Part 11 (1/2)
”What are your plans for the place?” asked Luca.
”I don't know,” admitted Peppi. ”For the time being, I thought maybe I'd put a tomato garden in over there in the back where my father had his garden. It gets some nice sun there. I'm sure the soil is still good.”
”n.o.body's planted anything there for years,” noted Luca. ”The soil probably doesn't need anything at all, maybe a little manure and some lime, but that's it. Come to think of it, my own garden could use some.”
Peppi smiled and nodded, and for a moment the two just stood there in silence, enjoying the tranquility of the spot.
”By the way,” Luca said at last, ”I've been meaning to thank you.”
”Thank me? For what?” replied Peppi.
”For whatever it was that you said to Lucrezia out in the courtyard the other day when it looked like she was just about ready to murder us all.”
”I didn't tell her anything,” said Peppi with a shrug. ”I just gave her a few olives.”
”Well, whatever it was, it worked,” said Luca. ”These past few days she's been a different person. I've actually seen her smile once or twice. It's like a miracle.”
”It's the mono-unsaturated fats and the omega-3 fatty acids,” said Peppi.
”The what?” what?”
”The olives,” chuckled Peppi. ”All that stuff in them does something good to your brain.”
”I would have thought it was just because they taste good.”
”That's another reason.”
”Olives,” chuckled Luca, shaking his head. ”Who would have thought?” He clicked his shoe back onto the pedal and turned his bike toward the road. ”Come on,” he said to Peppi, ”let's go home and have dinner. Filomena's expecting you. We can watch the Giro prologue while we eat.”
”Sounds good to me,” said Peppi, following him. ”Just make sure she serves olives. I'm in a good mood today and I want to stay that way.”
”Eh, whatever you want,” said Luca, and the two pedalled away down the road.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.
Lucrezia was helping Filomena put dinner on the table when Peppi arrived at the door. Costanzo was there with Maria and the kids. They took their seats while Luca pulled the television in from the living room and set it up at the far end of the table so that they could all watch the beginning of the race while they ate. Luca could barely contain his glee as he beckoned for Peppi to take the seat across from him. Filomena put dinner on the table when Peppi arrived at the door. Costanzo was there with Maria and the kids. They took their seats while Luca pulled the television in from the living room and set it up at the far end of the table so that they could all watch the beginning of the race while they ate. Luca could barely contain his glee as he beckoned for Peppi to take the seat across from him.
”Sit, sit,” he said excitedly, ”they're just getting ready to send the first rider off in the prologue.”
Lucrezia nodded a h.e.l.lo at Peppi, but otherwise said nothing at seeing him come in. She put the big bowl of pasta she was carrying on the table and returned to the kitchen to help her mother finish preparing the meal. She soon returned with Filomena. The two women filled the pasta bowls and everyone settled down to eat and watch the race.
The prologue of the Giro D'Italia is Act One of a three-week drama full of triumphs, tragedies, politics, and, above all, pa.s.sion. It mesmerizes cycling fans-and cycling fans are among the most rabid sports fans in the world, for they hold one great advantage over devotees of other sports. Whereas most professional athletes compete in constructed arenas where they are, for the most part, safely separated from the mob of spectators, cyclists compete out on the open road, an arm's length from the crowds that line the sidewalks as they whiz by. Cycling fans can reach out and touch their heroes, especially when the race enters the mountains and the compet.i.tors drag themselves up toward the clouds, often at a snail's pace. That is where the real fans, the tifosi, tifosi, come out to watch the races. They line the steep mountain roads, leaving a path no wider than the back of one's hand for their heroes to pedal through. They paint the names of their favorite riders on the road. They paint their faces to match their national flags. They run alongside the cyclists wobbling up the road, screaming in their ears, exhorting them to pedal harder, to stay ahead of the chasing pack, to catch the rider just up the road, or perhaps just to help them survive to race another day. come out to watch the races. They line the steep mountain roads, leaving a path no wider than the back of one's hand for their heroes to pedal through. They paint the names of their favorite riders on the road. They paint their faces to match their national flags. They run alongside the cyclists wobbling up the road, screaming in their ears, exhorting them to pedal harder, to stay ahead of the chasing pack, to catch the rider just up the road, or perhaps just to help them survive to race another day.
Unlike most of the long, arduous stages of the Giro, where all the riders leave the starting line together and the first man to the finish line wins, the prologue is a short time trial, an individual race against the clock over a course of perhaps only three or four miles.
But it is three or four miles of sheer agony!
The riders go off one at a time at two- or three-minute intervals. This is their showcase, their introduction onto the stage, and for those three or four miles they tear apart their hearts and legs and lungs in a desperate attempt to show the cycling world that they have come to Italy ready to race. In many ways a time trial is the sport at its most basic and most brutal. It is not for nothing that they call it la corsa di verita, la corsa di verita, the race of truth. the race of truth.
As they gobbled down their food, the men took turns commenting on the riders as they entered the start house, noting the aerodynamic equipment each used.
”Not like in the old days, eh, Peppi?” Luca said for the benefit of Costanzo and Gianni. ”Back when we were young you raced with the same bike every day no matter if it was a time trial or a mountain stage or a race on the flat roads. None of these special wheels and crazy handlebars they use today. We raced like men!”
”Yes, that's why you went so much slower,” remarked Gianni.
Luca gave his grandson a withering look before bursting out in laughter along with the others. ”Is that so?” he chortled. ”Suppose you get on your bike and I'll get on mine and we'll see who pedals up the climbs faster.”
”Nonno, I'd drop you in a minute,” boasted Gianni.
More laughter ensued and then they turned their attention back to the prologue.
”Speaking of climbs, that reminds me, Peppi,” said Luca. ”Did I tell you about the stage to Abettone?”
”What about it?”
”They're going over the San Pellegrino this year,” he told Peppi. ”A group of us are planning to ride the climb ahead of the race. It's a little tradition we started a few years back. We always try to do at least one of the Giro climbs.”
”You're not planning on doing it, are you?” Maria asked Costanzo.
”No,” he told his wife, ”I wouldn't make it half way up.”
”You're smart,” said Filomena. ”Not like these other ones. They all want to see who can be the first one to croak on the mountain.”
”It's not that bad,” scoffed Luca. ”You just have to set a nice easy tempo. Besides, the tifosi tifosi are always there to give you a little push to keep you going.” are always there to give you a little push to keep you going.”
”Don't listen to him, Peppi,” said Lucrezia with an edge of concern in her voice. ”It's much more difficult than he makes it sound.”
”I don't know,” said Peppi. ”It sounds like fun.”
”It is!” exclaimed Luca. ”Practically everyone in the group is planning to do it. We'll all ride up, and later on we'll have a little picnic on the mountain and watch the race go by.”
”That's if any of you are still breathing,” said Filomena.
”Don't listen to them, Peppi,” said Luca with a wave of his hand. ”Let's watch the race. We'll talk more about it later.”
After dinner Luca rolled the television back into the living room so that the men could relax and digest while they watched the rest of the race. Meantime Maria and Vittoria helped clear the table while Lucrezia and Filomena started the dishes. Alone in the kitchen with her for a few moments, Filomena looked at her daughter as she scrubbed one of the big pots.
”What's wrong?” she asked.
”What makes you think something's wrong?” said Lucrezia.
”I'm your mother, I know these things,” replied Filomena. ”Besides, you've barely said a word since dinner.”
”There's nothing wrong,” said Lucrezia testily.