Three days ago it was about 7C / 45F and it was raining down buckets. I plead hearty New Englander and just don the appropriate neoprene and Goretex combination to handle the task. The task, of course, is to not lose a limb or smaller appendage of your body to hypothermia. A lesser man (namely my teammates, and virtually everyone in Italy apparently since I didn’t see a soul on the typically cycling strewn Saturday morning streets) would not brave the elements, especially when the calendar has hardly cracked December. But I plan on winning everything in sight in 2013, so excuses aren’t part of my training routine. Two words, my friends: game. on.

Two days ago was simply absurd, but goes without mention. Whereas yesterday was quite simply frigid. But complete with crystal clear blue skies, so I was pumped to stay dry even though the thermometer read well below freezing. (Oh, mind you that I packed for this three week trip to Italy having seen forecasted temperatures never dropping below 10C / 50F. Apparently Mother Nature doesn’t exchange notes with the friendly folks at the Weather Channel where I did my reconnaissance. But nearly five hours later and without ever breaking into a shiver, I call it a success.)

Today, however, was the most epic combination of both cold and rain that I’ve ever experienced. And that’s not hyperbole. Rolling out the door, the temperature was hovering around 3C / 37F. Meanwhile, the rain was truly indescribable. I’m staying at my friend and new Danish teammate Brian Vandborg’s house along with our Canadian amigo, new teammate, and lover of hockey, Xbox, and riding his bike fast, Guillaume Boivin. The two of them were absolutely floored that I was stepping outside – let alone attempting a ride. The combination of wind and pounding rain make the house a consistent 80ish decibels… minimum. All said and done, I still eeked out almost 2.5 hours despite dodging fallen trees, being diverted amongst roads due to flooding all throughout Lucca, contending with virtually black-out skies meet white-out rain, and nearly being blown off my bike perhaps a dozen times. Freakin’ nutty.

(And when you delve deeper and look at the temp on this ride, mind you the GPS was tucked safely under my jersey, under my raincoat. Nice and warm, nice and err… less-sopping wet.)

Let’s also celebrate my mere surviving today by giving you the coupon code: tedking2012 which will entitle you 10% off a Strava premium membership. There are some incredible things coming down the line from the Strava braintrust, especially in the premium arena. You want premium, trust me.

So hopefully this should paint the picture of Europe in the winter for you. Sure, Italy juts prominently into the balmy and majestic Mediterranean Sea, but go stare at a world map for a while. We’re flipping far north.

Anywho, 2013 team CANNONDALE PRO CYCLING(!) meetings kicked off last week up in Milan and we were greeted by pissing rain and being holed up in a hotel for four days. Which I suppose is efficient for conducting meetings, but I like to at least see sun, or at least know it’s there. Or perhaps see less flooding. And now tomorrow we are off to the start of a ten day camp in scenic southern Tuscany. I’m just going to guess that in 10 days we ride the same loop, hrmm… oh, 9 out of the 10 days. (Psst, shoot me a reminder in a week and a half and I’ll give you the update on how close my guess is to reality. We might even go 10 for 10!)

And now down to the real business: Food Porn.

Brian VB turns 31 today so we are celebrating by cleaning the house, surviving the impending elements, doing a massive round of laundry all before trekking off to camp tomorrow. So in our last moments of freedom we are hosting a dozen of his Danish cycling buddies and their family who live in town for a birthday dinner. I made a smashing pulled pork, roasted sweet potatoes with red onion, and deep ruddy red beets two days ago for our romantic dinner of three. Turns out it was such a hit that Brian asked I do it again. Birthday boy gets his wish! Given this gnarly weather of late, a heartwarming and hearty home cooked meal warms the soul.

And now, to backtrack: the best third Thursday of November in all the land has come and gone. Thanksgiving arrived complete with all the token fixin’s: a morning boost to the heart rate, hors d’oeuvres, cocktails, friends, family, schmoozing, wine, more hors d’oeuvres because they’re still out, more wine, throwing the football in our Sunda… err, Thursday’s finest attire, stuffing-potatoes-creamed onions-turkey-mashed potatoes-more stuffing-gravy-and-more-turkey-plus-celery to make it healthy creating a mountain on my plate, wine, a riveting game of smashing old pumpkins against a tree in the backyard, an aptertivo, watching the Patriots thump the Jets, wine, and watching the Campaign. This photo of dinner is blurry cause I’m in the early stages of a fine food coma. Ahh, just like the Pilgrims…

Of the ten desserts on the sweets table, my entirely homemade maple-pumpkin, gingerbread trifle was the hit to end all hits. T’was truly glorious. Again, just like the Pilgrims.

And simply for the sake of sharing more food photo-ops, I partook in an orphan Thanksgiving the week before while training in Palo Alto and created another rendition of my 2011 Thanksgiving dessert masterpiece, the Martha Stewart Mile High Pumpkin Pie. For something loco, like 30 people at this party, I decided to double up and make two pies. Despite all the self-discipline in the room, they were gone in no time flat.

Looking above, there are pies beneath that velvety smooth meringue topping, I promise. Just look at this for proof. And no, of course I don’t make my own crusts. That’s hard.

One last big meal tonight, then time for salad and team camp. Over and out.

Or so they say.

No one ever asks me how much I sleep. I do, however, receive a nearly equal smattering of questions regarding how much do I ride and what do I eat. Thanks to Strava I post a lot of my races and training rides, but on average only about 4-5 per week. Meanwhile, I use this blog and showcase the more noteworthy meals I eat. That gives an idea of what’s going in and what sort of energy I’m burning, but that obviously doesn’t paint the entire picture because I’ve never combined the two. Well wait no more my curiously analytical cycling friends, because I’m doing that exact thing right here right now! What follows is one of the most rudimentary food/hydration/fuel/training investigation you’ll ever see.

Specifically, I took a photo of nearly everything I ate today; also, photo or not, I logged everything I ate. This being iamtedking dot com, I have a story to two to add to the mix to keep it spicy. In fair warning, I don’t claim to be a nutritionist (…err, actually I do exactly that in my next column for Bicycling), but after years of being part of this professional athlete thing, I’m quite astute when it comes to estimating food sizes, portions, and corresponding nutritional value. For the sake of adding even slightly more legitimacy, I’ve also used FitDay‘s calorie tracker. There, the internet says it, so it’s gotta be true.

Today’s ride, which you see at the top, was a big one. It’s my last big training session before the Tour de France East, which this year is seven days of racing all throughout Poland and curiously is more accurately called the Tour of Poland.

Starting a day without coffee is just foolish. Note the particularly colorful bag of beans from Berti Caffe.

This roaster’y is located just 1km from my Lucca home and I ride by these guys all the time. One day the door was open and out of the corner of my eye as I zoomed by I saw the telltale cycling rainbow colors emblazoned on the back of their shop. I locked up the breaks, flipped a U-ie, ducked my head in the shop, and asked what the colors signified. When the kindly woman told me that her father is a cycling nut, I knew I had a new favorite local coffee roaster! Moreover – and remember this is a very Italian woman in a very Italian town – the woman asked me where I was from; I said New Hampshire to which she replied that NH’s finest Lake Winnipesaukie is one of her favorite places on earth. Wow, small world.

2 cups of black coffee (5 calories) down the hatch.

Again, big ride today means a big hearty breakfast.

I ate a small smattering of this fruit. It’s fresh cantaloupe, white peaches, and apricots. I only ate a few bites of this as I was preparing the rest of breakfast.

1/5 of the melon (37 calories), 1/4 peach (10), 1/2 apricot (9). Now back in the fridge for you!

From there it was breakfast time proper. Throwing an egg into oatmeal and whipping it up quickly gives it the most satisfying, custardy texture in addition to providing a nutritional boost from farm fresh eggs. You saw eww, I saw try it. So in this bowl of oatmeal we have water, oats (310 calories), an egg (60), three cherries (13), one dried fig (37), and three dried apricots (27). This being me, there is also a bit of New Hampshire maple syrup (105), some cinnamon and a dash of salt. In the background, you’ll also see a thingy of banana yogurt (150).

A short while later it was time to kit up and practice the art of bicycle riding. I met a friendly fruit-stand-man riding with Ben King two weeks ago as we rolled back into town from another legendary ride. It turns that he’s a huge cycling fan, being Italian he loves Liquigas, and I therefore wanted to bequeath him some wicked bright green and blue swag. So with a brand new team issue water bottle and cycling cap in hand, I rode 10 minutes to his corner of the globe. Note his right hand – he’s giddy as a school girl after her first kiss in this photo with his new stuff.

It’s around about this time that I should point out that I love figs. Truly I feel sorry for anyone out there who has never had the opportunity to bite into a fresh fig. And by fresh I mean you literally have a mere 12 hour window when it goes from exquisite to rotten. It is divine! (One fig eaten on the spot, 37 calories.)

I was about to ride bid him farewell and ride away when he hollered something, scurried into his barn, grabbed a bunch of fruit and handed it over. I had to laugh since it was literally a handful of fruit. Actually it was two handfuls. First, I received more than is in this photo. He handed me three massive peaches and six of those mini pears. Secondly, no, I did not eat everything in this photo. I pocketed all of it in a show of my grateful thanks, but ended up having to toss what I didn’t eat.

I had somewhere between 5 to 5.5 hours on the training program today with a handful of relatively short bursting intervals. It was hot today too. As we say at home “H-O-double-T, hot!” As you’ll see in the SRM file below, the average temp was 31.5C (88F), but that includes a relatively cool morning. The brunt of the ride was in the 37-40C range (98-104F) with a max of 45C (113F) in one particular valley that radiates heat on a road right next to it’s bone-day river bed. That’s like riding into a hairdryer.

I mention all that because I drink a frigging ton on days like today. Allen Lim is a friend of mine and he knows a thing or two about hydration. I value his opinion and know that staying ahead of dehydration is enormously important especially on longer days like today. At 6’2″ I’m tall and therefore have a lot of surface area to pour sweat. During the harder parts of the the training intervals, in the hotter sections of the ride, I don’t think it’s humanly possible to sweat any more than I was – my flipping calves were sweating at those times.

Sorry to be gross, if you find sweat nasty. My point is that in the course of these 5.38333 hours, I drank at any and every opportunity. Thankfully all throughout Italy – and lots of European for that matter – there are these magical water springs. They’re both in the middle of nowhere like the top of mountain passes or right in the middle of small downtown squares. With the help of a relatively low-calorie/high-electrolyte hydration formula, I reckon that I drank 12 bottles (250 calories).

Over the course of my career I’ve eaten more race food than I care to even picture, so given the option of real food or race food, I choose the former. In general in the real food category, I tend towards sweet over salty. So in today’s hundred-plus mile ride, I ate the following:

I know I’ve mentioned il Re del Cappuccino – the aptly named King of Cappuccino – who’s been serving capp’s for more than 60 years. The man is a legend. Now that I have a signed jersey decorating their shop, I’m basked with their exemplary service. Which is the same as their standard service, since they’re always hospitable. Cappuccino (200 calories) and Nutella laden baked good (250) after 75 minutes is precisely the fuel I want for the rest of the day.

Next, top left: those aaaaaamazing honey waffles, which cost like $2 apiece in America, but are like $0.25 in Belgium. I bagged up and had five of those gems (670 calories).
Bottom: every cafe in Italy has biscotti. Mind you, these are Italian biscotti and not SUPERsized American portions, so they’re about the size of your pinkie. A half dozen of those spread out over the day is about 500 calories.

Oh and remember those peaches and mini pears swimming in my jersey pocket from farm stand man? I ate two peaches (76) and two mini pears (40).

By now you’re saying, “Ted, you ate like a horse.” To which I reply, yes, but look at the SRM file and you’ll see that I burned through a hearty 5,067 calories… and that’s just in the 5:23 ride time, let alone my basal metabolic rate which is running hot so I’m zipping through another ~2,000 calories over the course of the day.

…Good grief, this is a lot of work rehashing everything I ate and it’s not even lunch time. Okay (breathe breathe), let’s keep going.

Famished and thirsty, I got home from my ride and chugged some water and a fairly light recovery drink (150). I also ate a fig- yes, another one (37).

Shower time and 4pm lunch time followed. I made the most amazing risotto that I’ve ever made – admittedly, it’s the first risotto I’ve ever made – the night before and I had ample leftovers. This beauty is a zucca (basically squash/zucchini) and onion risotto (500 calories), topped on a bed of raw arugula (10), three luscious Italian tomatoes (35), a beet and a half (50), all drizzled with truffle balsamic glaze (10). To the left is a rice cracker (15) schmeared with homemade sun-dried tomato hummus (80)… ’cause that’s what I do.

It was nearly time for another fig, but I thought I would take a nap instead. ZZZzzzZZZzzzzzzz Nap: over. Now it’s time to tackle some errands in town, but I decided that I had a hankerin’ for some chocolate peanut butter, which conveniently I had in the form of Dark Chocolate Dreams from Peanut Butter & Co. I had a modest spoonful (170) atop another rice cracker (15). It would likely behoove you to do the same or perhaps try their Mighty Maple.

I did some reading before dinner and they say that your brain consumes a lot of calories when deep in thought. I don’t have the SRM file for this specific reading interval, but I reckon I burned another 5,000 calories by finishing up my latest book… The Hunger Games, curiously enough. Here’s my five-cent book review: an interesting read, but I don’t see what all the hype is about. Yes, it’s very engrossing and despite the post-apocalyptic nature of the plot, the emotions of the book are still something with which we can relate. But without giving away too much, when there are human-meets-wolf creatures sprinting around on their hind legs with 4″ razor sharp claws attacking the protagonists, WTF?! I don’t like science fiction. I’d be hard pressed to read the second of this series.

There, now you owe me a nickel.

Dinner time and I wanted to reward myself for a hard day’s work without laboring in the kitchen. If you’ve ever had pizza in Italy, you know that each person order one pizza. It’s kind of like how in America, if you go to Mexican food, one person is going to order one burrito. Are we now clear with the 1:1 ratio? Good, let’s continue. The pizza is typically 12″ in diameter, incredibly thin with a basic flour/yeast/salt/water crust, and most certainly is not the oil injected, 2″ tall pizzas we’re accustomed to in America. A few toppings decorate the pizzapie and voila, you’ve got yourself dinner. All for 6 euro.

Prosciutto cotto, arugula, tomato pizza (1,000) on a very colorful yet camouflaged plate. A crisp, fruit-foward (whatever that means) glass of Austrian white wine (125) gifted to me by our friend Timmy Duggan perfectly accentuated this entree on a still stifling evening.

And yes, that’s my iamnottedking-stickered wallet.

It’s nearly dinner time, but not first without another pair of figs (74). What?! I issued the warning earlier, I love figs. Succulent, sweet, and literally bursting with flavor, it’s kind of like your food giving you a high five when you take a bite.

Summary:

So what have we learned? Who knows. Like I said, this isn’t a normal example. This was obviously a day of heavy training, so I’m going to ride hard and eat a lot to fuel the fire. On an easy day I eat like a ballerina and crush some salad. So since there isn’t anything more to really do, let’s just summarize.

– By my calculation, I consumed 5,082 calories. All of which were delicious, especially the risotto and the honey waffles
– Calories expended on the ride: 5,067.69
– Ride time: 5:23 and change
– Ride distance: 172.5km (107 miles)
– Average power: a massive 261 watts

Peace out nerds.

Specifically, I’ve just returned from a quasi-cycling vacation to the northern reaches of the Italian Dolomites and then to the postcard perfect center of the country in Chianti. I’d be impressed, however, if you hadn’t yet pick up on that, because I’ve spent no shortage of time nor tweets nor other tweets nor blogs nor other blogs nor even more blogs all hinting at this escape to see some of my best friends, ride some of the finest roads on the planet, plus mangia and bevi in a manner only inGamba can. So if this is news to you, then your ability to ignore me is excellent and I tip my hat to you.

Anyway, it’s back to business (mind you, I spent this little “vacation” training my tail off for Tour of Poland, Utah, Colorado, Canadian races, and hopefully the World Championships among other races still to come) and I sped back into town approximately 12 minutes before the rental car was due at 10am. Mind you, when I rented the car I was told that I should return it “sometime around 10am” and therefore figured that I had this friendly buffer for any sort of Italian adventures that might arise.

My European home base of Lucca is a great city for a bunch of reasons, not least of which is that it doesn’t have the insane traffic issues you’ll experience in Rome or Florence or Milan. 12 minutes to spare is like a lifetime. Therefore, perfectly fittingly, there was a big traffic accident – or an “aggressive fender bender” since everyone appeared angry but perfectly alright in this seven car incident – just 300 meters from where I am due to return the car. 12 minutes pass. Then another 10, and 5, and 3, and 12 more, so that it’s now 10:30. A few more minutes tick by and around about 10:38 I ran into Hertz and tossed them my keys. I explained that I was here on time, or within 300 meters of their front door but was delayed by the accident, to which the woman freaked out thinking that I was in the accident. My response in Italian: “No no no, Lady, I’m late because there was an accident right there” (I point outside at the dozen authoritative police officers). She has no idea there was an accident, breaths a big sigh of relief… and proceeds to charge me the extra day’s car rental.

There are 1440 minutes in one day. Sitting in traffic for 38 of them costs the same as if one used 1439. Whatever.

Oh and don’t you worry, this day gets better. It’s not even 11am.

Most of my adventures in Italy take place on two wheels. Sure, the bicycle is one source of that, but I also have a sweet Vespa scooter, which needless to say is a chick magnet. From Hertz, I make the five minutes stroll to where I parked the scooter and am surprised to see that it’s covered in what appears to be morning dew, which is odd because it’s about 100 degrees and baking in the sun. On closer inspection, it’s pine pitch and it appears as though the scooter has been ridden through a fine mist of pine pitch every day for the past ten days. (sigh)

I find a plastic bag and sit on that so that my bum doesn’t get permanently attached to the seat and then as I throw a leg over this hog to drive home, I see that I have a parking ticket folded neatly in my seat.

My blood pressure was only slightly elevated because of the pine pitch issue, but it’s now doubled when I see the ticket. A quick scan around the scene and I don’t see Italian Candid Camera bursting out of the bushes, so I’m upset. When I parked here sometime last week, I went to a great deal of trouble to find the right spot. As hopefully some of you have experienced, parking in Italy is a comedy of errors since most people just put their car in park, regardless of where they are (middle of the road, middle of the highway, sidewalk, etc) and chuck on the hazard lights. Hazards in Italy translate to “don’t tow me, bro – I’ll be back before sunset.” And it works fine.

The problem being my scooter doesn’t have hazard lights. I therefore sought out what I thought was an excellent spot safely amid a dozen other scooters – although I obviously didn’t see the ominous pine tree looming above.

On closer inspection of the ticket, I noticed it was impossible to inspect the ticket closer! Seriously, click on that photo above and look closely. In the three days of sitting on my scooter, apparently the harsh Tuscan sun has rendered the friendly police officer’s pen entirely useless. Or else (s)he wrote it in invisible ink. You can’t read anything on the ticket except the faint scribbling that the license plate number matches my license plate.

Three letters crossed my mind. Double-u, taye, and ef.

I’ve been through the parking ticket process once before and was baffled to find that paying the ticket took nearly a week. Thinking that I’m now a resident pro, I was therefore less than impressed to flip the ticket over to read that the payment process is entirely different from the last time around – new location, new method, new everything. (sigh… sigh)

I not big on the idea of karma nor do I believe in fate. I do, however, believe that I am the first person in Italian history to pay a parking ticket here, so I have an equally strong belief that there is a crew of Italian officials stealthfully following me around in order to issue me more tickets. Slowly but surely Italy will rise out of the European financial crisis and I’m doing my part to help.

Thankfully friends, there is nothing but good news from here on out, so please issue a celebratory high-five to whomever is nearby.

Have you ever tried to remove pine pitch from a car? I’ve personally never been tarred and feathered, but I bet it’s equally tough to wash out. Yet, in a stunning show of magic, it turns out that Italian pine pitch comes out with mere dish soap and universal household spray cleaner. So from there, with a spiffy clean Vespa, I drove into town with the mind bending job of tackling the mysterious parking ticket issued in invisible ink. Not only did I get the location to pay the ticket correct at the first stab, but I arrived right as the post-lunch doors open and found myself third in line, which in the moments afterwards extended out to about 25 soon-to-be-bored line patrons. Best yet, not having any idea how much it would cost me with the incomprehensible ticket, and this being Italy I’m half expecting to take out a loan for four figures, I was pleased to walk out of this municipal office merely 40 euro poorer. That’s well worth the price of rinsing myself clean of further headache.

Prologue:

There is a moral to every story, so what’s the take home lesson here? I have no frigging idea! Maybe it’s that 40 euro is the price you pay for a clean Vespa? Or that you shouldn’t ever think you’re returning a rental car on time because you will surely run into the gnarliest fender-bender in Italian history? Again, I have no… frigging… idea. Oh, here’s a good lesson: install hazard lights on your scooter with an extra good battery to last 10 days.

Ciao. Happy 4th of July America!

After last week’s brief four day venture to the northern reaches of Italy, I swung through home in Lucca, enjoyed Taco-Tuesday(-on-Friday) with some friends, thereby bringing arguably the best Mexican food to Europe before continuing south to Chianti. The amazing part of riding down here is that virtually every time you go over a rise, around a corner, look over a wall, or down a city block it’s like catching a glimpse of a postcard. This place is absolutely incredible.

Have I mentioned inGamba Tours? Yes, I have. And in other news, they’re located right there –>

I decided to pay them a visit as one of their “pros in residence” in order to continue my cycling escape and soak in the good life, all the while training hard and not racing the Tour. Today I had salad. And it was delicious. Here’s a fairly standard day from behind the camera lens (and in fairness, this is an amalgamation of two days).

Lots of vineyards.

A road.

A breathtaking view that just isn’t served justice in this photo. Plus a fence.

It’s wine o’clock somewhere. In this case, it’s about that time in Panzano.

I didn’t eat here. But I liked the photo.

Dario Cecchini‘s macelleria and restaurant are worth the visit. Very un-salad like.

Sunday traffic. Estimated combined age of this duo: 197 years.

You ever see the Palio? It’s kind of a big (absolutely ginormous!) deal in Siena. I stumbled upon it yesterday.

Greenery.

A fountain. I think this one is called The Lion King.

Dusk.

Last night was a two’fer: a local town BBQ dinner plus Italy versus Spain in the EuroCup finals. Italy got trounced, but it was amazing to see the enthusiasm and patriotism. The entire room of 100 stood and sang the national anthem. Emphatically. Plus yelled, kicked, screamed, and cheered at every opportunity. Go sports!

But like I said, Italy lost. And they like their Chianti Classico in this region.

Goodnight.

Today was a proper day of bicycle riding. Looked something like this.

We can all agree that nothings says “Tour de France” like bicycle riding around Belgium for three days and then migrating west to France. I’m therefore going to stay true to myself and hold out on my inaugural Tour de France by waiting until we stick exclusively to France – dabbling in other European countries obviously sullies the authentic Tour experience. (For those of you reading along and completely confused, this year’s Grand Bouche begins in Liege, Belgium before entering France for the rest of the three week race.)

That proclamation of holding out is of course is of course drenched in sarcasm. To be honest, I get sick to my stomach thinking that I won’t be there this year. To call the first half of my 2012 season successful is a gnarly understatement. My fitness is there, my motivation is sky high, and in the past not-quite-six-months I’ve been integrally involved with fifteen wins for Liquigas-Cannondale. Geeze, I don’t think I was involved with fifteen wins in all of 2011. I won’t stew on it any longer, however. I can’t thank you enough for the enormous show of support – especially over the past month – to have me lining up for my first Tour. The messages, the tweets, the emails, the calls, the very entertaining #KingfortheTour, and other signs of support mean a lot to me. More than you can imagine. It just makes me that much hungrier for that first Tour whenever that happens.

Moving on.

In order to clear my head, continue exploring the globe, while still staying true to my job and therefore training extensively I recently made my way from my home in Tuscany up to the Dolomites in north eastern Italy.

Surrounded by some of the biggest, awesomest mountains I’ve ever seen, I once again rejoined my BFF Timmy Duggan who is also up in this neck of the woods soaking up the same Dolomite excellence.

I raced the Giro di Italia in both 2009 and 2010. What’s tattooed in my mind more than anything is the Dolomites. My words here won’t do justice to just how spectacular they are, so I won’t even bother. Click on that panoramic photo above and you’ll get a sliver of our surroundings from high atop Timmy’s porch.

Jumping headlong into things, here’s my first ride. I’m only up here for a few days, so rather than lamely wasting time acclimatizing simply for my departure, I went for a bike ride.

My memory is sometimes sieve-like. So speaking of those 2009 and 2010 Giri d’Italia (the plural of Giro is Giri, not Giros),  I apparently wanted to put the painful specifics out of my mind – that is to say, I raced up the very access road to my hotel, but I didn’t recognize it whatsoever until I bothered to check the Giro route map. Oops. Namely, Stage 5 to Alpe di Suisse. Here is that particular Strava segment, on which I conveniently now have the KOM. In your face, whoever actually won that stage!

Anyway, that first ride was long and arduous and stunning and calorific. So Timmy and I took a moment to rest our weary souls atop some random mountain pass, I think that’s Passo Valparola.

Obviously well fueled, that initial big day was then followed by another big day. Given my thorough one day of acclimatization, I felt like a million and a half bucks the next day. Here she is:

Clearly, another good’n’.

That’s all I got for now. Cycling is a sport of ups and downs, both literal and figurative. Sure, I’d like to be racing the Tour de France in two days, but that’s now out of my control. Putting in the time and effort to get up here to the Dolomites, seeing and training with my very good friend Timmy, and putting in the hours on the bike are a phenomenal alternative. I am lucky and I know it.

I said that’s all, but actually here’s one more panoramic picture for your viewing pleasure. Here I am high atop Passo Sella looking east towards, umm, well towards whatever is east of Passo Sella, which in this case appears to be even more mountains. Again, click on the image for an even better view.

“Aaaaaand go!”

Last week, while seeking a little RnR after Paris-Nice, I played host to a visitor on this Italian adventure in which I find myself. We truly had an amazing time and since you asked, yes we did imbibe on truffle infused risotto and seemingly bottomless cappuccinos, in addition to circuitously navigating our Fiat Panda (the car rental place was fresh out of 500s) over hill and dale all throughout picturesque Chianti. And while we’re on topic, we leaned more towards the Sangiovese than the grappa, in order to avoid being the lush of the party.

En route to the Pisa airport on the final afternoon I thought one last tourist stop was necessary and what better place than central historic Pisa and to see the leaning tower. Pisa is a walled city and we parked just along the outside of town for a quick stroll amongst the tourists before going to the airport. There was a nice 1.5-car sized spot in a convenient place, so I pulled in, then courteously backed up to remove that final 1/2 spot. In perfect Italian fashion, I thought I would allow that half spot for the next incoming scooter or person who parks nose-in, half-way into the road which is perfectly customary and acceptable here. Just throw on your hazard lights and you’ll be good for up to six hours of illegal parking!

We strolled in, saw the Leaning Tower – which you’ll be happy to know is still in fact leaning – and sipped for one last cappuccino.

This being a weekend of spring break and having heard a seemingly endless American voices all throughout our touristy week, I decided to err on the side of safety and we set off to the airport a few minutes earlier than originally planned. I’ve seen Italian airports swamped around the holidays and it’s a che casino! Walking back towards the car, I forget if my heart stopped or went from a calm 50bpm to 180 when I saw a dozen police officers, flashing lights of all colors everywhere, and a tow-truck all circling our otherwise reliable Fiat Panda.

Usually here in Italy, I like to pretend that I’m quite the local and have deep conversations in my nearly fluent Italian. This, however, was a case of pleading the ignorant Americano. “Mama Mia! Officer, no I didn’t know that I was blocking someone’s garage door! Pardon my ignorance and please let me go on my merry way”

I kid you not, my car was literally a foot off the ground as it was being lifted by the crane onto the back of the tow-truck. Yeah, MID-air. Thank the good Lord that I was erring on those few extra minutes of safety to get to the airport or in those few minutes the car would be entirely missing and off to the impound. Continuing my idiotic American schtick – which I suppose in this instance is perfectly accurate – the friendly police officers somehow convinced the tow-truck-man that my car should be on the ground and neither in the air nor on the back of his truck. Meanwhile, the old man who’s garage I was blocking didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry either, so with the exception of a 39 euro parking ticket, life was once again gravy.

Now it’s simply time to pay the parking ticket. Let the real headache begin.

“Pardon me officer, how do I pay the ticket?” Three cops converged and proceed into a lengthy argument about how to accomplish this seemingly mundane task. They settled on going to any Tabaccheria – which is equivalent to an American corner convenient store – is the easiest way to pay up. They pointed me to one down the road and “around the corner near the photo shop.” Those were explicit enough instructions for me, so after a couteous drop-off at the airport, I was en route to being free and clear of this parking debacle.

The first tabaccheria proprietor “around the corner near the photo shop” caught a glimpse of my ticket and immediately said No! This first tobacco shop owner then pointed out that I need to go to a tabaccheria that sports the Lotto national lottery system. Okay, that makes sense. I’m paying a fine to the state and therefore paying at an establishment that does state-benefitting-lottery seems perfectly apt.

Tabaccherias are as common here as bakeries and butcher shops – that is to say, there are about three on every single block. However, two more tabaccherias later and two courteous denials later, I was beginning to scratch my head.

I thoroughly read the back of the ticket and I learned that I can pay this fine at Lotto endorsed tabaccherias (or so says the ticket), as well as three different banks in Lucca or at the post office. Anyone who has read this blog or my twitter with any regularity knows that Italian post offices and I get along like oil and water, so having struck out now at three different tabaccherias, I’m ready to try the bank.

Feeling lucky, the next day I swing through just one more tabaccheria on the way to the bank. I try this ticket just one more time, and after one much more cautious denial, the friendly clerk goes well out of her way to look up how to assist me, before saying, “No, I cannot help. Try the bank” Okidokie Smokey.

The bank opens at 8:20am. But that’s 8:20 here in Italy so it’s closer to 8:30am. It’s a very bad omen when I show up at 8:16am and there are four people in line ahead of me.

Ahh, correct that, five people. Inadvertently being polite or maybe looking for a bit of good karma, I open the door to let another patron pass ahead of me so I stand listlessly in sixth place. Anyway, I wait and wait. And wait. And wait. Conventiently I hear the customer two ahead of me speaking about multa, which is Italian for fine. Mind you, I have no idea if I’m in the correct place any more than thinking I’m in the correct place by going to the half-dozen tabaccherias previously. Heck, I could open my own smoke-shop if I had purchased a few cartons at each tobacco shop I’ve visited already.

But hearing multa makes me giddy with excitement and it’s only about fifteen minutes later when I find myself face-to-face with the kindly bank teller. I whip out my parking ticket and before I can even utter a word I hear the cutting and indisputable utterance of, “No.” I am so nearly defeated I want to cry. Maybe this is why Italy is in an economic crisis – if everyone who has a parking ticket would actually pay them, this country would be leading the global economy. Some further extrapolation from the languid bank teller enlightens me that neither this nor any bank will be able to appease my ticket-paying need – despite what the ticket itself actually says – and that I should go down the street to our friends at the post office. The dreaded post-office that consumes time in the same quantities that a dragon breathes fire. Uugh.

It’s around about ten in the morning at this point so I need a coffee. I know that going to the post office is sometimes an all-day affair and a caffeine jolt is just what I need to make this otherwise crappy morning a success.

I enter the bank with the chipper giddiness of a well caffeinated youth seemingly defeated by 48 hours of futile bill-paying. When you enter an Italian post office you punch a button on a machine which immediately spits out a piece of paper with a sequential number on it, much like an American deli counter. Although instead of the straightforward simplicity of one number, you have the Italian disarray of three letters preceding a series of numbers. There is a woman scurrying about the post office lobby and I quickly explain my conundrum and without a word she punches a button for me and hands me my number. A007.

Convinced that fate is finally on my side, immediately after taking a seat eight people separately walk into the post office and punch the wait-in-line-paper-producing button. Suckers. Ha ha A015 (…or E149?!), I’m wouldn’t sell my piece of paper to you for the world! I’m being serious here, if you ever walk into an Italian post office following seven other people, just give up. Go home. ‘Cause you may have all afternoon, but the post office will definitely close before you get your chance at the head of the line.

Fast-forward a half hour and there I am face to face with the post office woman. At my wit’s end, honestly not having any idea what to do beyond this point, I silently hand her my ticket. She smiles, asks what town I’m from for clerical purposes, I explain briefly my situation, she compliments me on my Italian, and requests 39 euro. The weight of the nation – the Italian nation – is immediately lifted off my shoulders. Even though I’m sure I’m the first person to pay a parking ticket in this country in more than a decade, just knowing that I’m no longer indebted to the Italian police or parking agency makes me want to weep with joy.

Her next words while handing over my receipt are, “You will want to keep the paperwork with you for a minimum of two years. Sometimes this doesn’t get processed correctly and they may come after you looking for the payment.”

Just another day in the life.

Two years

The same holds true with the wholesomely delicious American breakfast. Perhaps for no other reason (well, besides that American breakfast is amazing) than the sheer variety and spread of an American breakiedoodles. Let’s start with just eggs: scrambled, fried, over easy, boiled, omelets, poached, and so forth. Pancakes battle ferociously with waffles for the title of which will be doused with more maple syrup. Meanwhile bacon, sausage, and ham – or Scrapple if you’re really ‘merican – are also excellent options for raising one’s cholesterol. Add to the mix fruit of all varieties, pipping hot oatmeal, banana/pumpkin/blueberry/whatever bread, bagels, English muffins, donuts, blah blah blah, you get the idea. In two words: frigging yum.

So rather than longingly stewing over what we cannot have until we’re again stateside for Tour of CA/UT/CO, please allow me to profusely over-exaggerate in order to say that life just went from mehh to amaaaazing when I discovered last week that one of my favorite dinner osterias in Lucca does a Sunday brunch. Emphatic high-fives all around, especially given that a whole bunch of us American folks actually had the rare weekend at home instead of eating pasta and racing bikes.

I rounded up seven of the coolest cats I know, including one Italian just so we would fit in, and descended on Osteria del Manzo at precisely 2pm for a staunchly patriotic American Brunch.* Time to dig in!

Rob here sports his stylish denim in perfect tandem with a Harley-Davidson “Est. 1903″ mug complete with a ferocious eagle. America.

Meanwhile Bjorn rabidly goes after his omelet. Eating with great fury can mean just one thing: America.

Not one to pass up an occasion to look sharp, I dressed to the nines in my finest American apparel. Fear not Miss Manners, I removed my hat while dining and only donned it for this pic. My checkerboard red, white, and blue shirt was as patriotic as my trio of pancakes. Yes, drenched with MAPLE syrup. I nearly cried. America.

Please note the cheese themed mug in the previous photo. It came complete with a ceramic mouse contently sitting in the bottom. It was quite adorable to see him gazing up at me to remind me that my coffee levels are low and I should replenish the mug. MORE COFFEE. America.

Seriously? Light fluffy pancakes adorned with fruit, whipped cream, and maple syrup?! It even came with the American dusting of powdered sugar. I’m clearly beside myself. We all were. America.

Not everything was peeeEEEEeerfect. Service was a hair on the slow side, but we were so danged excited that it didn’t even matter! By this point I was ready to gnaw on my shoe so when they set the food down I snapped one more photo of Jessica’s bagel with lox, avocado, and an aggressive schmear of cream cheese before going nuts on my breakfast of champions. AAaaamerica.

Look dudes, it’s the little things offering a glimmering reminder of home that really make you smile. Great friends, an awesome spread of food, and an actual carafe of coffee. Again, high-fives all around.

* Yeah yeah, who eats brunch at 2pm, you ask? Turns out we do when they have serving hours from 11:30a-3:30p and you have a stout four hour ride on the docket. An earlier than typical morning to fit it all in. Sometimes you sacrifice tradition for the sake of eating a hearty breakfast.

(Pssst: word to the wise. Use coupon code tedking2012 to scratch ten bucks off your annual Strava membership.)

Allow me to preface this post by acutely pointing out that having now lived in Italy for more than a year, I’ve come to embrace and appreciate the chaotic nuances of daily Italian life. The discombobulation that’s met with simple, routine chores is not so much an obstacle, as much as it is purely part of the day-to-day program. We can safely assume the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, which is the route most western folks will take to maximize efficiency. Comparatively, Italians are much more likely to take the circuitous route that involves seventeen more points than are seemingly required. But you know what?! Those little adventures are what makes life (choose your favorite adjective…) exciting/colorful/unique/dramatic! They’re not rushing from point A to point B simply to accomplish a task. Rather, Italians emphatically engage in conversation and appreciate company. Italians are an incredibly impassioned people ripe with more cultural heritage than most of us could ever dream of.

To put it another way, while in Italy you don’t go to Wal-Mart and buy your Jimmy Dean’s sausages three aisles away from your Q-Tips and cross the store from your double-XL sweatpants all in one fell swoop. Chores, il mio amico, take time and that’s how you fill your day.

That being said, let me provide two anecdotes to this aforementioned lesson in futility to help illustrate my point. This week, among other rigors of professional cycling, I had two simple tasks: collect money from the ATM machine and buy a trio of postcard stamps.

Exhibit A, Get money from an ATM.

Two birds, one stone: the picture of efficiency, right? I needed to pad my wallet with cash and I knew I was going to ride my bike by a few banks on my ride, so I took my ATM card with me and set out for a vigorous round of bicycling. Oh look, an ATM machine! (By the way for the banking nerds out there, I realize that the M in ATM stands for machine, but it’s common vernacular to say ATM machine, so I’m going with it when I deem it appropriate. Like right now for example.)

Insert card into machine, read screen which now displays, “Questa macchina è fuori servizio” (perhaps you can read a bit of Italian and recognize “fuori servizio” means “out of service”), flip out accordingly. Fully kitted-up in spandex, cycling shoes, helmet, and glasses, I waddle into the bank and tell them that their machine ate my card. Mind you, this is a fun test of my Italian language skills – I’ve had all sorts of these off-the-wall conversations in Italian lately, this being one of them, and it’s very reassuring that my Italian is coming along when I can handle dialogues of this nature. The kindly gentleman walks to the back of the machine, opens it up, shows me my card, asks if it belongs to me, and upon breathing a sigh of relief, I reply yes. He then says I need to contact my bank back in the USofA and have them email or fax a form with my name, date of birth(?!), and bank card information. Upon receiving this fax, when I return to this bank with my passport in hand I can then have my card back. That right, I can have MY card back. Sweet…

I was mildly satisfied to see that the card was not in the hands of some raving lunatic, but then the more I thought about it, my card was quite literally in the hands of a raving, banking lunatic waving my card around asking if it’s mine. Look Pal, my frigging picture is on the card! My name is on the card. If I show up with my passport – which has my name and photo again – can’t you just hand over my card? No, was his vehement response, which is Italian for No.

Dealing with bankers operating with only a half deck of cards in addition to contending with a six-hour time difference back to my bank in America, I took a few deep breaths and just accepted the current state of futility. Blah blah blah, fast forward a bit, I spoke with my bank later in the day, they laughed at the inane tactics of the kindly banker, Signore Puccinelli. They then explained that they can’t email customers’ private banking formation, but thankfully they can fax that info. Whatever, I said, just do what you need to do, I’m going to France tomorrow, please please help me out.

I arrived at the bank at 8:20 sharp this morning, exactly when they open and discovered that their fax machine is also fuori servizio. How ironic. It’s now 2:20am back in America so I have a hunch my bank is closed and they can’t email this information over – which, remember, they’re not allowed to do anyway. So I again proceeded to show them my passport with the matching name and photo as on my ATM card. Approximately 10 minutes of berating them later, they handed over my card.

Grazie, arrivederci!

Exhibit B, the trip to the post office.

Post offices are not quite as grand and elevated (literally above ground level) here in Italy as they are in America. So in concert with a facade of glass doors opposed to the contemporary American brick, when you ride your bike by them you can easily see right into the front door. Packed like sardines into a tin can, regardless of the time or day I see dozens of people inside doing Lord knows what… presumably mailing stuff. Having been through the song and dance of merely buying a stamp before, I know I’m in for a long afternoon if I ever set out with the post office on my to-do list. Another factor with which to contend, they’re open and closed at extremely weird hours of the day. I think there’s someone basically flipping a coin inside saying, “Heads, we open. Tails, we’re closing up shop for the day!”

Mid-ride earlier this week, while passing through a sleepy Italian hamlet I saw not only an open post office but one with just one patron inside. Hustling inside I managed to squeeze off a tweet to broadcast to the world what I was doing in case I was never to be seen again.

Since these postcards aren’t going to mail themselves, and with the requisite 1.60 Euro x 3 in my pocket, I decided to take advantage of the dearth of customers. A minute passes, soon five, then ten, and twenty. I have since sat down and am curious beyond belief why mailing anything could take so frigging long. I can’t bear the thought of leaving and having to sit through this process again, so with a half-hour already invested I stew away… and of course mindlessly stare at my phone. (Meanwhile, the economist in me recognizes the concept of sunk costs and I therefore know I’m not getting my time back, so frankly it doesn’t matter my next move – stay or go.)

The kindly woman in front of me, fiiiiiiiiiiiiinally pays, turns around, cordially smiles at me, and leaves. I mosey up to the desk, ask for three international postcard stamps, pay with exact change, nearly explode with anxiety, and leave with stamps in hand no more than 28 seconds after initiating my stamp-buying-process.

That’s life. What an adventure.

While Voltaire could have taught Ms. ‘locks the same lesson with the sage line, Perfect is the enemy of good, no one seems to find it the least bit odd that an unaccompanied minor was galavanting about the woods before reaching her final destination into the home of a family of bears. Moreover, a furnished home where the bears dined on oatmeal.

Hopefully no cyclists have bore witness to the same fate in order to absorb this message. Regardless of the situation, however, cyclists just like poor permanently disfigured Goldilocks will find a reason to complain.

It’s too hot in Argentina.

It’s stifling in Australia!

The stage is boring.

That climb is way too long!

Brrr! It’s frigging snowing and I can’t ride. La bella vita my eye! This is la tundra vita.

This hotel’s WiFi is glacially slow.

I’ve watched all of the movies on my hard drive, boo hoo hoo!

If you’ve read anything on this website over the past month, you’ll notice that I’m picking on myself as much as anyone. But I’m far from the only one to complain. Like a whole bunch of prima donnas (or the Italian prime donne), we are quick to point out the flaws around us rather than absorbing what’s good.

And why do you suppose that is? Simply because everything is relative and we are accustomed to things being pretty darn nice. Why is the internet slow? Because we have fast WiFi at home. Don’t fret, Facebook will still be there when you get back to civilization. A bit chilly on your ride today? Sop up those tears my friend, and throw on an extra base layer and an iamnottedking neckgaiter and you’ll be perfectly fine next time around. Hotel food is boiled chicken and extra boiled pasta? Again?! Seriously, did you expect anything else. It’s a bike race. Deal. The hail was piercingly ferocious? Umm, okay well that one I can’t help you out on, Ted. That just sounds painful.

In reality the life of a cyclist ain’t all that bad. We have our gripes and bouts of bellyaching, we often complain about being hungry, tired, or bored, but that’s because we are accustomed to a relatively pampered living. When the biggest decision of the day is where to indulge on a mid-ride cappuccino, and your afternoon is capped off with an hour massage, I must admit that we have it pretty good.

…even if that means I couldn’t feel my toes for the final 90 minutes of my 5 hour training ride and in the shower afterwards tears of pain spewed down my face. Again, dry those tears friend. It’s not so bad.

This tech-savvy day in age, that’s the ambiguous and frequent expression when more than one person is on a wireless network. Turns out that 97.3% of cyclists have no idea what that means on a technological level. Superficially though, it turns out to be quite true – when you take a team of six riders at a South American race hotel with already poor internet, and then supplement the hotel’s capacity with another dozen cycling teams, plus cycling press, and their corresponding need for internet, the result is flickering hopes and shimmering seconds of working wifi followed by mind-numbingly futile hours of hitting Connect. Again and again and again all for not. That goes to explain why I became internet-quiet as soon as the race started.

Now that I’m back in the arctic tundra that is Europe, let’s quickly rehash some things and then move on to the present. Aaaand GO!

The team presentation for the Tour of San Luis was the most entertaining such event we’ve ever experienced. You see, a typical presentation in Europe lasts 30 seconds in the time leading up to a race, right on stage where we sign-on; line up as a team, shoulder to shoulder, they announce your name, you wave, smile (or frown and look badass) at the camera, step off, done. Meanwhile in America, it’s generally the night before a race in a ballroom with the race/town/state/city’s VIPs wearing their Sunday finest.

Definitely a different scene here: in stifling heat in the center of main street in downtown San Luis, we arrived at the tender hour of 8pm where it was still light out, and proceeded to wait protected by metal barricades from the ebullient and growing crowd.

Team after team are being called while we wait. We learn later that each team is standing under deafening speakers and in front of a roaring crowd, so we’re actually winning this situation since we can sit in relative quiet peace. After a good long while, we’re called up, and in this photo are waiting behind an enormous TV monitor:

And to the booming delight of the crowd, dodging a canon shooting glittery paper, a smoke and light show, cheerleaders, we walked on stage. Smile, wave, move right… and join the other 150 cyclists standing on another stage.

The point being, these San Luis’ians know how to have a good time. The entire town, and I do mean the entire town, came out to this rock star team presentation. It set the tone for what was going to be a unique week of bike racing.

And since I don’t write race reports more than once ever seven years, let’s say simply the following, in no particular order:

-We interrupted the Saxo-QuickStep show by taking an impressive victory with Elia Viviani. Yup, I called it that morning.
-The weather all week leading to the race and the entire race itself was roughly 38-45 degrees Celsius (100-113F). Except the first day which featured hail, sleet, wind, and three turn over the course of 170km. That day was bitter in every sense of the word.
-The TT featured a variety of set-ups. I had a skinsuit and shoe covers, which shaved 0.8 seconds off my time. I’d guess 1/2 the field had TT bikes. I just used it as a sweet fitness test and sat at a million watts for a bit shy of a half-hour.

-Courtesy: Bettini Photo

-And you can see the entire race on yonder Strava website. (Hark friends! Use the code tedking2012 and knock $10 your annual paid membership. And as always, you can still use the basic account for free.)

And then it was time to make a sufficiently long trip to Europe. I started to take photos of all the modes of transportation I used to get from our hotel in San Luis, Argentina to my apartment in Lucca, Italy but after the first three successful photos, I found myself sprinting between terminals and airports and vehicles so it became impractical to snap a photo in lieu of missing my connection. So for a quick summary: San Luis hotel, 20 minute bus to San Luis airport, 3 hour delay, 1 hour flight to Buenos Aires, 3 hours checking in/security/passport control, 13 hour flight to Rome, 2.33 minutes in Italian security and passport control,… ooooh, mind you it’s now day two of my travel which means it’s my birthday, everyone’s favorite day January 31. So with 32,000 of my best friends in the Rome airport, I bought a celebratory glass of Brunello and a mixed app’ plate. T’was excellent and since I like to photograph food, it looked like this.

And for the record, that short red cylinder on the left is beef tartar and the one on the right that looks like a red, disembodied finger is a stuffed red pepper.

Continuing on, I passed through Roman customs in a matter of seconds – opposed to America’s 2-3 hour wait to protect our borders – and then took another hour long flight to Lucca where I had our friendly soigneur Michelli pick me up and drive me the half hour to Lucca. I noticed upon landing that the ground was damp and the arrival staff was wearing lots of clothing. Clearly this was a far cry from the stifling heat of Argentina. Moreover, on the drive to Lucca it started misting, then sleeting, then a full fledged blizzard. (Sigh.)

With internet coverage deader than a doornail in hotel-Argentina, I didn’t know what sort of weather to which I’d be arriving on The Continent. Wet precipitation isn’t fun, cold isn’t so bad, but the combination is heinous. As Michelli said as he graciously chauffeured me from the airport, “Merry Christmas! Welcome to white Italy.” How thoughtful.

The biggest shock to the system hasn’t been the culture shock nor time zone shock. It’s the 47 degrees Celsius at the start of day seven San Luis (116F) as compared to -1C here (30F)

BrrrrRRRrrrRRrrrrr

Thankfully I’m here to help out those of you trying to stay warm this winter and have created this gem. (Yes, sold out, but check back in daily as inventory is about to be back up to stock.)

An Italian winter wonderland, complete with blanketed vineyards, craggy snowed-in mountain roads, and all of town/school/banks shut down.

And if you’re still after more Argentinian stories, give this a minute of your time. Time to bundle up and go for a bike ride.