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Tuscany postcard

No, no, you’ve misunderstood.  You evidently have an image of me spending interminable hours on dusty Italian climbs, pushing my mind and body to the limit while metaphysically embedded in time displaced pre-war images of the Giro. That’s the romantic picture I had, too, before I got here.  The reality is that I ride a couple of hours a day, walk around some museums gawking at paintings and sculptures I don’t understand but feel eerily like I’ve seen before in books and lectures, and then drink Chianti until I wobble back to collapse in bed.

I know it’s a pathetic cliche, but I’m renting a farm cottage on an Italian wine estate to “write.” The old city walls and the church are a few hundred meters away, and the valley unfolds beneath the whole affair. Unsurprisingly, it is indescribably divine. Nor do I in any way intend actually to get much work done, though if that should happen accidentally, that would be fine.

The weather is great, but my “training” is little more than ecologically correct tourism. I’m sure to get my ass handed to me at those damned Swiss events…