PMVC Training Camp

Sardinia 2006, May 21-28

In Memoriam (Picchi, not Michele)

It took us several days to work up the courage to ask, but yes, it finally emerged that the PMVC mascot, Picchi, had departed this life the preceding fall, after being taken to the hospital with an intestinal blockage. Malicious rumors had it that it must have been the table scraps Oscar had been feeding it the preceding spring. Picchi was placed to rest in an unmarked grave in the fields of the hazienda, lovingly wrapped in a PMVC T-shirt. At least this is the story we like to tell. The picture above shows Picchi (and Michele) in happier days.

There was some disagreement, but I think that this was the sixth time we have visited Sardinia and stayed at Daniela and Mauro's hazienda Mulinu Betzu ('Old Mill'). For background, see previous reports. This year there were five of us: me (Oscar), Steve Loevner, Dusty Baker (a first-timer), Ruud Van Dijk, and our indomitable leader Michele Conforti. We were traumatized at the idea that Eric Schafer would show up any minute, but this did not happen.

Rogues' gallery.

The first thing Daniela, our dynamic hostess, said to us after we alighted from the taxi bringing us to San Vero Milis from the airport in Cagliari, after saying hello, was "Don't step on the grass." She had just planted a new lawn on the sandy soil in back of the guest houses, and any stray step put a huge gouge in it. As soon as Daniela was out of sight, Oscar immediately lost his balance and, after teetering back and forth for a while on the brink of the lawn, went splash right into it. He thinks he did a good job of reconstructive surgery. Michele spread the rumor that the lawn was for the topless Lufthansa hostesses, who had supposedly been here the week before, to sunbathe and play volleyball on (no picture available).

Oscar patching Daniela's new lawn.

Saturday, May 21. Monte Ferru. Steve, Dusty, and I arrived together on May 21. Steve, determined to do a long ride on the first day, cost be-damned, hired a taxi from Cagliari to San Vero Milis, and the three of us went on the traditional ride up Monte Ferru without Michele and Ruud. Dusty showed his early-season form on the five-or-six-mile climb up Monte Ferru (Iron Mountain), while Steve adopted a more touristic point of view. On this ride, Dusty tests his newly acquired altimeter, and concludes that Monte Ferru is 2815 feet above sea level. He is dissatisfied when back down at sea level the altimeter still shows two and a half-feet of elevation, until Steve and I point out that the altimeter on his handlebars is, in fact, two and a half feet above water level. Dusty wheels his bicycle into the Mediterranean and is satisfied. We annoy Dusty for the rest of the trip asking for altitude readings, and this year we have both mileage and altitude documentation for all rides.

The ride up Monte Ferru includes a many-miles-long down-hill-and-with-the-wind 30+ mile-an-hour stretch from Cuglieri to S'Arcittu, where there is a time-honored tradition of stopping at an outdoor bar, sipping a coke, and staring out to sea. Dusty and Steve get a little too carried away with this idea and have to be dragged back onto the road. As we draw near to the San Vero Milis town limits, Dusty and I look at each other in amazement, as Steve suddenly takes life and claims the week's first significant sprint sign [50 miles and 3000 feet of climbing].

Dusty and Steve, forgetting the purpose of being in Sardinia.

Ruud and Michele arrive in the afternoon and, after everyone has exchanged mutual insults about how fat everyone looks, Ruud decides to take off on a warm-up ride of his own, but he does not make it to the first day's traditional destination, Putzu Idu, before turning back, leaving the Putzu Idu sprint sign up for grabs later in the week. Ruud still does 26 miles.

For an evening meal, we are served home-made pasta, followed by veal and asparagus, with red wine, followed by medlars, oranges, apples, and an argument over the next-day's ride. Dusty feels constrained by the dinner jacket which he wears to the first evening's meal.

Sunday, May 22. Sarule-Teti-Tonara-Desulo-Fonni-Gavoi-Sarule. We decided not to kill ourselves the first day with the Buggeru ride. Instead, we did the Sarule, Teti, Tonara, Desulo, Fonni, Gavoi ride, the one that Eric (who, I repeat, was absent) likes so much because of the climb up to Arcu s' Tascusi out of Desulo.

Steve at the top of Eric's favorite climb.

The farm-house with the dogs that like to chase Eric was empty this year. The weather on this ride was uncommonly hot and humid, and people along the way keep asking Oscar's age, this being one of themes of this year's trip. A 75-year-old cyclist in Tonara, in particular, is gratified to learn that, despite appearances, Oscar is younger than he is. By the second day we've become addicted to Dusty's altimeter, and keep asking him every minute or so how much we've climbed. Oscar takes the partially obscured Tonara sign, and then basically quits for the rest of the day. In Tonara, Michele orders for everyone a completely inedible sandwich consisting of dry bread, gristle, and fat. One by one, riders make it to the top of the Arcu s' Tascusi climb out of Desulo. On the way into Gavoi, Dusty has a spectacular blow-out, causing him, Steve, and Oscar to arrive in Sarule a half-hour after Ruud and Michele. This was only the first of an entire string of flats that Dusty experienced, establishing a new mark for Sardinia.

Dusty's blowout.

The evening meal, as if to compensate for last year's lack of seafood, was: little octopuses, big octopuses, little clams, big clams, rice-like pasta with even more clams, a salad (tomatoes and arugula, hold the clams), main meal of orata=sea bass), followed by chocolate cake, fruit, and cheese. Afterwards, we walk downtown to the bar without a name, but, of course, we don’t go in. [50+70=120 miles, 3000+6670=9670 feet of climbing]. At dinner, Steve brings out this year's T-shirts, by far the best ones so far, here modeled by Dusty:

2006 T-shirt, designed for PMVC by Art Crum. I've been wearing mine everywhere, including to the opera.

Outside the bar where nobody knows your name. Picture by Ruud.

Monday, May 23. Bosa-Alghero-Bosa. The first entry for this day in my diary reads: "I am sick." I woke up with a sore throat and congestion, and felt worse each day till the end, at which point I collapsed for three weeks in Pittsburgh, with what was diagnosed as a combined respiratory infection and shingles. On the pretty ascent past the castle out of Bosa I more or less hold my own. In fact, I'm not that far behind Michele and Ruud as we reach the lunch stop at Villa Nova Monteleone, but from that point on it's downhill. I place hopes in the recuperative powers of pear juice, of which I drink around two liters, but that just makes me feel worse. I barely make it over the gorgeous coast-line up-and-down ride from Alghero back to Bosa, during which stretch Dusty yo-yos back and forth, nursing a slow leak the entire way. Once back in the van, I lie in a stupor while the rest of the group sight-see (except for Ruud, who has headed for home, and will beat us there, making up for his mileage deficit incurred the first day). When I'm stimulated into movement upon the others' return, I suddenly experience painful cramps in every single muscle in my legs, all at once. I shriek in agony, while Dusty reviews in his mind emergency rescue procures he hasn't studied since medical school, and Michele unsympathetically backs the van out of our parking space. [70+120=190 miles, 6079+9670=15,749 feet of climbing].

Oscar trying the pear-juice cure, as Michele looks on dubiously.

Dinner: an elaborate antipasta consisting of smoked ham, pickled onions, sheep cheese in the shape of pigeon eggs, artichokes with cheese, wild asparagus and eggs. Meal-worm pasta and tomato sauce. Main course of pork. Only Ruud has room for everything.

Ruud showing off his descending prowess.

Tuesday, May 24. Rest Day (Ha). Paulilatino-Ulla Tirso-Busacchi. The story of Picchi at last comes out over breakfast. Daniela no doubt wonders why we have taken so long to ask. Ruud's trip to Sardinia included the search for the elusive San Vero Milis banana girl. At first he thought she had she had aged 40 years and gotten a lot heavier, but it turned out it wasn't the same person. Now Ruud is cruelly torn between the banana and the cold-cut girl (picture not available), whose acquaintance he made for the first time this year.

The elusive San Vero Milis banana girl: found at last.

Our rest day consisted in a 50-mile sweltering hot ride from the hazienda to Paulilatino and then up to the mountain villages of Ulla Tirso and Busacchi, descending to Fordongianus. The ride is nice to that point, but then we start plowing across hot and dusty salt flats through Solarussa and Tramatza. I get sicker and sicker. [190+50=240 miles, 3189+15,749=18,938 feet of climbing].

Ruud adds the following commentary:

Perhaps we should mention that in the early miles of the rest day ride, Oscar and Michele were half-wheeling each other the entire way into Paulilatino, which made a lot of sense, especially for the sick Oscar--unless he wasn't, of course. Oscar took the sign, and even though he supposedly got "sicker and sicker" on this ride, he also managed to take--legitimately-- the Tramatza sign from me just before our return home.

PMVC podium sweep in Busacchi.

Dinner: antipasto of two kinds of fava beans, tomatoes on crisp flatbread, artichokes, and asparagus. The wild asparagus this year is really super. Linguini with tomatoes and botarga (smoked mullet roe), followed by squid with peas. After dinner, Steve shows to Daniela and Mauro the award-winning video he made of last year's stay.

Daniela's linguini with tomatoes and botarga. Photo by Steve, who specializes in culinary photography.

Michele, who was not quite as forthcoming with Sardinian lore this year as in years past, nevertheless had a story about fava beans' hallucinogenic properties. I think it has to do with whether or not they're peeled, and whether or not you're sensitive to them. I'm sorry I wasn't paying closer attention. I almost forgot to mention: this year's driving chores were ceded by Michele to Ruud, meaning that there was no longer the fierce competition to get out of having to ride in the right-front seat of the van.

Wednesday, May 25. Buggerru, as this ride is affectionately called. We finally decide we can't put off this infamous ride any longer. Fortunately, there's a break in the weather, which up till now has been hot and humid, and it isn't the death march we have come to anticipate. The ride departs from Guspini and immediately goes straight up to Arbus, then descends to a fork in the road (pictured below) where we begin the lollipop part of the ride, to Buggerru, Iglesias, and Flumminimaggiore, along the spectacular and rugged southeast coast, whose beauty we have never noticed before because of the sweltering weather. There is some question as to how many mountain passes this ride traverses, since Michele argues that going over a pass in one direction and then the other cancels both directions out. He is supposedly a mathematician, so he should know. Overall, it added up to 8050 feet of climing, for the hardest, but arguably the prettiest, ride of the week.

The lollipop begins.

A sample of the southeast Sardinian coast.

Rumor has it that Michele legitimately won the ride's main over-the-road sprint sign, in Flumminimaggiore, but he and Ruud were so far ahead that nobody else was there to witness it, and we know how generous Ruud is. Yet again, a bar-tender, this time in Flumminimaggiore, where Ruud, Michele, and Oscar grab a coke, asks how old Oscar is. On the way back through Arbus, we lay a wreath at the spot at the base of the ride's final climb, where Barry Ames was found last year. Over the top of the last pass, Oscar and Dusty encounter a beautiful brace of oxen pulling a wooden-wheeled haywagon like something out of the Middle Ages. Neither one of us has the presence of mind to take a picture. The ride fittingly concludes with ice cream at the bar next to the square in Guspini. [240+80= 320 miles, 8050+18,938=26,988 feet of climbing].

Dinner: asparagus, prosciutto, olives, pasta with tomatoes and chicken (this may be the first chicken we have ever been served in Sardinia, and I've never actually seen one alive), huge pork steaks and pork sausages, cheese, fruit, mirto. Again, only Ruud can do it full justice.

Just like home. Hopping over a pointless barrier erected on the steep climb after Buggerru.

Thursday, May 26. Laconi-Gadoni-Seulo-Isili-Laconi. Sardinian towns have really neat names. This ride is as pretty as any of the others, and probably has a better mixture of climbing, descents, flats, and rollers. True to form, Dusty gets two flats on this ride, counting the tire he blew out before the ride even began. On the approach back to Laconi, Ruud predictably rides everyone off his wheel, Steve being the last to drop. Oscar vainly cries, "You are our last hope, Steve!" But Ruud grinds relentlessly on. After the ride we watch the Giro time trial on TV and eat an ice cream at a bar in Laconi. It was worth the entire Sardinian trip to watch Ruud, with a seemingly unlimited capacity, put away bowl after bowl of gelato. [320+75=395 miles, 6117+26,988=33,105 feet of climbing].

Dinner: Squid, artichokes, olives mozarella in sauce, flatbread and tomatoes. This last thing may not sound promising, but it is delicious. Linguini and fish, followed by gigantic orata (sea bass).

Watching the next-to-last stage of the Giro in Laconi.

Friday, May 27. Michele's Dream Loop. This was this year's only new ride, and probably the last time we'll do it. Michele had been dreaming about doing this ride for years. Several years ago we attempted it from farther away but had to give up and turn back, so this year we drove clean across the island to Lanusei to start from there. After about 10 km up and out of town, the ride turns left and again up and up, on a minor road, through striking scenery reminiscent of the western U.S. and real Marlboro country: bluffs, cliffs, and scrub forest, to be followed by a huge descent to the point where we had abandoned the ride several years ago. We break for lunch at a natural spring near the hillside town of Annasai, the only settlement of any note on the whole ride. After the day's main mountain pass the ride turns onto a narrow, badly paved one-lane road for some 20 miles, the kind of road where you start worring about bandits. Along the way we run into a solitary badly sun-burned German cyclo-tourist, not much interested in chatting. The ride finally closes the loop at an abandoned railway station near the road back to Lanusei, whose sight elicited cheers from all concerned. This ride seemed much longer than the 57 miles it came out to being. I'm not sure anyone took any pictures of Michele's dream loop, but it was a good ride nevertheless. It was just that the drive to get there was too long [57+395=452 miles, 5197+33,105=38,302 feet of climbing].

Dinner: picked onions (a specialty of Daniela's; they are excellent), mozarella in dressing, asparagus, flatbread and mushroom spread, individually portioned baked green lasagna (which Michele calls by a different name, but I forget what), roast pork with the ears left on for decoration, fruit, mirto, vernaccia (Sardinian sherry).

Saturday, May 28. Putzu Idu. Finally, the Putzu Idu ride, a totally flat ride to the seacoast near San Vero, followed by another totally flat stretch to Torre Grande and a well-deserved sandwich and beer on the veranda of a sea-side bar. Oscar wins the desultory sprint for the Putzu Idu sign from Michele, with Ruud watching bemusedly on. On the beach, Ruud disrobes and takes a dip. Before Torre Grande, we say goodbye to Michele and, for the moment, to Ruud, who takes Michele to the airport. After lunch, we return through Cabras, still unable to locate the old bicycle shop with antique Campagnolo parts where we once stopped years ago. The aim of this ride was to put on enough miles to put us over the 500-mile mark, which it did, at [55+452=507 miles]. There were only 754 feet of climbing on this ride, bringing us to 38,302+754=39,056 feet of vertical climbing for the week. If we'd known how close it was going to be to 40,000, I'm sure we'd have headed up again to Monte Ferru. Then again, maybe not.

Ruud insisted that I include a picture of him taking off his clothes. Here is the most decent one I could find. He thinks he's a porpoise.

Later the same day Steve and Dusty take the van to swim and lie on the beach, and for the effort Dusty gets his only pair of shoes stolen. Steve has something that fits for the flight home.

Steve and Michele in a pensive last-day-in-Sardinia kind of mood. Steve, visibly worried about the depletion of the world's fossil fuels, no doubt contemplates whether it will ever again be possible to board an airplane in Pittsburgh one day and arrive in Sardinia the next.

With Michele missing, we were all in a somber mood and could barely eat, to the extent that I actually lost track of what we had for dinner on that last night. Fortunately, Ruud remembered: it was rabbit, and it was delicious. Daniela had us guess what it was, but we couldn't.

Early next morning we drive to Cagliari for the trip back. Predictably, our bicycles don't make it on the plane from Philadelphia, but we are just as glad we don't have to deal with them. They arrive the next day hand-delivered.

Respectfully submitted, with apologies for the delay.

O.S.

Ichnusa is our beer. More of Steve's photographic artistry.

Goodbye, San Vero Milis.