recce on the path of the partisans

 They were communists. The partisans, the local people who resisted the crushing, grinding cruelty  of the fascist regime and it's economic system. Poor people. People of the land. Proud, clever, honest, family, community people. They are still here. They are in every handmade brick, olive tree, terraced hillside, vineyard and crumbling ruin. They are in every bottle of wine, every loaf of bread.
   When we first visited the bar in Moiano, we stood on a large outdoor terrace paved with broken flagstone. In the mosaic of the paving spread a huge hammer and sickle. When clearing out an old partition wall in the house, I found the hammer and sickle stamped into the old bricks; and when removing old plaster from the wall outside what was once the front door, I unveiled a painted hammer and sickle. The proud symbol of the local resistance.

abandoned transit station at top of the ridge with 'modern'
campaign sticker

   The Italian fascists insidiously took control of Citta della Pieve under the increasingly desperate authority of their Nazi occupiers. In June, '44 a local religious leader was killed for partisan sympathy. One by one, two by two, the cittadini abandonded their farms and family homes and hiked their gear from the town to a camp on Mount Pausillo, overlooking tiny, and appropriately named, Paciano, where Isolde and Thomasina attended elementary school. They left a small gravel road contouring near the ridge top across the valley. The victims, the temporary refugees of their own right-wing government, became the communist partisans. The resistance fighters armed with a few farming tools and plenty of cunning determined to defend their common human rights and honest lifestyle.
   In a Santa Fe bookstore, Bob found a book entitled An Umbrian War by Romana Petri, a translation of her Alle Case Venie published in 1997. Romana describes the fall of the fascists in Citta della Pieve through the eyes of a fictitious young orphan and her younger brother. It's told in thoughtful, ephemeral, occasionally confusing style with Alicina having conversations with her father's ghost, coping with treacherous nazi sympathizers, sending her younger brother on spy missions and finally abandoning her old family home and joining the rebel band in the mountains. Hearing the story set in the countryside right around our house thrilled me and inspired me to seek out and follow the the path of the partisans. Any excuse, really, to get up on the high ground and have a look around will do; but the idea of a history lesson as well as a mountain bike adventure turned the idea into a compulsion.
   So Bob arrives. We scramble into the attic and dust off his bike, dig out his helmet and shoes, and have a good hard look at what the girls will ride. We're going to need water, of course, and the promise of a summit picnic as well as ice cream at the end. We'll have no map, but I've been studying the contours with Google Maps for so long, I've got most of it memorized. It'll be a little tricky since it's a point to point ride with the start in Citta della Pieve, about a half an hour away from our house. The girls have actually been to the summit of Monte Pausillo on school outings, so they know the way down from the top to Paciano. I'll have to drive us up to Citta della Pieve, guide everybody across the traverse and then return to the car, leaving Bob to accompany the girls down to Paciano and home.

Monti Cetona e Amiata for anyone who might care

    Realizing it's a complicated route and likely too difficult for our novice crew, I organized a light-weight, low-key reconnaissance by driving the bikes up the Via della Resistenza to the top of the ridge where it intersects the path of the partigiani. Zoe and Alexander, two workaway volunteers, were conscripted making us a party of 6. Two cars. Bob decked out in full regalia on a proper cyclo-cross bike, the rest of us in blue jeans, sneakers and a hodge-podge of children's mountain bikes and used clunkers. One of the bikes I rode had 24" tires and had to be stopped to engage the inner chainring. What looked like a smooth fire road on Google Earth turned out to be nice a steep in places well washed down to babyheads in places. Bob rolled over on one of the uphill pitches putting a gruesome elbow on display. Everybody had to push eventually and from the high turn-around we could see our objective (along with the rest of tuscany and umbria), but it was just out of reach for our preparation. "You can't do that," Thomasina said. "What do you mean? It's right there. We'll go up there, but not today." "It's too steep. A car couldn't get up there." "We'll get up there. We might have to push, just like this; but we'll get up there."

   I watched Thomasina and Zoe walk down from the turn-around thinking it wonderful we wouldn't have any foolish casualties. A little further on, Thomasina got the hang of it and off she went, just to skid and jump off in front of Isolde on the last pitch to the car. Jeesh! We've got some learning to do.

toying with father

   Isolde looked at me and said between gasps, "One lesson from this ride: Stick together." I failed to mention that when we left the Madrevite winery we'd have another hill to climb before we headed home. Thomasina and I had swapped bikes so I was now on the nice Stumpjumper while she was on the heavy clunker. But despite this, she eased away from Isolde and I and by the time we reached the intersection at the top, she was gone. But which way? Back to Villastrada from where we had come or across the white roads to Cioncola in the direction of Le Coste and home. We coasted along looking in both directions until I finally asked Isolde to stop and wait while I raced back to Villastrada. No Thomasina. I rejoined Isolde and we climbed up to Poggi and through the narrow gap between the buildings where the view opened up across the hills. No Thomasina. "Do you girls know these roads? Would she know how to get home from here?" "No!" "OK, I think we should go back to Villastrada and down that way. She'd know that road."
   Earlier that day, on the long climb up from the valley to Villastrada, Thomasina rode away from Isolde and I, establishing herself as the best climber. Light, skinny riders do this to their friends. Being light and skinny myself, I used to do this too. But now I'm old and creaky as well as light and skinny, and my children are doing this to me now. At least Thomasina is. I never felt it was a competitive instinct that would drive me to do this, but now I know better. We found her resting at the top, red-faced and radiant. Isolde and I red-faced and defeated.
   Now, a little worried, Isolde and I huffed and puffed back to Villastrada and began our long coast down through the little town and out onto the open descent to the valley floor. It's a long, straight, gentle descent that makes one feel like a soaring bird. And the landscape sweeps away and it seems miles are covered with no effort. But in all the openness, no Thomasina.
   And it dawned on me, of course she went the other way. She pressed her advantage on the hill to guarantee she arrived home first. From the high country all the nearby landmarks could be seen and the direction home would have been evident even if she had never been on the roads before. She was, right now, home waiting for us. Red-faced and radiant.
    "What if she's been kidnapped? What if she has crashed? Or maybe she's lost." Isolde's worry grew with every pedal stroke. We cranked along the long road home, my shoulders down in the headwind. This, the very same stretch of road where the girls pedaled away from me for the first time as I ran
behind, helping with their balance. "What do we do if she's not there when we get home?" "We'll back-track with the car." Isolde needed a plan. I was the leader, but I wasn't leading now. And I knew the ache in my legs was the same feeling Thomasina must have felt getting closer to home. But better. And only I was feeling the ache in my knees.