After an all too speedy but successful swing through New England after the spring Classics of which you can see the highlights in this brief photo essay, I hopped aboard a plane bound for the crisp, thin air of Colorado.

Tour of California is next on the racing horizon, so an amalgamation of friends, family, and ample New England training in late April provided me the opportunity to press-and-hold what I call the Life Reset button. Thoroughly brought back up to speed on life, backed mail, and bills, plus it brought me here to the Centennial State. The first few days upon Coloradan touchdown, I was with my aunt and uncle, with whom I lived briefly back in 2001 when I had a few months of relaxing, outdoorsy reprieve before starting college. So not exactly parents to me, they’re superb people whom I know and love and like to pretend to call my three-months surrogate parents. Back then in aught-one, I soaked up the mountain life and continued to cement Colorado in my mind as an excellent place to someday call home — that is, when I hang up my bike and move more permanently out of my suitcase. Ahh, someday…

So now thoroughly lost in the time warp that I’ve unfolded to you above, fast forward to last week, the weather was stellar here in Colorado those first few days, the training was stunning as testament to my laser precise tan lines, which had previously long been hidden by the arctic freeze across Europe all spring. Here I am soaking in natural excellence near the very top of Flagstaff.

This being spring in Colorado, they’ve already received their standard alternating snowy dump/beautiful weather/blizzard/stunning weather that’s characteristic of this area the past month or two. Thinking that this was now out of the system — especially with the last storm less than a week ago dropping a foot of snow in Boulder — it came to some as a surprise that there was another big’n in the forecast.

Because it’s been so frigging freezing across Europe the previous six months, I finally had my first hard effort amid 70 degree heat which resulted in acidic sweat burning my eyes. It hurt so good. So that happened one day and then I woke up to this the next day. Please note Timmy front and center out for a morning hunt with Karli:

Let me toss in the reminder that this is Colorado Awesoming, so how does one make limeade from these limes? I hung out with my cousins by road tripping it to Denver to speak to my cousins’ 2nd and 3rd grade class. It’s hilarious speaking to really well versed seven and eight year olds as found here in the fittest state in the nation, Colorado. For example, when one of these adorable kiddos politely raises his hand when I am telling the crew about the “Tour of Colorado” by correctly explaining that it’s the “USA Pro Cycling Challenge”… now that’s a kick.

Cousin Billy, with his radical bleach streaked hair and his ear to ear grin, is just a little bit stoked that he got to bring me to school for Show-and-Tell.

It’s not just fun and games and making excuses when there’s a blizzard spewing outside. Back to Boulder and back to the office.

And, of course amid Colorado Awesoming, one day later we had a bit of this cloudless sky and brisk perfect training weather.

And on a side note, I also met Justin’s of Justin’s Nut Butter fame. He’s the frigging man, so I’m mildly star struck in this photo. The King of Nut Butters meets the King of… iamtedKING. The entire operation at Justin’s is outstanding — their original farmers’ market to going big story, their ethics and ethos, and best yet their FLAVOR. Consider me a fan.

My hypothesis on the matter is that this country is simply so accustomed to hosting bike races, that they have since learned all the corners available to cut and therefore take full advantage of them. Let me explain.

I wouldn’t be a cyclist if I didn’t have a reason to complain (It’s too hot, it’s too cold, the transfers are too long, the blah blah blah is blah blah blah…), but I ask you to please try to empathize and understand that I’m not exaggerating; ask any European cyclist and they’ll give you the same story. French hotel race food is known for its overcooked pasta and undercooked chicken. After countless plates of cold pasta arrived night after night, it all made sense with my favorite water-logged anecdote: we once asked for another plate of tepid, starchy, gummy pasta – simply for the sake of ingesting calories – and were apologetically turned down. Why, we asked, couldn’t they throw another bag of pasta on the stove for another seven minutes for the perfect al dente bite? Because, they replied, they cook pasta the night before for the following day’s race meal. (Ergo, we also learned that the pasta remains in the pot for many hours while cooling to room temperature, to give it the ideal, French texture of slime.) Seven minutes of cooking, seven seconds of straining, and three seconds of plating… or make it an all day event. Whatever.

And undercooked chicken? That’s their specialty. Gross? Dangerous? I won’t disagree. Meanwhile, I love a good rare steak. It frightens my teammates to be anything besides grizzly, charred gray both inside and out, but a delicately cooked, pink in the middle steak is just what the Doctor Ted King ordered! (I also enjoy a well prepared steak tartare, but central France at a one or two star hotel is not the place to request this from the menu.) Last night’s serving beef, however, was both bloody and cold. Asking for 4 more minutes on the grill was like asking if they would kindly donate to me their annual salary on a silver platter. Begrudgingly, the steak went back.

And since I don’t have any photos today, I’ll insert a Strava file instead:

And now examining beyond fine dining: Picture the smallest room in your house. Perhaps its a closet or maybe a half-bath? Yes, well now put two cyclists and their suitcases in there. Sleep tight fellas!

The year is 2013. Al Gore invented the internet a long time ago. So why can’t we learn that the best way to keep cyclists entertained is with hotels with even mildly functioning internet. The number of skinny, shorn-legged men in the hotel lobby cursing the wifi right now is comical.

And in related news, Paris-Nice has begun here in France, which marks my return to European racing in 2013. I kicked the season into gear back in January and then had a pleasant month free from racing in February, before jumping into the thick of things now in the Race to the Sun. It’s amazing how fast, how hard, and how full bore this race is. In my third go at it, I’ve decided that’s because this is the first
big BIG race on the global race calendar, and everyone wants to be guns-a-blazin’. You know it’s a big event on the race calendar if someone voluntarily gave up charcuterie for it.

That’ll do. Au revoir.

2013 kicks into high gear with the Tour of San Luis here in the San Luis’ian region of Argentina. While not exactly old hat just yet, I did this race in 2012 with respectable success since we came home with a win for Elia Viviani.

Meanwhile, all is good in Team Cannondale Pro Cycling Land, which is where I file for residency. We wrapped up a pretty remarkable team presentation with the glam of Hollywood as the backdrop just last week. You may call me King… Ted King.

Needless to say, I looked awesome in my rented tux and plastic black shoes. Ahh yes, and green socks.

So after exemplary riding in the Malibu Hills and a festive Californian send-off, we began a roughly 42 hour trek to Argentina. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, but we opted to go through Atlanta instead. Arriving in Argentina is a treat as this is a really nice re-introduction to racing since the weather is sunny and warm (err, baking hot), the local scene is very casual and generally this is a low stress environment. Sure, there is a world class field here, the 100+ degree heat and sun present harsh weather, the parcours are certainly not easy, but most ProTour teams field just six riders to balance the local national teams starting as many as ten riders(!).

Moreover the vibe is extremely friendly. For example, everyone drives around happily honking and with their wives/children/or themselves draped out of their car windows videoing our training, since I think this is the most exciting thing to happen to San Luis since last year’s edition of the race (…although the monsoon that washed through town two nights ago presenting noteworthy flooding was rather heart-pumping too). Plus the honking of horns is always indicative of an exuberant HOLA! rather than honking in place of four letter explicatives as we are so accustomed in North America.

And a quick “Tour” de San Luis to give you a lay of the land:

Typical ride. View to the right, not much going on…

…the view to the left, also not much going on, although there are some mountains…

…and then now descending those same mountains…

…and of course, into the town square. This photo doesn’t do it justice, but it is in the town square where around 7:46pm every day there are, in the words of Peter Sagan “more people than New York City on New Years Eve! …I think. I never been. Only see on the TV.”

Good stuff, good stuff. The bike’s ready, I’m ready, team’s ready, now time to go race a bike! Tomorrow.

I hit the road two days ago and will be a nomadic cyclist for, umm… a while. Fresh back from the first training camp for the 2013 season in Tuscany in mid-December, I embraced a scenic, white Christmas in New Hampshire before jetting out to the bay area of California. I’ll set up shop here for not quite a week, then come early January I’ll spend nearly ten days in sunny SoCal, complete with a bold and brash team presentation for the new Cannondale Pro Cycling, followed by travels to Argentina where I’ll have my second go at the Tour of San Luis, and then onto Europe for my spring campaign which runs through Paris-Roubaix. No moss grows under my feet, which is a weird expression, although I suppose it’s literally true so I’ll go with it.

Home sweet home for the holidays was exactly that. In recent years I can be found returning stateside from team camps about 48 hours before Christmas, which is a surefire way to be unjolly and brimming with stress. So it was a peaceful alternative when we were wheels down in Boston a full 10 days prior to Christmas, and it was merely three hours later that I donned my most festive yuletide apparel and was off to the first Christmas party of the season.

“Ho Ho Ho” indeed.

Mind you, that vest is reversible to a plaid green and white which is twice as amazing as it sounds.

A few other holiday parties filled my time home, in addition of course to riding my bike a’plenty. In two weeks home I was on the trainer a mere trio of days and the rest was a mix of neoprene, Gore-Tex, and sweet fenders. The trip home also provided a mirthful Christmas at my aunt and uncle’s house in Portland, ME. At every family holiday gathering, aunt Betsy provides some table-side party favors that are highly entertaining and in all likelihood made in China. My earphone-earmuffs were a hit this year, but the real crowning jewel to the dinner festivities were Dad’s stick-on mustaches which he generously shared with his two boys.

Goodness, if we three Kings don’t look regal and distinguished then I don’t think anyone does!

From there it was onto Wednesday and with just 364 days until next Christmas I had a smashing day on the bike. That was followed by a delicious home-smoked dinner of salmon and pork ribs, and while I can’t make the direct connection and I’m vehemently not pointing fingers at anyone involved, I then had a very unsavory 12 hour bout of food poisoning. Thank the good Lord I recovered miraculously because the next day, Thursday, was Mom’s birthday. And for goodness sake, if I’m going to be on the road as much as I am, I sure as shootin’ better be a good son and be home for Mom’s birthday. So I was.

When it’s written in cursive and in chocolate, you know it’s sincere! Even if they forget to cross the “t” and dot the “i”.

(Another sign of sincerity is when your two sons take you to one of New England’s finest eateries, Arrows Restaurant. You’re the BEST Mom! I love you and happy happy birthday… again.)

Yet another high point in this snowy time home was trying to remove my car from the driveway. A mere 4 inches of snow fell one day, but then it was topped by a crusty layer of rain and ice. My new snow tires didn’t stand a chance to such treacherous conditions. In an hour of shoveling, pushing, and tractor pulling (no lie), we finally got my car out of our 1% gradient and 100 foot long driveway. (That awesome noise you hear is the tractor idling in the background, waiting to give her snow-chained all.)

There is, of course, this YouTube masterpiece which is precisely what I was trying to avoid. Which we did, thankfully.

Well, life on the road continues and while I should wrap up this post right now, I’ll just say that from time to time I like to jump into my Way-way-back-machine and reminisce the days of yore. There’s this, for example – I decided that after having what feels like lived out of a suitcase for a few years, despite having apartments in various countries throughout my career, it was time to decorate my plastic’y, wheeled home with some housewarming accoutrements and make it really feel like proper digs. I’m still a huge fan of Santa Clause hanging out on my roof with Steve’s submission to that contest.

Okay, time for more adventures. Tootle-oo!

…Or not. Of course not, because there’s more to it.

Utah was an up and down race, in both the figurative and literal sense. When racing in and around Salt Lake City, you soon realize that there isn’t much outside of this area for many many miles. Salt Lake City is something of an oasis. One particular stage took us to the southwestern reaches of the city in an area that one could safely assume to be the end of the earth. There is absolutely nothing for miles and miles (and then dozens and hundreds and seemingly thousands of miles more) except for one random teenage boy on the side of the road enthusiastically cheering. No driveway for miles in either direction, no bicycle nor vehicle for him to travel, just a boy. That was frightening. But he seemed content, so whatever.

(Photo poached from the internets at C’news by Jonathan Devich)

Much like a good chunk of the western United States, there are fires raging around SLC. So the dry air, in addition to the already decently high altitude, in addition to the smog and new-to-me Utahn pollens, and especially in addition to the smoke lingering thickly in the air, I was contending with a big breadth of breathing difficulties. This resulted in a many aggressive spurts of coughing, similar to what one might find in a person humming through four packs-a-day for the past three decades. Harsh dude.

Thankfully I made it to the other side, probably at an oxygen detriment, but that’s just fine since from Utah we’re off to Colorado where the altitude is thinner and clearer. One might safely assume that I’m in the clear now that I’m out of smokey and smoggy Utah and into the lush alpine air of Colorado… buuuut someone just showed me a map showing the Utahn wildfire smoke reaching well across into the Centennial State. So I will just follow my own sage advice: breathe deeper and breathe more often. Duh.

Utah wrapped up and with one Monday to burn before flying out that evening, I spent an excellent day cruising the mean streets of Salt Lake City with my best friend from college, Scooter McGavin. I got a haircut in the morning and the day also came complete with comida Mexicana at Lone Star plus a road trip and quick walk-about up to his stomping grounds of Snowbird, it was off to Colorado. Try to keep pace, folks, I know this is a lot.

Colorado is one of my favorite places on the planet. The entire state (ahem, west of Denver) is incredible with some of the world’s most stunning scenery, gracious people, incredible roads, and overall coolness. Teammate/comrade/best friend Timmy Duggan and his lovely wife were hosts for my four days there which included scoping stage four of Colorado. That looks something like this:

I did the previous chunk of that stage from Boulder up Boulder Canyon on an easy day the day before so I’m feeling charged up for stage 6.

It’s hard to put into words just how palpable the enthusiasm is for the entire USA Pro Cycling Challenge and especially how the race builds up to Boulder. With a few of my pro-biking cronies, we did a roller derby style hipster roller race to benefit Boulder Junior Cycling on Wednesday night and then a big’n of a cocktail party, signing session, dinner, and roast at the St. Julien on Thursday before jetting off to Durango where I am now.

So. Many. Kids. It is incredible to see the youth really stepping up in Boulder and riding at such a high level at such a young age. These kids are accomplishing a lot more in the sport at an age before I ever raced my bike! (Ahem, a reminder that hockey took up most of the first two decades of my life.) Yup, the rock and roll derby was for the kids for sure. Kids… so many kids, with many proud parents.

Then an excellent schoozefest 2012 to benefit the stage coming into Boulder, so yeah Boulder is a fun place.

But better yet, I got to stay in Nederland which is up in the hills beyond Boulder so that I could stay focused on the race ahead, dabble in town only when I needed to, scope the requisite course, get the pre-race media day off the to-do list, and overall stay relaxed. It was awesome.

Best yet, it’s worth pointing out that one of the finest bits of racing in America – besides the fans, the language, the simple use of my American dollar bills, not having to deal with a post office, seeing friends and family, racing in the coolest part of the world – is the street food. Hello recovery tacos.

And sriacha peas.

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!

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.

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.