Crossing Italy on Two Wheels

You might think it madness to cycle from one end of a country to the other. By the time we reached Italy, we had already done it twice, across the UK and then France, so there was little point in asking for sympathy a third time. One thing long-distance cycling has taught me is that whil

e you are riding, you do not really think about what you are doing. You just keep going. It is only later, once you have stopped, that the scale of it starts to sink in.

I am writing this now on a wet, cold January day, indoors, rain pouring down outside, wishing I was back on the bike. It has taken that distance, both in time and temperature, to properly reflect on what an adventure this really was.

Getting to the start took three days overland before we even turned a pedal in anger. For many people, that would have felt like enough already. But the outskirts of Turin were our starting point, all noise and traffic, a sharp contrast to what lay ahead. Within days, that would give way to the Ligurian coast, the sea sitting steadily on our right, no maps required, just follow the line.

We left the coast quickly and headed inland, hitting the mountains almost immediately. Our route followed the spine of Italy, and it did not take long to realise this was the hardest long-distance ride we had attempted. There was no easing into it. The climbs arrived early and kept coming.

Tuscany and Umbria felt like a constant cycle of up and down. What goes up has to come down, but in Italy the ups seem to take most of the day. Some climbs went on for hours. Progress slowed to a crawl. There were moments when it was easier to get off and push, and we did, more than once.

The reward was the scenery. Tuscany gave us exactly what you hope it will: cypress trees, vines, and those long views that make you stop, even when your legs would rather not. Umbria felt different. Quieter, greener, more lived in. It was a place where life seemed to move more slowly, and for a short while, so did we.

Food matters when you are riding this much, and Italy gets it right. Meals were simple and reliable. You knew what you were eating, and it did what it was meant to do. No fuss, no theatre. We never worried about calories. Every day, we were well into deficit anyway.

After weeks of climbing and descending, the Adriatic finally appeared. Reaching Puglia felt like a release. The roads eased, the light softened, and for the first time in a while it felt as though the country was letting us go.

There is something satisfying about a trilogy. Three rides, three countries. A beginning, a middle, and an end. Or so I thought.

One morning at breakfast in Puglia, the hotelier, a keen cyclist himself, started telling us a story. If you have read my book about riding across France, you will know I have a weakness for a good story, and this one caught my attention straight away.

He told us about the Sacred Line of Saint Michael, a legend said to trace the blow of the archangel driving the Devil into hell. Along this perfectly straight line sit seven monasteries, stretching from Ireland to Israel. Among them are St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall, Mont Saint-Michel in France, the Sacra di San Michele near Turin, and the Sanctuary of Monte Sant’Angelo in southern Italy. Some say the key sites are exactly the same distance apart, and that the line aligns with the setting sun on the summer solstice. No one really knows how or why.

What made me laugh was the realisation that I had been following this line for years without knowing it. On my first long-distance ride from Land’s End to John O’Groats, I passed St Michael’s Mount. On my second ride, from Saint-Malo to Nice, I cycled past Mont Saint-Michel. And now here we were in Italy, with Monte Sant’Angelo sitting quietly on my original route.

None of it had been planned. Until that breakfast conversation, I had never even heard of the Sacred Line. And yet, somehow, my three long rides had lined up neatly along it. I am not religious, but it still felt oddly significant. With Monte Sant’Angelo now within reach, a detour felt inevitable.

But journeys do not always end exactly as you expect. Music was my first love long before cycling took over, something my husband Mike is quick to remind me of, especially if it involves anything at least a hundred years old. I have always liked the idea that something can still be complete even if it is unfinished.

Although we made it coast to coast, there was a small section at the very end we did not ride. Work and an unexpected crisis brought things to a halt, and I flew home. By then, though, the hard work was done. We had climbed the mountains and crossed the spine of Italy. The effort, the pain, and the moments that stay with you were already behind us.

Like Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony, our ride found its own balance between completion and interruption. Finishing was never really in doubt. The memories were already there, in tired legs and quiet satisfaction.

Fish Can Ride Italy tells the full story of that journey and is available on Amazon in paperback and on Kindle, for anyone who wants to ride the ups and downs alongside us.

Paperback

Kindle