es,” I lie. My mouth is so dry I can barely
speak. Perspiration is dripping down my
back and he’s not even breaking a sweat.
Why have I chosen this death-defying ride when
I could be sitting on a terrace in Bellagio sipping
an aperitivo and watching the ferries cross Lake
Como? I could be strolling the narrow stone lanes
looking up at the centuries-old buildings or
admiring the silks, hand-painted glass, leathers,
and handmade shoes in the small boutiques. And
I chose
this?
Early this morning, I walked the path around
Lake Como and met a woman who spoke English.
When I told her I was a tourist, she asked if I
wanted to accompany her to a very magical place,
just ten minutes away. Of course! We crossed the
street, walked up an endless flight of narrow
cobblestone steps and down just as many, and
suddenly we were in Pescallo, a small fishing village.
The main square was surrounded by small stone
houses with colorful flowers everywhere. We sat
on a bench at the edge of the lake and listened as
the water lapped gently against the shore. In the
water, fishing boats bobbed up and down on their
moorings. “This is my favorite place,” she said.
“Every time I come here, I feel so at peace.” There
were no other tourists, just a few other women
who greeted us so warmly I felt I belonged.
But I don’t feel I belong right now. My quads
are screaming and I’m white-knuckling every turn,
following close behind Pierluigi. Finally, after
more than an hour, we arrive at the 400-year-old
cycling chapel. It is wall-to-wall racing bikes of
every vintage and cycling club flags covering the
ceiling. A bronze eternal flame burns beneath a
portrait of the Madonna of Ghisallo, patron saint
of cyclists. The flame, too, Pierluigi tells me, has
also been blessed by the Pope. Next door to the
chapel is a sleek and modern cycling museum
with woolen cycling jerseys from the 50’s, films of
the greatest Italian champions of every decade,
bicycles used by the Bersaglieri rifle regiment,
and a $15,000 hot Colnago-Ferrari bike that
makes Pierluigi salivate.
We fly back down the switchbacks until
midway, Pierluigi stops in front of a small village
of stone buildings. “We go now for cappuccino,”
he says. The barista in the coffee shop asks,
“Cioccolato?” and when I nod, she hands me a
frothy steamed milk drink topped with a
chocolate powder smiley face. A perfect break.
Then we’re back on the bikes and we veer off the
road and head up a dirt trail. Uphill again? We
pedal past a farmhouse, a chicken coop with noisy
18
THE AFFLUENT TRAVELER
|
Feature Story
“
Y
Bellagio, located on Lake Como, is
famous worldwide for its beautiful
villas overlooking the water.
Feature Story
FS
Photo by THEPALMER/istock.com
