For safety reasons we rode out of Florence as a group under the escort of two guides, negotiating the turns carefully. Once clear of the city traffic we faced a short eight-kilometer climb to Fiesole, which overlooks Florence from the north. As this would involve no more than 20 or 30 minutes of riding before a break for sightseeing and lunch, it was the perfect opportunity for the "animals" among us to test our performance. Dave R. and Richard quickly pulled ahead of Stefania, the front leader, but I stayed close on her tail, watching her choice of gears (contrary to later accusations by Dave), keeping a bit in reserve and trying to judge whether I was getting any aerodynamic effect from drafting her or whether I should risk passing and trying to pull ahead, not knowing how much she was holding back. I had just decided to make my move when we rounded a sharp corner and came to Fiesole.

When the guides handed out tourist maps of the town, it became clear that there was a lot more to see than just a view of Florence, which was rather hazy and unimpressive in the mid-day sunlight. Right at the overlook stood the ancient red brick church of Sant'Alessandro, which was unfortunately closing for a noontime service. But the town's history goes back beyond Christianity. At an archaeological site on the north-facing slope the ruins and remains of three civilizations are exposed. The large stones marking the outline of a Roman temple of the first century BC fully encompass the smaller stones forming the partial walls of the inner cella of an Etruscan temple dating back to the third century BC. Scattered around the temple site are the outlines of tombs from the time when the Germanic Lombards inhabited the area (sixth to seventh century AD), and the nearby museum displays a human skeleton laid out as the bones were excavated in a Lombard tomb.

Also at this site I paced among the ruins of a Roman bath, trying to sort out the placement of elements that typify it. Two walled grassy areas of different sizes marked the outdoor pools. More difficult to visualize were the divisions of the "covered area" (now lacking its roof), which included three rooms named for their temperature. The hot calidarium had a clearly visible (probably restored) false floor raised on brick pillars that allowed hot air to pass from two brick ovens in an adjoining area; this arrangement would clearly heat the air in the room although not obviously provide hot water in the three small pools surrounding it. The neighboring tepidarium was evidently warmed to a lesser degree by a single oven, although the false floor and ductwork were no longer in place. On the cold northern extreme of the baths the frigidarium was divided by three tall arches, extensively restored with modern materials, which seemed to obscure rather than illuminate its purpose as a bath. Even after comprehending the placement of pools, ovens, and thermal rooms, I don't have much of an idea as to how a Roman would have utilized the public bath.

Finally, the dominant feature of the site was a Roman theater, the semicircular sort with a stage (proscenium) that was used for the presentation of drama. (Not to be confused by the Roman amphitheater, which formed a complete ellipse, providing a large "playing field" and much more seating capacity, suitable for athletic contests.) The tiers of seats were intact, half original and half restored. And like most Greek and Roman theaters I have seen in my travels around Greece and southern France, its stage area was filled with modern scaffolds, lighting and sound equipment for the presentation of modern spectacles. On the schedule for this venue for presentations of Carmen and flamenco dancing.

By the time I had finished viewing the ancient site the afternoon was well advanced and I feared that I may have been deserted by my touring companions. Sure enough, most of the bikes were gone, but at least two other than mine remained and our indefatigable leader James patiently stood guard over them. I mentioned that I had not yet eaten lunch, and he suggested the restaurant right where the bikes were parked. I ordered an

Because James was still waiting for the true laggards — a New York couple named Phil and Billie — I set out alone on the gentle nine-kilometer climb to Vetta le Croci. Although I recall stopping on the upgrade to photograph a farmhouse and braking hard during the descent to retrieve the cable lock that had vibrated loose from my rear rack and fallen onto the pavement, I do not remember what, if anything, was to be seen at this minor summit. Also during the descent, after drifting into thoughts inspired by the lovely farmlands and woods I passed through, I grew momentarily concerned that I had somehow strayed off course when I realized that I had not seen a chalk arrow in many kilometers. But no sooner had I pulled to the side to check my map than the tour van passed with a friendly honk from Amy. I gave a thumbs-up indication that I was okay and resumed riding.

On this day I clearly had no chance of catching up with the majority of the riders. At the bottom of the downgrade I came to Borgo San Lorenzo and followed the arrows to a designated stop for a refreshing gelato prior to the last uphill leg. Here I confirmed a conjecture that I had made earlier when stopping to take a photograph, namely that taking a break on a hot day can sometimes be counterproductive. As long as I kept pedaling and drank copious amounts of water, my system kept my skin bathed with a gloss of sweat, the moving air evaporated it, and I felt cool. The moment I stopped, the air movement ceased and I rapidly began to feel uncomfortably hot. Although I enjoyed the tasty blend of limon and limoncello (a lemon-flavored liqueur) gelato on my cone that afternoon in Borgo San Lorenzo, I can't say that the net effect of the stop was to cool me off, and it was quite a struggle to consume the soft treat as fast as it melted in the hot air. That day all of Tuscany was a calidarium.

Fortunately, from that point it was only another eight kilometers and a slight climb to Ronta, a quiet little village nestled in the base of the Apennines. The tour itinerary lists Ronta as a "mountain resort," because, I suppose, people from Florence might come here to escape the rush and buzz of the city. But as far as I could tell there was only one resort hotel, the Hotel Parco dei Fiori, and no other signed businesses. And, judging by the handful of other guests in the dining room that night, it seemed that the people of our tour were about the town's only guests for that Thursday night. I parked my bike among the trees on the shady east side of the hotel and climbed a flight of stairs to the back patio, where nearly everyone else was already relaxing with a drink. The place was quiet and comfortably shaded. I felt like staying a week. In my room French doors opened onto a private balcony with a table and two chairs. My view took in the back patio and grounds of the hotel, a few nearby residences and, in the distance, a couple ridges of the Apennines, softened by afternoon haze. They did not seem insurmountable. The next morning we would ride to the pass.

But at that very moment two members of our party – Richard and Dave – were already engaged in a contest with those hills. Richard was clearly the most seasoned and fit rider in the group. He had brought his own bicycle from New Zealand, and prior to the Italy tour he had completed a much more rigorous ride along the route of the Tour de France. (During this time his wife, Pippa, stayed at a hotel and took a crash course in Italian.) On our tour he showed his strength and stamina riding some extra miles on the fourth day of actual riding, when a relatively short ride from Florence to Ronta (42 kilometers) was planned. To increase the challenge and explore more of the mountainous terrain, he planned for himself (with the approval of the guides) a circuitous route that followed a backroad far beyond the destination, then looped back over a very sinuous looking road that crested two separate hills — one near 900 meters and another over 1,000 meters. He invited any other ambitious riders to join him. I declined, fearing the effect of those extra hills on my knees, and preferring instead to explore the Roman and Etruscan ruins of Fiesole at a leisurely pace. The challenge was taken, however, by the second Dave in the group, Dave R., who was aggressive, testosterone charged and some 20 years Richard's junior. Although the rest of us could not witness the event, we could clearly see the effects. The rest of us reached the mountain resort of Ronta by 5 p.m. and enjoyed the crisp air, a drink and extended conversations. I even had time to hand-wash my bike clothes and hang them on the balcony to dry. We gathered for dinner, savored the antipasto and pasta courses, shared wine and had begun on the main course before Richard and Dave finally appeared around 9 p.m. in near total darkness. Although they told conflicting tales about who was leading the charge, their stories agreed that they rode an additional 70 kilometers, with an additional 1,600 meters of climbing. Richard took it in stride, but for the next three or four days Dave rode at the rear of the pack, clearly in pain.

During the night in Ronta I had left my balcony doors open to enjoy the temperate, fresh air. Lying in my bed I could look out beyond the trees and see a black sky glittering with stars. I was a bit sorry to surrender consciousness on this single precious night in the mountains, but sleep took my quickly.

If in my dreams I could have glanced ahead at the day that would take us over and out of the Apennines — at the way it was shaped by its sights, flavors and random events — and then compared it to those that would follow, I might have considered it one of the best. The itinerary included no tours or stops at historic points of interest, but the number of spontaneous and unexpected things added up to make it a rather special day. It was certainly one of the longest days of riding; to the estimated 65 kilometers I added another dozen with a pre-breakfast ride, making a total of about 48 miles. But a relatively short climb to a mountain pass was followed by a long glide downhill, and even after the road leveled out, progress was aided by a noticeable tailwind.

I was roused from my sleep abruptly when a loud alarm bell sounded in the hotel lobby shortly after 6 a.m. and continued for several minutes. Having been conditioned at home to the idea that alarms usually signal a malfunction or human error, I never considered that this might have been an actual emergency, and in fact it was not. But it was annoying enough to wake me thoroughly. Fortunately, this unexpected wake-up call reminded me of an opportunity. The previous evening Amy had announced that she was planning to ride back down the hill early in the morning to Borgo San Lorenzo to visit her favorite pastry shop. If I joined her I could start the day with a truly good pastry and cappuccino, compared to the hotel offerings which had been mediocre at best. Also, this point merely halfway through our tour meant an end to the mountain roads that delighted me, which made me a bit melancholy. Setting out early would let me stretch out the pleasure as long as possible; I could by begin the last climb at the very base of the Apennines in Borgo San Lorenzo after fueling up with a delicious cappuccino and pastry.

I showered quickly, put on my cycling clothes and rushed down to the lobby. It was exactly 6:30, the departure time mentioned by Amy, but no sign of either her or any other early risers. No one attending the front desk. I found a roster and checked for the room that had been reserved for Amy and Stefania, but a cryptic notation made me suspect that another guest may have been assigned to that room instead. I tiptoed up the stairs and along the marble-floored hallway to listen briefly for sounds of activity in that room but heard nothing. After waiting ten minutes I decided to start off on my own. I hesitated before opening the front door, wondering whether the false alarm had been triggered by someone else's attempted departure, but then summoned a bit of determination and was relieved when the door opened soundlessly. I found my bike still unlocked in the back yard where I had left it, pushed it along the gravel driveway and began pedaling through sleepy Ronta. The slope increased and gravity pulled me quickly toward Borgo San Lorenzo.

The thought occurred to me that I might not be able to find the bar that Amy intended (having received absolutely no information about where it was located), but my faith in destiny was strong that morning. At the bottom of the hill I intersected the town's main street and had two choices about which way to turn: one known and one unknown. First I rode for many blocks through the unfamiliar territory, but found no open shops. Then I doubled back to retrace several blocks I had covered the previous afternoon. Success! In no time I came upon a fancy looking bar on the right, with cases full of pastries and many customers. To go with my cappuccino I selected a flaky apple turnover topped with powdered sugar. I sat at a small table near a window that admitted a few beams of morning sunlight. I was a bit disappointed not to be sharing the pleasure with someone else, but I tried not to feel self-conscious as I savored the food and enjoyed the moment. Just as I returned to my bicycle and was folding up the windbreaker that I would not need during the climb, a car drove up and Amy stepped out with one of the men from the hotel. "You found my favorite pastry shop!" she said, rushing inside. Within a couple minutes they grabbed some pastries to go and sped back up the road. For me the ride back took less than a half hour. I proceeded to the dining room just as the others were settling at the tables and served myself to some juice, cold cereal, and a mediocre coffee.

Crossing a major mountain range, the Apennines, may sound like a challenge to the casual bicycle rider. And even the experienced bike club members on our tour who were in condition for extremely flat places like Florida or Long Island grumbled about having to hoist their excess pounds over a 900-meter pass. (Interestingly, days later, when we pedaled with no resistance other than a strong headwind, it would be revealed to me that people who are in shape but overweight have not much of a relative disadvantage when riding on level ground.) But for me this hardly seemed like a mountain crossing. The morning climb of 500 meters in 9 kilometers was only about fifty percent more than the casual exercise ride I take occasionally to the top of the Berkeley Hills. And, fortunately, this was another day when clouds kept the air cool, so overheating was not a problem. My legs had already been stretched by the early morning ride, so I didn't feel the need to pedal conservatively at first. As I wound my way along narrow switchbacks, I discovered that the grade was gentle enough to avoid shifting into the lowest front chain ring. I perhaps irritated a few people as I passed them with comments like "When do we start climbing?" I had long been riding on my own when I came to a heavily shaded place along the road where spring water gushed continuously from a pipe set in a stone fountain. I topped off my bottles and drank my fill of the fresh cold water. Then, after only a few more turns in the road, I came to the bar at Passo della Colla.

The others began arriving shortly after me. Ellen R. got out her video camera and taped each subsequent rider's arrival at the peak. By the time the last ones appeared, those of us lying in wait made up a substantial crowd of spectators to cheer them in. This was the closest we would come to simulating the experience of Olympic victory. I had my third cappuccino of the morning. Neither the scenery, the weather, or the services offered much to inspire us. It was hardly the highest point around, so there was no breathtaking view. Topographically, we were crossing a saddle in one ridge, and another road continued climbing to the northwest toward a much higher ridge. The view behind us amounted only to the tops of evergreen trees, and the view ahead was obstructed by a rocky gouge in the ridge that we had yet to pass. The air was as cold as it had been at any time during the trip; some people complained about the cold and shivered even with windbreakers on. There was no village to explore — nothing more than the bar where we sat. Still no one seemed in a hurry to leave. The narrow pass But when it was time to begin the descent, I did put on a windbreaker. Besides cutting the cold air, I had found that it added drag and helped reduce downhill speed.

The itinerary listed "40 kilometers of downhill ahead," but two things stood in the way of a rapid descent. For one, after all that coffee my bladder was full, even though I had visited the bathroom at the pass. That problem aside, the scenery — a panorama of rolling hills covered by green pastures — was too beautiful to pass by. Not far beyond the pass the sun broke up the clouds and provided blue sky as a backdrop. I brought my bike to a halt at one turn with a level field of wildflowers bordered by cypress trees on one side and a herd of cattle on the opposite side, providing an opportunity to deal with both my urinary and photographic needs. Pair by pair several of the other group members passed me by. A few miles farther down I stopped again and poised my camera to catch Ed coming around a bend at high speed. Near the bottom of the steepest part of the hill I caught up with several of the others at the little town of Biforco, where two forks of the Fiume Lamone merge (although neither one was more than a creek in a broad dry bed). The road paralleled a railroad line, which reminded me that the tour description had offered the option of taking the train on this leg of the tour. No one in our group had considered it, but I realized that it would be a more tempting alternative when the tour runs in the opposite direction and requires 40 kilometers of climbing. Somewhere among the other small towns along the way — at Popolano or San Adriano, at Pedrósola or la Strada — I was brought to a halt by some other unusual sights. A gigantic model of a rooster, seemingly handmade with draped fabric of various colors, stared into the road, keeping watch over someone's backyard. In the same yard a plastic stand-up of a young woman from storybook tales, Bianca Neve was recognizable by her seven dwarfish companions, who bore names like Dotto, Brontolo and Mammolo. (The identity of the eighth member of her retinue, a shaggy dog named "Rock," has yet to be established.) And somewhere among the orchards and cultivated fields of the terrain that was by now relatively flat I happened upon kiwi vines, which had to be documented with a photo.

As a result of all these stops I was one of the last to arrive in Brisighella. But not so far behind that I couldn't join a group that was settling into the patio of restaurant for a late lunch. While Ed R. ordered some refreshing prosecco to precede the meal, my eye latched onto one pasta course that I could not pass up: ravioli di piccione. Although these birds had presumably been farm bred, I looked upon this meal as an opportunity to bite back, so to speak, at their cousins who flocked in the piazzas of Lucca and Florence and would boldly snatch food from my plate if I let down my guard for a few seconds. The ingredient of revenge aside, these light pasta shells stuffed with a blend of pigeon nuggets and ricotta and topped with a creamy sauce were delicious.

The table had also been set with something which I expected everywhere in Italy, but which was strangely lacking at many of our meals: flavorful, crusty bread and a bottle of olive oil. Here, to my delight, the bread was very tasty and the olio d'oliva carried a trademark Dominazione di Origine Protetta certifying it as Terra di Brisighella — produced and bottled locally. Good olive oil, I once heard, has the fragrance of fresh cut grass. Although I can't say I've ever been tempted to drop to my knees in a freshly mowed lawn and take a mouthful of the moist green blades, I would agree that the fragrance is pleasant. And the strong, earthy taste of this olive oil did capture that sensation and render it palatable. Although all of my lunchtime companions were ready to proceed to Faenza, I decided to ride back to the olive oil factory, just a few minutes back up the highway, where I could sample everything they had. I found myself alone in the tasting room and felt a bit awkward when the woman there poured many generous doses of each of their three styles (all of them extra vergine) onto bite-sized pieces of bread. It seemed like enough samples for a whole family. Fortunately, she did not keep an eye on me to make sure I consumed them all. After a couple tastes of each I found that the middle grade, called Brisighello, excited my taste buds even more than the slightly less expensive one I had sampled at lunch. I bought two liter-sized bottles. (Because our ever-accommodating guides had promised to stop there later with the van and pick up any purchases we had made, I was not obliged to lug the bottles on my bike the rest of the way to Faenza.)

With the wind still at my back, the remaining 15 kilometers to Faenza took no more than half an hour. After passing through the town's piazza, the arrows led me to the hotel's garage, where I stored my bike before entering the lobby from the back. Considering the small town, I found the Hotel Vittoria to be rather stylish. The lobby had marble columns and panels and was decorated with the plates and vases for which the town is famous (more on this later). My room was unusually spacious, and the wardrobe and bed were constructed of a dark burled wood. A matched writing desk was positioned at the foot of the bed. Although it cramped the floor space and inhibited walking, I was pleased to have such a fine piece of furniture. I took advantage of it to write a postcard.

Shortly after I finished the card it was time for another tour. Our guide Amy led us on foot a few blocks from the hotel to a small ceramics studio where shelves were packed with the colorful earthenware plates, bowls and vases for which the town is known. Although I knew the French word faience and had read in the tour notes that the name referred originally to pottery from this town, I didn't know what to expect. Among the samples in the studio the deep blue and orange colors immediately caught my eye. The proprietor led us into a back room where two women were decorating small bowls that had already been fired once and glazed white. Seemingly unaffected by our prying eyes, they skillfully applied pigment in repeating fan-shaped patterns; translating the proprietor's words, Amy told us that these were traditional patterns, centuries old, inspired, we were told, by the tail of the pavone (peacock). The pigments are dull when applied, but a second firing transforms the dull hues to rich colors. To demonstrate this point, the proprietor opened a kiln that had already cooled several hours after firing. He began pulling out finished pieces and, as if unconcerned about their value, he set some down clumsily on the top of the kiln and handed some to members of our group. The pieces were still too hot to hold for long, so they were passed quickly from hand to hand. Fortunately, nothing was dropped in this game of "hot potato."

After the tour I looked around the studio and sorted through a couple stacks of plates, some decorated solely with geometric patterns and some bore human faces in profile. Were these people of a Renaissance court? The young man was perhaps a page, judging by his hairstyle. And the young woman an attendant to a lady of rank. They made a good pair.

The short walk back to the hotel carried me along a typically narrow street where the sidewalk, no more than a foot wide, hugged the front of residential buildings. This brought me in close proximity to a large black and white cat lazing on a window sill, who looked a bit apprehensive as I approached but apparently felt secure behind the window's wrought-iron grate. As I passed close by the doorway of another residence, a woman standing there called out "San Francesco!" For a moment I froze in my tracks, startled that not only had she identified me as American (not too difficult) but had also somehow targeted the major city near my home. Was she telepathic? When she seemed just as surprised by my reaction and made a quick apology, I realized she had been calling out to someone across the street, perhaps referring to a church in town or something else named for this ubiquitous saint.

For our dinner, tables had been set on the open-air courtyard at the center of the Hotel Vittoria. However, at dusk, just as we were about to be seated, an intense rain storm broke. Waiters quickly prepared a long table just inside the restaurant and closed the French doors and window shutters. For the first part of the meal rain hammered down on the pavement behind me. There were a few rumbles of thunder. Through gaps in the shutters I could sense a charge in the air. Partly because of the dramatic weather and partly because of the food, this was one of the most memorable meals. An insalate caprese with fresh tomatoes and mozzarella was followed by a pasta whose name carried a bit of folklore. Amy, announcing the meal's ingredients as usual, explained that strozzapreti means "strangle the priest" and refers to the sentiment of an apocryphal poor family in a small village concerning a visiting cleric who had overstayed his welcome. (It wasn't clear whether the dish — curly macaroni in a cheese and tomato sauce — was actually intended to accomplish the feat implied by its name.) As on other occasions there was a second pasta to sample: a lasagne with bechamel sauce — cut in modest sized portions, fortunately, because the rich sauce was very filling. The main course of chicken was — again, as on other occasions — rather ordinary compared to the dishes that preceded it. But the dessert of gelato semi-freddo — ice cream that was melting in a light dose of chocolate and butterscotch sauces — brought the meal to a delicious finish.

Here is some information obtained from the web site of the International Ceramics Museum in Faenza:

Types of Wares

Pottery comprises three distinctive types of wares. The first type, earthenware, has been made following virtually the same techniques since ancient times; only in the modern era has mass production brought changes in materials and methods. Earthenware is basically composed of clay—often blended clays—and baked hard, the degree of hardness depending on the intensity of the heat. After the invention of glazing, earthenwares were coated with glaze to render them waterproof; sometimes glaze was applied decoratively. It was found that, when fired at great heat, the clay body became nonporous. This second type of pottery, called stoneware, came to be preferred for domestic use.

The third type of pottery is a Chinese invention that appeared when feldspathic material in a fusible state was incorporated in a stoneware composition. The ancient Chinese called decayed feldspar kaolin (meaning "high place," where it was originally found). It is believed that porcelain was first made by Chinese potters toward the end of the Han period (206 BC-AD 220), when pottery generally became more refined in body, form, and decoration. Two types of porcelain evolved: "true" porcelain, consisting of a kaolin hard-paste body, extremely glassy and smooth, produced by high temperature firing, and soft porcelain, invariably translucent and lead glazed, produced from a composition of ground glass and other ingredients including white clay and fired at a low temperature. The latter was widely produced by 18th-century European potters.

A distinctive type of earthenware known as majolica, which was derived from Chinese porcelain, appeared in Italy during the last quarter of the 14th century. It is now believed that this type of painted earthenware was inspired by the Hispano-Moresque luster-decorated ware of Spanish origin introduced to Italy by Majorcan seagoing traders.

Majolica ware, whether thrown on the wheel or pressed into molds, was fired once to obtain a brown or buff body, then dipped in glaze composed of lead and tin oxide with a silicate of potash. The opaque glaze presented a surface that was suitable to receive decoration. A second firing after decoration fixed the white glaze to the body and the pigments to the glaze, so that the colors became permanently preserved. Frequently, the beauty of these wares was increased by dipping them in a translucent lead glaze composed of oxide of lead mixed with sand, potash, and salt. When certain luster pigments and enamels were used in all-over painting, wares had to be specially fired at low temperature. Application of metallic luster pigments required great skill because these colors were extremely volatile and needed special handling.

Faenza Ceramics

During the 12th and 13th centuries, on simple forms generally subordinated to the requirements of household use (pans, bowls, jugs), the city's potters devised, developed and perfected two techniques for covering their products: tin glaze (vitreous white) and engobe (earthy white).

The white-coated surface then was decorated, either with a brush and paints, or with a sharp pointed instrument on the engobe. Subjects were taken from the repertoire of ornamentation in the applied arts of the time (textiles, goldsmithery, miniatures), and mainly consisted in plant motifs (vine shoots, flowers, palmettes), motifs of fauna (fish, fantastic birds), and heraldic motifs.

The last group is extremely important, for in it references often appear to the individuals and families that have left their mark on the city's history. After the medieval period or "archaic" phase, came a perfecting of Faenza ceramics, especially of majolica^†, both in the whiteness and density of its coat (tin-glaze) and in its chromatic range - and also because new colors were adopted, including an intense yellow and a brillant blue.

Taken as a whole, the Faenza workshop production of the early Renaissance, called the "severe" style for its use of clearly defined and recurrent ornamental motifs, may be divided into two major periods, each including various "families" or smaller decorative groupings. During the first period, grafted onto motifs from the "archaic" or medieval phase is decoration partially deriving from the Byzantine world, as in the "zaffera blue relief" family, and partially from the arabic culture of the Moorish craftsmen in Spanish workshops, as in the "Italo-Moresque" family.

During the second period, there grew up alongside the Gothic-style motifs of the "floral-gothic" family, ornamentation originating in the Middle and Far East and constituting the decorative families named "peacock feather ocelli", "persian palmette", and "alla porcellana".

A Short History of Tin-Glazed Earthenware: Maiolica, Majolica, Delftware and Faience

CERAMIC, HISTORICAL PROFILE (C. Ravanelli Guidotti)

Renaissance Ceramics and "Compendiario" Style Ceramics

The ride from Faenza to Ravenna was relatively long (about 35 miles) and totally flat. Judging by the itinerary, there was almost nothing of interest between the outskirts of Faenza (where, after a very late start, we would stop for lunch at "the farm") and the approach to Ravenna (where we would tour a basilica dating to the 6th century). The late start gave me a chance to stroll around the piazza, which on this Saturday morning was packed with the tables of vendors (mostly clothing, including lingerie) and bustling with shoppers. Heading southeast from Faenza we followed what seemed to be a very nice bike path surrounded by farmlands; in fact it turned out to be a very narrow road, but only one or two cars appeared to remind us of that fact. In no time we arrived at the small farm that has long been held by the family of Paola, one of the co-founders of ExperiencePlus. We were greeted by Paola and her husband, Rick, and their college-age daughters, Monica and Maria Elena. Rick took us for a quick tour of the farm and business office. Although grapes and other fruit are still grown there, most of the farm's activity centers on managing the European cycling and walking tours. The modernized farmhouse has upstairs dormitories where the guides can stay between tours. The barn, once full of pigs, now shelters scores of bicycles, which are maintained by Massimo, the chief mechanic.

We gathered at shaded tables on the patio as the family carried trays of food from Paola's modern kitchen. It was a fine picnic lunch: fresh vegetables and fruit, sausage and tangy cheeses, pita bread and dip. There were several wines to taste, including a couple produced at the farm.

After leaving the farm our route took a sharp bend to the northeast, angling us into a steady easterly wind. The wind took me down a couple gears and held my cruising speed around 28 kph. Nevertheless, before long I pulled ahead of the other riders and pumped steadily onward for about half an hour all alone.