Like a hazy dream. Dereliction emerges from the trees, we marvel at the juxtaposition of machine and woodland.
Like a hazy dream. Dereliction emerges from the trees, we marvel at the juxtaposition of machine and woodland.
BORMIO, ITALY












In the mornings we would ride from village to village through vineyards over quiet farm tracks and over gentle hills.
I frequently visited Patagonia when I lived in Tucson in the 1990s.
The terrain south of Tucson—rugged dirt roads, old mines, Elephant Head butte, thorny cactus single track, canyons and sky and dry—has filled me for 30 years. The bikes have changed but they’re a distant second to the landscape and emotions and riding with friends.
There is the steep rocky Ruckman climb, body english for traction, point the bike between the ruts and round the slick fallen leaves. Everyone is leaping now, rhythm. Familiar wide dirt tracks, we stop for cakes and coffee and then off again northward to a long lovely stretch by the water through stands of blazing yellow.
Andrew doesn’t show disappointment, he just shrugs and says something about well no one said this was going to be an easy ride. My feet are still wet, toes freezing cold from the knee high stream wade. We’re all starting to think about the cold and soon we’ll mutter about it, but it’s mostly fine.