terremoto

    Leslie came around before lunch to take Alex to the post office and mentioned that there were some cracks in our road. She lives and works in London and they have cracks in the roads there but nothing like the potholes and gaps we can generate during a wet winter. We didn't really take her seriously, but when Alex returned she was so impressed she phoned the LeCoste office. They must have thought an Englishwoman has no experience with Umbrian country roads. They didn't take Alex seriously. At around 5, Charlie and I set off in the van and returned with a heavy load of wet sand. We had to bump down about four inches and 30 meters later bump back up again. To me the crack was something I had anticipated for years. The land was obviously slipping down the hill but it was still passable. I didn't take it too seriously, either.
   At suppertime the Italian neighbors called in panic. Dido, returning home, was afraid to drive his Land Rover over the crack. Alex calmed him down and I think we all felt that the Italians were overreacting. Why didn't they have the gusto to take a chance? They have a four-wheel drive car so what could be the problem? After getting little sympathy from us, Dido called the office and somehow convinced Enrico to go take a look.

   Within minutes, Enrico decided to close the road. When I rode up on my bicycle in the eerie dark of my little headlamp, I first saw the ribbon and then, well, a gap in the road; and I knew in a minute that we were trapped. Two cars and two vans and six people. We had waited too long, favoring a nice hot meal over evasive action. I had completely misjudged the speed at which the ground was moving, and standing there in the dark I could hear the slab of earth beneath me creaking and cracking. I returned with the news which encouraged Richie to go for a walk. Despite all his bravery, he too conceded defeat.

    We all slept fitfully. It's difficult to describe the feeling but when the terra becomes not so ferma, it can make one quite nervous. We take for granted that the ground is solid, but it ain't so. Next morning Richie and I walked the girls to the school rendezvous and found Enrico and three others surveying the scene. A rough plan was developed and, after breakfast, an excavator was already at work. No instrument surveys, no environmental impact reports, no permissions from the city, no building permits, no fussing around. Just plow a new road through, but this time higher up the hill.
    Unfortunately, our stacked firewood piles, which we incorrectly placed on the wrong side of our boundary, had to be moved out of the way of the excavator: a hell of a way to employ builders. The combination of poor judgement, bad planning, inaction, stranded cars and wobbly ground contributed to a humiliating sense of "what's the use?" Meanwhile, clever ol' Dido managed to keep both of his cars on the other side of the chasm.

la drama della frana

    Ten days later, the landslip continues to creep downhill. It is a curved bite out of the hillside taking 40 meters of road and three olive trees on the terrace above along with it. The vertical displacement is now three to four meters and a ladder is required to descend onto the old road surface. Remarkably, our phone line, which is buried alongside the road, has not snapped. Slack coiled at either end could be paying out as the landmass moves.
    A new by-pass has been hastily built up slope. We are all impressed by the speed and dedication of a family of two brothers and a father who have a small earthmoving company. They worked Saturday and Sunday and we were able to drive out Sunday evening.
    A meeting was held Monday evening where we were told that the four houses of the Borgo would be handed the bill for the repair. It comes as something of a surprise since these are legally designated Strade Viciniale by the local authorities. We've been told that the 'comune' is responsible but there is no money so they're not going to pay. LeCoste is washing their hands of the affair saying that they have donated the land and that's the extent of their contribution. The condominium will likely debate the matter for months and in the meantime the poor earthmovers go unrewarded.
    The house below us in the borgo has been occupied by occasional vacation renters for the past two years since Sue and Bob returned to Great Britain. Now, a Roman doctor has bought it and we are looking forward to new neighbors, however, there's nothing like a little landslide to make a new buyer get the shakes. The deed didn't manage to change hands before the road disaster so Sue and Bob find themselves in a touchy bargaining position. Enzo, our new neighborhood doctor, has been doing some homework and he's informed me that according to the law, Strade Vicinale that serve single homes or a group of homes are indeed the responsibility of the homeowners. We, along with Lorenza and Dido, the fourth neighbor Marta and Marcello, and poor Sue and Bob are going to share the expense. Sue and Bob have returned from Britain to move some furniture but we've all avoided them, fearing an angry eruption. They've done a lovely job renovating their house, but they've spent a lot of money and the market has turned against them. We've suffered some bad luck with the landslide but for them it's a nasty parting shot.

milestone

      My simple life sometimes seems stalemated by doubt and delay. I can get bogged down in the most ridiculous worry over things that shouldn't bother anyone.
      Alex, on the other hand, worries about proper stuff. She worries about the kid's grades. She worries about our money. She's concerned about our nutrition. She thinks about her mother. She thinks about my mother. She even worries about me. And she usually does something about it.

      I worry about how to connect two pieces of plumbing pipe. This is something people have done for centuries. The answer is a phone call away, or a trip to the shop. But then I worry about what to say. I worry about how I'm going to look to the shop keeper. It's crazy.

     Fully a year and four months ago, we wrestled a massively heavy steel woodstove off a moving van. The idea was to connect it to the hot water tank and provide us with central heating. The thing has sat in our way ever since and I have fretted and suffered over how to make the connections. I've lost track of how many times Alex has lost her patience. First I had one design, then I got the nerve to call the manufacturer for verification and he sent me another idea. I couldn't believe his idea would work so I fretted some more. I designed a natural heat convection circuit and a blow off valve in case the electricity failed and the circulation pump quit. I purchased enough big diameter copper tubing to break the bank. I still haven't decided on a pump. I called the local plumber and he miraculously lent me his hydraulic press for joining the pipes. Finally we managed a visit from the solar panel supplier to put in his two cents, and I changed my design again.

     In the meantime, all this back and fourth has been holding up progress on the underfloor heating installation. With Richie and Charlie on the full time payroll, progress is not something that can be held up for long. I managed to stall them with the impossible task of plastering the entire ceiling. They finished in far less time than I needed to worry about my pipe connections, so I gave them the stairwell to plaster (can you imagine the scaffolding?).

    Finally, with all the materials mustered to assembled the underfloor heating pipes, and all the sand and cement dumped on the driveway to cover whole thing, I couldn't delay my pipe connection any longer. Counting all my delays and testing and worrying, it took about 15 minutes.
    The pipes are down. The manifold is in. Richie and Charlie, with the help of a Youtube video, mastered the cementing process with a remarkably dry mix that lent itself to troweling. Now the cement is leveled and we've just passed a major milestone. Thanks to Richie and Charlie and Alex. Now I can continue to worry about my stove hook-ups while progress continues on the rest of the project.

break

    Winter here is not that great. I thought winter in Davis (central California) was pretty bad and I thought moving to central Italy would help brighten up my winter months. The winter darkens Davis in a dark, damp ground fog that protects the city from the warming sunshine and keeps it at a constant two or three degrees (centigrade) above freezing. In addition it helps keep the town moist so that any hint of warmth is eliminated by soaking everything, including your clothing and firewood with a moisture more profound than the most rampant downpour. An afternoon glimpse of blue sky overhead heightens the effect with the realization that anyone living 100 meters up is clothed in bathing suits and suntan oil. It's a tough act to follow.
    But central Italy gives it a good try. Needless to say, I got it wrong. For some reason, not only did I spend, of my own free will, some 30 years of my precious life suffering Davis winters, swearing I'd never do it again; but I've somehow managed to spend 10 more suffering central Italian winters in the same condition. And I love to ski. I love snow. Hard to believe. Anyway, when winter comes I like to pretend I don't live here. It's cold inside and out.
    This fall the lovely November sunshine failed to sustain itself. We didn't even bother to harvest the measly olive crop. Sure we had our warm days, but on the whole it was pretty wet. Early on, we received an invitation to visit southern Portugal for Christmas from Alex's aunt Janet and uncle Martin. They were trying to entice my parents into a visit and I have a feeling they might have been using us as a bargaining chip. We had spent Christmas there once before and I remember it as being absolutely marvelous. Warm. Plenty of free time. Lots of good food. Good wine. Good talk. And Sun. OH! Sunshine! In winter. Bliss. Airfare is steep for four of us, but when I heard two families of cousins were also invited, I insisted we go.
     Twelve days of mooching, eating, christmas shopping, trekking, sunbathing, eating, wine drinking, beach combing, meal planing, wine buying, reading, eating, orange squeezing, sleeping in, hill walking, cooking, christmas celebrating, gift giving, more eating, .... how good can it get? It was that good. Here's an indication. Normally our girls love getting back to school after they have been away on vacation. In the past, we have taken them to London and London, and London, and London. They've been everywhere. Once we took them to America but I wasn't there. When we returned from Janet and Martin's this Christmas, they looked like an ad for Prozac. When it was time to go back to school, they were quiet and depressed and unable to face their homework. They had had the best time with their second cousins. They had found children they could talk to and play with who behaved decently and were educated and well spoken. They didn't have to watch TV to communicate but they were allowed to watch several movies together. They played on the beach, they swam in the sea, they played with the dogs, they minded their manners, they ate with their knives and forks, they said goodnight properly, and they thanked everybody properly, just like they watched their cousins do.
      Now it's been a few days since we've been back in the old routine. The kids and I get up in the dark every morning and shuffle about getting ready for school. I'm not sure how much they miss the sunshine. While we were in Portugal, they were able to get into their swimming trunks, but now they don't seem to mind their puffy winter jackets. But I do. I hate the damned things. I also hate the dank air and the lack of hot water and the frozen hands in the dishwater. I hate the damp clothing every morning. I hate the stiff plastic and rubber. I hate the fire that won't light and the tea that cools too soon. And I hate facing the work with the wet cement and ice-cold tools.
     But the winter break doesn't end until Alex's birthday on 13th Jan. I'm going to get her something special. Like a ruined shack in the south of Portugal.

shed-plex

   Alex has been tolerant for many years. She's let me keep a workshop in the unfinished cantina all this time. I've had to move all the tools and scrap and shelving and workbenches around the floor several times to make way for progress, but I've always had a roof over my head. Until now. I should have made way for progress some years ago. The downstairs was supposed to be a modern kitchen, dining room and living room, unlike the rail-car life we've become accustomed to. Ask anyone who's visited and they will tell you stories of armchairs facing each other. The leg room between which lies a sleeping dog and two children trying to get their jammies on. Not to mention the red-hot iron woodstove. But never mind. If you ever felt the need for fresh air you simply turned around and faced the frozen window behind you. It's remarkable what house guests can get used to. They can get used to anything if it's only one or two nights. Alex has been cooking on a portable gas stove for what? ten years?
   But some of us here are running out of patience. There's only so many times one can fall headlong into the woodpile, tripping over the mound of unfinished homework before something cracks. Don't get me wrong. No plates have been thrown, but I'm keenly aware of when it's time to head off any trouble and bow out gracefully. That time has come and gone and my stuff is out in the rain.

    To my rescue arrived Charlie and Richie, two English dudes. Richie came to us some years ago as a workaway volunteer and has returned with a degree in architecture along with his assistant, Charlie. They convinced Alex that my building skills needed some "support," and after several agonizing seconds, she relented. Richie is keen on learning about preserving old buildings and I agreed to let him help, allowing me more time to ponder possibilities.
     Our first project was the construction of an open-air workshop incorporating two prefab, cardboard toolsheds we'd imported from Britain. I had constructed these sheds myself, but the wind kept blowing them down; so a plan was proposed to enclose the two under an oak-framed shelter where I might feel comfortable with all my scrap iron and bits of string. It began with the enslavement of two innocent workaway volunteers, John and Sinead, who were given the task of building the foundation without any guidance. Our lumber supply is the same pile we burn for warmth in the winter. You might find photos of Bob Henry at work on this wood in a previous blog post. With little more than a box of screws and a glue pot, Richie and Charlie constructed a series of roof trusses, stood them up on oak posts, covered the thing with decking and roofing paper, and clad the whole with bark-cuts. It looks like a quasi log cabin and is just about as waterproof. Under this now sits about $1000 worth of bicycles, two lawnmowers, Matt's chainsaw, countless rolls of scrap tubing, electrical cable, old paint cans, workbenches, and another $2000 or so in hand tools. The whole thing is probably illegal but at least we can get a clear shot at the floor and walls in the cantina, even if the tools we need are a mountain bike ride away.
    With me out of the way, there appears some possibility that our cantina may someday be transformed into a new living area for the house. And in the meantime, I can fiddle about to my heart's content in my new workshop.

smooth skin

   Alex arrived home yesterday looking particularly youthful and radiant. She's been eating lots of bird seed. We were buying our birdseed at the local pet shop until we found it much cheaper in bulk at a nursery supply store. She loads up an old coffee bean grinder and dumps what looks like half a cup of brown powder over her raw muesli every morning. This pile of roughage is watered down with soy milk and must be eaten at just the right moment. The fibre goes gelatinous after a few minutes of standing, but if the muesli isn't allowed to soak then only a horse could chew it.
    It's all about the famous essential fatty acids. They have been the rage for over 10 years and all the clamoring has filtered past biochemical skeptics into grocery pulp science. The "omega" in omega 3 and 6 fatty acids refers to the location of a reaction site in the carbon chain of these molecules. It makes the resulting fats less inert and more important for other uses in the body than energy storage. Alex is well informed.
    Alex's skin is glossy. It was predicted as one of the first things noticed after adding supplemental O-3s to her food. He skin is smooth and remarkably soft, and that alone is worth the trouble. Maybe nipping and tucking can be put off for a while.
    Forget fried fish, flax and hemp seed are, apparently, the best sources because the seed case keeps the reactive fats fresher than even freezing. All you have to do is crack the seed case before eating. Have a Wikipedia moment.

unpopular present

    Every now and then I pull on a t-shirt in front of a mirror and wince. The pain in my shoulder is always worse when I can see the permanent deformation. Sometimes I even indulge myself in a gruesome peek around the back where the muscles haven't really covered my riveted-together shoulder blade. But the good news is that most of the time I don't notice anything. I can still lift a bucket of water. And I can still pull on a t-shirt.
    Bob Henry is back with us. The last time I saw Bob his right arm was wrapped tightly to his chest to keep his broken shoulder from breaking any further. He'd suffered a bike accident the day before leaving and had to fly back to Wisconsin in what looked like a body cast. It was worrisome. I really felt sorry for him. I knew. When he left, he gave me instructions to take his bike apart and throw the frame away. I didn't have all the tools and I was too lazy anyway, but I knew how he felt. I didn't ride my bike, or any bike, at all. Now Bob is back for a month. He looks great. He feels great. He's passed his retirement eligibility at work which is a great achievement for a delivery driver with a broken shoulder. And he's been back on his bike. In fact, he brought some bike gear and immediately set to cleaning up his old bike and planning a few rides. During the past year, I confessed to Dad that I was too afraid to ride. I had seen myself panic and do something stupid. I had panicked, crashed, and permanently injured myself. He told me to get back on the horse. I didn't. Bob did.
     Bob, Thomasina and I went to the bike shop to repair his tire pump. He had gone previously and bought a helmet and a racing jersey sponsoring the shop. They like Bob. They know me from my purchases of all the kid's bikes and they let me poke around the back where the whoopties are left out in the rain. Sometimes there are some charming old Italian racing bikes back there with rusty chains and broken wheels. It gives me a chance to indulge in sentiment. I like to keep an eye open for the next bike for the kids. The bikes they currently have are far too small. They have to walk to Freddie and Izzy's house. It's not right. I'm a bike guy and they don't have good bikes.

    My first glance at the pile out back revealed nothing but a pile of rusty, cheap bikes. Not worth the trouble of fixing and franky, dangerous if you did. Thomasina wanted to know where I had gone so I took her back and showed her where her next bike was coming from, poor girl. Then, at the very back, through a confusion of spokes, tires, frames and torn saddles I saw a Specialized top-tube decal. That led to a Stumjumper downtube decal. The Stumpjumper was the world's first production mountain bike, a bike I loved and sold with enthusiasm for years. We sold them for $1000 each. This particular one was built at a time when one could buy a quality mountain bike without a suspension system. Suspension, with all its moving parts doesn't age well, but this bike was in perfect condition. It showed all the evidence of being well assembled: the screw threads were greased, the seatpost moved smoothly, and the cable ends were soldered. Just like the bikes we sold at Wheelworks. I asked Carlo. He said £100. I brought back the kid's baby bikes and we made a deal. Happy birthday me, but I hope it's a popular present. The kids like it. Bob is jealous. But Alex is in England. She doesn't know yet.

rambo

    Today I watched one of the best competitions. Compelling. It makes me think I can now do anything.
    I'll try and keep it brief. You probably already know this is about a bike race. The GeeRow dee Talia. The tour of Italy. A month of crap roads over a lot of hills and some ridiculous Alps. It's hard on the support vehicles, sick-making for the motorbike cameras and a killer for the bike mechanics. Everyday it's a race within a race. The big prize is the trophy in Milan after it's all over, but this story is about today.
    On the previous day to some breathless height near the Matterhorn, a young rider had to change his bike because of a mechanical problem. The original bike, worth about 10k, was left at the roadside and stolen. This morning the bike miraculously reappeared and young Matteo Rabottini got his bike back. And on this very bike, ol' Matt, sarcastically nick-named "Rambo," decided to ride away by himself at the beginning of a fearsome Alpine stage on a wretched day of cold rain, fog, and stupidly steep secondary roads.
    We pick up the story at about the halfway point when our young fool has established a five minute lead on a group of eleven with serious reputations, and some 9 minutes ahead of the overall race leader, an ex-mountain bike champ from Canada. Ahead are three mountain passes, a selection of steep walls that would reduce most of us to hitch-hiking. Sure enough he survives most of these obstacles when we learn that his coach has taken away his map of the course so he has no idea what's coming. And what's coming is a heavy cold rain that doesn't quite turn to snow, an 8 kilometer uphill finish, and an attempt by Damiano, a previous
Giro winner, to take the race lead by racing away from his select group toward young Matt. Courageously, or naively, Matteo Rabottini, kills himself to keep up his advantage while Damiano, although unable to overtake Matteo, advances enough to establish himself as the virtual overall race leader.
    All these steep hills have an equally steep descent on the other side where one might expect to get a short rest, but in these weather conditions snaking down steep swithbacks on skinny tires with brakes that don't work when wet... it's not very restful. Here Damiano really puts on the pressure. We watch nervously as Damiano sticks his foot out to stabilize himself and his bike wobbles right to the very edge of the cliff. He's going for broke. Then Rambo is down. He slides across the road, striking his back against the curb. Confused, he inspects his bike until a spectator gets him going with a shove in the right direction. He's still leading, but his shorts are torn and we imagine his Rambo recklessness must be exhausted by now.
    On the final climb, just when the rumors begin to float that young Matteo is going to be allowed to win his day, the whole thing explodes. A Spaniard climbing specialist in Damiano's small group sprints away in chase of the tiring Matteo. The gang surrounding the Canadian overall race leader are going flat out, now some 5 minutes behind, when a number of hotheads bust out including another Spaniard, Joaquim, who continues to romp straight up and past all of our favorites including Damiano. This guy, Joaquim Rodriguez, a previous overall leader, has been waiting all day to give it full throttle in his effort to re-take the overall lead with a heroic stage win. Meanwhile the Spaniard #1 is gaining on Matteo, Damiano is fading backwards, the Canadian is fighting to protect his overall lead, and Joaquim is lost somewhere in the radio silence behind rain clouds.
    When the slope eases with a few kilometers to go before the finish, Joaquim appears miraculously passing the Spaniard and powering his way toward Matteo as fast as an approaching freight train. Despite our wishes, poor Matteo is exhausted and finally unable to defend himself against the potential race leader on a raging mission to win everything. After all, Rambo is just a support rider, on a stolen bike, riding by himself, through terrible weather and terrain for over 150 kilometers against some of the world's strongest and best paid professionals. Sure enough, Joaquim roars up to him and steams past; and we resign ourselves to the inevitable. This is a professional sport and it's calculated to a fine degree. There's no room for fairly tales.
    Why and how Matteo Rabottini found the energy to join Joaquim in the final few is the story of competition. How he withstood the irrepressible force of the rest of the pros behind him to follow the virtual race leader to the finish line after a most exhausting stage remains a mystery. Normally, when a no-hope rider who has established his publicity through an individual effort in front the world and shown his sponsor's name on TV for several hours is overtaken by the favorites, his job is finished. He's expected to die gracefully when the top guns mow him down.
    But no. Matteo hung in. He stuck his tired guts to the back wheel of Joaquim and followed him to the finish line. And then he passed Joaquim at the line. He won the stage. Matteo Rabottini, "Rambo," a nobody on a nobody team, beat the world's best on one of the toughest stages in one of the toughest races in the worst conditions all by himself.
Bravo Rambo.