how easy it would be to kill the person on the bike??

The driver finally pulled ahead, and we all breathed a sigh of good riddance.  Until we came over the next hill.  By the time I got there ten guys were off their bikes and huddling in the middle of the road.  I slowed to a stop at the back, and heard the story lightning bolt down the line of riders.  The redneck driver in the SUV had left his car in someone's driveway and waited for our group on the side of the road.  When the front group arrived, the dude reached out and pushed one of the riders into the ditch.  What.  An.  Idiot.

Rider pile up; you can barely see the jerk who pushed the rider off the road waving his arm in the very front.

Besides having technically assaulted a person, the driver quickly found himself in the middle of 20 cyclists who were not on his side.  Poor planning.  Colorful words continued to be exchanged back and forth, and a lawyer in our group called the police.  The Sheriff and three cop cars later, the altercation was eventually dissolved, but not without the Sheriff asking, "Why are you guys riding on this road anyway?"

Apparently, Missouri state law states that cyclists can ride two abreast on approved public motorways (we were on a legal riding road).  But, as we learned, just because we're on the right side of the law doesn't mean we're safe.  Missouri is not different from Tuscany in the quality of its biking roads, it's different in its mentality.  Drivers in Italy are part of the cycling culture, they are used to and respect riders on the road.  Missouri drivers feel that we are illegal aliens on their territory, which makes us targets.

I'm going to keep riding in Missouri, because I want the cycling culture to change.  But you can be goddam sure my helmet will be on and my senses alert.  

Add another moment to my sponge.

Safer riding trails around Smithville Lake.  Step by step...

Buona Tornata

I'm ba-aaaaaack!  It's amazing how normal it feels to be back in the small tuscan town of San Giovanni Valdarno.  The smell of Italian espresso wafting from the buildings made me giddy, despite all the gawking locals staring at the crazy girl rolling two suitcases down main street on a Friday night.  I went immediately to the grocery store and stocked up on prosciutto, cheese and wine.  Maybe I'll burn myself out on these italian staples this year?  Probably not.

Yep, yep, yep!

Time for the good stuff

So, I had an interesting experience yesterday at the Florence airport bus stop.  It made me sincerely wonder if this would take place in the U.S.:
There was a line of people about 50 meters long waiting to board the shuttle to the downtown Santa Maria Novella train station.  After about 15 minutes, a man and woman joined the scene, but immediately went straight to the front part of the cue.  To their credit, we weren't the most organized line, and they had simply chosen to stand under the actual waiting shelter.  A Spanish man approached them and tried to explain the process of our cue and where to appropriately join.  The blonde couple simply shook their heads and smiled.  No Spanish, check.  An Italian man helpfully followed suit, thinking since they were traveling here he'd have a good shot at getting through.  Nada.  A nice German girl gave a third effort.  Nill.

I figured if European languages were failing, I probably had the best shot.  I approached the couple and asked, "Do you speak English?"
"Nein." The man replied, though apparently he didn't understand German.

So there we were, standing with the first couple traveling the world who had never seen a line of people waiting for a bus.  And maybe the first people I've met in Europe that understood nothing of Spanish, Italian, German nor English.

The bus finally arrived, and it was apparent that the people in the front of the line were standing their ground, myself included.  The blonde couple stayed where they were, allowing the assertive ones to board ahead of them.  Partway through the cue, a couple of soft-hearted young girls let the couple in.  When they boarded the bus everyone started clapping (except my German seat-mate and myself; were too busy laughing), and loudly complimented their balls.  Though they probably missed the compliments coming in languages they didn't understand.  Their faces were red, but they smirked unabashedly and took their seats.  Winning?

I haven't taken many public buses in the United States, but I've certainly never experienced anything like this.  I tried to imagine what I would expect Americans to do in this situation.  Would we become violent and force the couple to the back of the line?  Or would we be proper and ignore the fact that we were butted in order to save face?  I don't know, maybe we'd bravely approach them and kindly explain the situation, then sarcastically applaud them when they beat the system.

I'm not convinced that this is a culturally specific interaction, but I'm also not convinced that it isn't.  It struck me as very unique, and I couldn't stop giggling at the brazen balls of everyone involved.  What would you do?