Day 4: Proof of Life

My sons worry about me when I ride. Luc is quiet about it; he hangs on to spoken words like they cost him money. He will casually walk in the house and say, “You’re at the wear bar, you need a tire.” Or “That back wheel needs a cotter pin.” like he’s my personal pit crew. Max is louder. He wants a call before I get on a plane. He sends me weather alerts and crime warnings like I’m about to cross into hostile territory.

I’m sensitive to both of their fears. I keep the bike in top shape. I keep a pack of cotter pins in the garage even though, honestly, that one isn’t critical. And for Max, I send texts — photos, little updates. He doesn’t always reply, and that’s not the point. He just needs the proof of life.

I know how dangerous this sport can be. I’ve lived the injuries. But riding gives me so much more than it ever takes. The crashes and setbacks are speedbumps. I’ll be throwing my leg over a bike until I physically can’t. Still, I try to make the fear easier on the sons who love me.

The first morning in Arabba, Jeff and I sat sipping our coffee. The apartment came equipped with a Moka pot and we bought coffee from the little store in the village. The coffee was incredible. In fact, it was so good it made me feel like I was better than all of you. And I thought, I’m totally buying a Moka pot when I got home. This is REAL coffee. I’m throwing away the Keurig—that coffee is swill.

Narrator: She did not buy a Moka pot.

While sipping, we talked about where we’d ride. Not having to pack up everything and rush out was nice. I could also remove a couple of the cases and drop 80 lbs off the bike. I used to hate the look of topboxes but now I don’t care about the aesthetics. I carry all sorts of stuff with me, and I can store my helmet and gloves securely when I stop anywhere.

I casually opened up Calimoto to look for nearby sights.

Me, “Hey Jeff, there’s a castle not far from here.”

Jeff, “Wanna go?”

Me, “Yeah, let’s see a castle!”

Then Jeff asked if I was looking at Calimoto and what the twisty score was on the map. For a point of reference, I’ve never been able to generate a map with a score over 30 in the Northeast. In Arabba? It was 175.

We wandered through Castello di Andraz. Jeff pointed out that one area had been a women’s jail and suggested I go in—I did not. We looked out and the views were really incredible. Khalid, who had left later than us, messaged that there had been a crash and he managed to get around it.

Khalid gave us the details—it looked like two bikes were down. It was on the straight, too. He said, “the one bike was a mint CBR, too.” Then he said, “The guy looked fine at first. But then I saw his leg all twisted up.” With a shrug and smile he said, “He’s alive though.” We all nodded—alive is good.

From outside the castle, we took photos and watched the helicopter show up. They dropped one EMS worker, then another, and then the basket. I said, “my god that’s got to be a terrifying ride.” The helicopter hovered above for a few moments and then peeled away. They must have decided he could wait for an ambulance.

Until now, I hadn’t seen a single crash. The local riders were obvious—full leathers, no side cases, and riding every switchback like it was a sweeper. They knew these roads and had skills. I remembered thinking I wish I had a high-viz vest like new riders wear at the track. It alerts experienced riders to give them space. In retrospect, a vest was not required; the way I rode let them know.

We stood watching. Then we heard the siren and saw the ambulance snake along the side of the mountain.

Then, the scream.

Maybe it was the shape of the mountains around us, but we were easily 1.5 miles away and we could hear his guttural scream when they moved him like he was yelling into a megaphone. Twice.

I thought about the fear I had while riding here and how many passes I did alone. Then we walked back towards our bikes. We needed to eat lunch soon. Severe thunderstorms were rolling in so our window of riding and dining was getting tight.

Khalid and Jeff kept comparing restaurants and debating on which to choose. I sat and waited for them to make a selection (I don’t care much—I like food.) I waited to find out the choice so I could update my map with the stop.

The general rule is the harder it is to find the restaurant—the better the food is. This was very difficult to find. We wandered through dirt trails to find it. But, what an amazing reward it was indeed! We ate at La Locia in San Cassiano, Italy a small ski restaurant.

While we ate, the storm moved in. One of my favorite things about Italy is how they love (expect) for you to sit while you eat and drink. We leisurely sat eating, drinking, laughing for a few hours and waited out the heavy rain.

We all had top boxes to store our helmets and gloves while we ate and waited for a 2-hour rainstorm to pass. One of us put our helmet and gloves in a top box and had a nice dry helmet to ride home in.

Narrator: It was her. She was the one. She even laughed as they tried to empty their helmets of water and wring out their gloves.

Even though we weren’t far from our apartment and the rain had stopped, I threw on my rain gear just in case. It’s weird because I only spent a couple years in Girl Scouts when I was a girl!

We wound up on the tail end of that northern pass they had suggested I take the day before but had stubbornly refused. It was true—the roads were much wider and easier to do. I listened to Gary Wright, “Dream Weaver” as the three of us glided along the twisty roads and through small villages until we reached our apartment in Arabba.

When I texted Max that night, I left out the helicopter rescue. I left out that I’d been riding most of the passes alone. He would have hated both of those things. Some things I don’t send in a proof of life text. Some things I save for when I’m standing in front of him, safely in our home in New York, watching him happily munch the chocolate bar I just brought from Switzerland.