Italy Bound – Grappa Medicine, Thunderstorms and One Final Dance Through the Mountains
Day 36 to Day 38 – The Last Curves Before Home
20.06.26 – 22.06.26
Every long motorcycle trip eventually reaches that strange stage where your body says:
“Mate… maybe slow down a little.”
Meanwhile your brain replies:
“One more mountain pass.”
Your stomach adds:
“One more plate of homemade pasta.”
And the Italian host simply appears with another bottle of wine and asks if you’d like dessert.
The correct answer, of course, is yes.
Even though you already know tomorrow morning you’ll regret every single delicious bite.
By now I had been travelling for more than five weeks.
More than 5,500 kilometres through Italy.
From the snow-covered Alps all the way to Calabria.
Across forgotten mountain villages.
Through tourist madness.
Along lonely roads.
Over roads that clearly hadn’t seen road maintenance since the invention of colour television.
And somehow I still wasn’t tired of Italy.
Maybe slightly tired physically.
Definitely tired of Italian breakfasts.
But not tired of riding.
Not tired of discovering another hidden valley.
Not tired of another conversation with friendly locals.
And certainly not tired of homemade Italian dinners.
Those, unfortunately, were becoming a serious problem.
A very tasty problem.
Day 36 – Cerreto di Spoleto
20.06.26
Another day off.
Another recovery day.
And apparently another attempt to digest the previous evening’s dinner.
Honestly, whoever invented the concept of an agriturismo deserves a medal.
Or possibly a warning label.
Because these places don’t simply feed you.
They adopt you.
Then they try to make sure you leave five kilograms heavier.
Yesterday’s dinner had once again gone on forever.
Homemade everything.
Wine.
Dessert.
Coffee.
Conversation.
And eventually Grappa.
Naturally.
This is Italy.
Hard Work… Sort Of
People often ask what I actually do during rest days.
They imagine exciting travel planning.
Complex route calculations.
Research.
Adventure.
Reality is considerably less glamorous.
Today I worked incredibly hard.
Well…
Almost.
I managed to write two complete blog episodes.
That counts as work, doesn’t it?
Apart from that?
Absolutely nothing.
Coffee.
Editing photos.
Watching the mountains.
Occasionally convincing myself that another nap was entirely justified.
Professional-level relaxation.
Honestly, after thousands of kilometres on the motorcycle, these quiet days become just as valuable as the riding days.
Because your body doesn’t recover while you’re leaning through hairpins.
It recovers while sitting in the shade with absolutely no ambition whatsoever.
The Dinner Trap
Around eight o’clock dinner started.
This time I was clever.
Or so I believed.
“I’ll order less tonight.”
Simple.
Brilliant.
Highly optimistic.
Unfortunately Italian hospitality had different ideas.
The portions somehow remained enormous.
I still don’t fully understand how.
Maybe plates simply multiply when nobody is looking.
Whatever happened, I once again found myself eating far more than originally planned.
Not complaining.
Just observing.
Because every single bite was excellent.
Meeting Austria
During dinner I met a friendly couple from Austria.
And suddenly something rather unusual happened.
I had a conversation in German.
The first proper German conversation in weeks.
It actually felt slightly strange.
For a brief moment I had to check whether I still remembered how to speak my own language.
Fortunately I did.
Mostly.
The gentleman turned out to be an exceptionally interesting bloke.
CEO of a company employing around five hundred people.
They manufacture specialised glass.
Window glass.
Industrial glass.
Technical applications.
The sort of products most people never think about until they suddenly become important.
We ended up talking for quite some time.
Business.
Travelling.
Motorcycles.
Life.
Honestly, I have huge respect for people carrying responsibility for hundreds of employees.
Running a company of that size isn’t something I’d like to tackle.
I prefer worrying about tyre pressure and finding decent coffee.
Far less stressful.
Italian Medicine
Eventually the conversation reached its natural conclusion.
Grappa.
Now for anyone unfamiliar with Grappa:
Imagine taking grapes.
Removing the wine.
Then deciding the leftovers should somehow become alcohol.
Very strong alcohol.
The result is Grappa.
According to Italians it helps digestion.
According to tourists it removes paint.
Somewhere between those two statements lies the truth.
Whatever the scientific explanation might be, after another excellent dinner it somehow felt like exactly the right way to end the evening.
Tomorrow it would finally be time to move again.
Day 37 – Cerreto di Spoleto to Pieve Santo Stefano
21.06.26
Breakfast at the agriturismo remained as excellent as ever.
Fresh.
Homemade.
Relaxed.
Exactly the kind of breakfast that makes leaving slightly difficult.
Still.
The motorcycle had been waiting patiently in the garage.
Time to continue north.
Another Mountain Lottery
The first kilometres looked promising.
Curves.
Twists.
Rolling hills.
Beautiful scenery.
Then reality reminded me that I was still riding in Italy.
The road surface deteriorated.
Again.
Honestly I sometimes wonder whether Italian road engineers simply play dice every morning.
“Today’s asphalt?”
“No thanks.”
Fortunately experience teaches flexibility.
Instead of stubbornly continuing, I changed the route.
Main road.
Less romantic perhaps.
Far more comfortable.
Sometimes common sense deserves a chance too.
Something Strange in the Sky
While peacefully cruising through the hills of Umbria towards Tuscany, something unusual happened.
A distant rumble.
At first I ignored it.
Probably another truck.
Then the sky became darker.
Another rumble.
This time unmistakable.
Thunder.
Interesting.
Because during almost the entire trip I hadn’t experienced proper bad weather.
The motorcycle gods had treated me exceptionally well.
Until now.
Large drops started falling.
Not enough to stop.
Yet.
The air suddenly cooled.
Wind picked up.
The mountains disappeared behind dark clouds.
The atmosphere changed within minutes.
Timing Is Everything
One lesson I’ve learned over many years of motorcycle travel is simple.
Never argue with thunderstorms.
Especially not in Italy.
People often underestimate this.
Rain itself isn’t the real problem.
Wet Italian roads are.
For reasons I still don’t fully understand, many Italian roads become unbelievably slippery once rain arrives.
Particularly after long dry periods.
Oil.
Dust.
Rubber.
Everything mixes together.
The result often resembles riding on polished marble covered in soap.
Not exactly ideal when your road contains endless curves.
So instead of pretending to be adventurous, I made the sensible decision.
Find accommodation.
Immediately.
Fortunately Pieve Santo Stefano appeared exactly when I needed it.
Within minutes I had found a room.
Checked in.
Parked the bike safely.
Ten minutes later…
Boom.
Thunder.
Lightning.
Heavy rain.
Absolutely perfect timing.
Sometimes luck accompanies good decisions.
Watching the Storm
Instead of wrestling slippery mountain roads, I sat comfortably inside with lunch.
Not exactly a hardship.
The rain hammered against the windows.
Thunder echoed through the valleys.
The motorcycle rested safely outside.
Meanwhile I enjoyed food while feeling slightly smug about my timing.
Honestly, there are moments when stopping early is simply the smartest riding decision.
Today was definitely one of them.
The distance wasn’t huge.
Roughly two hundred kilometres.
But who cares?
The journey isn’t a race.
It’s an adventure.
And adventures sometimes involve watching thunderstorms instead of riding through them.
Day 38 – Pieve Santo Stefano to Imola
22.06.26
Today felt different.
Very different.
Because I knew something.
This would be my final proper mountain riding day in Italy.
Tomorrow would mostly be motorway.
Heading home.
Crossing familiar territory.
The adventure was slowly approaching its end.
Which meant today deserved something special.
Beating the Heat
Breakfast opened at seven.
Perfect.
By eight o’clock the RT was already warming up.
One advantage of early starts during Italian summers is obvious.
For about two glorious hours you almost forget it’s going to become unbearably hot later.
Fresh mountain air.
Empty roads.
Long shadows.
The best riding conditions of the entire day.
Five Passes to Celebrate
The plan was simple.
Celebrate the final mountain day properly.
No shortcuts.
No compromises.
Five mountain passes.
Around 240 kilometres.
And as many curves as humanly possible.
Mission accomplished.
Almost 2,800 curves.
Yes.
I counted approximately.
No.
Not individually.
I’m not completely mad.
Yet.
The roads delivered everything.
Hairpins.
Sweepers.
Tight technical sections.
Fast flowing curves.
Beautiful forests.
Open mountain meadows.
Tiny villages.
Everything.
This was the Italy I had travelled thousands of kilometres to experience.
Becoming Italian
Of course perfection never lasts forever.
Occasionally the familiar problems returned.
Broken tarmac.
Missing tarmac.
Random potholes.
Gravel.
The usual Italian surprise package.
But something had changed.
After over 5,500 kilometres in Italy, I noticed something remarkable.
I had adapted.
The potholes no longer shocked me.
The broken roads no longer felt unusual.
They had become…
normal.
Actually, that’s not entirely true.
They still annoyed me.
Especially because today it was properly hot.
When you’re riding at decent speed, airflow cools your body.
When you’re crawling through broken roads at twenty kilometres an hour…
No airflow.
No cooling.
Only heat.
Lots of heat.
Inside motorcycle gear.
Let’s just say my helmet contained its own weather system.
Fortunately those rough sections remained relatively short.
The majority of today’s ride was absolutely fantastic.
Welcome to the Oven
Eventually I rolled into Imola.
And instantly felt like somebody had placed me inside a fan-forced oven set to 200 degrees.
The heat rising from the city streets was unbelievable.
Originally I intended to continue another hundred kilometres.
But by two o’clock common sense finally won.
Enough.
Find a hotel.
Relax.
No need to torture yourself.
Tomorrow still existed.
Home Is Calling
The plan for tomorrow became wonderfully simple.
Wake up early.
Eat breakfast.
Hit the motorway.
Ride the roughly 560 kilometres home in one push.
Honestly, after weeks of mountain roads, the Po Valley doesn’t offer much excitement.
Flat.
Straight.
Functional.
Motorway is simply the most sensible option.
Brenner.
Austria.
Then Bavaria.
All familiar territory.
Beautiful.
But no longer part of this particular adventure.
Living south of Munich has one enormous advantage.
Italy is close.
Really close.
If I suddenly miss Italian coffee, mountain passes or proper pizza, I don’t need another five-week expedition.
A long weekend is enough.
That’s a luxury I appreciate more after every trip.
The Last Mountain Evening
Back at the hotel I did very little.
Exactly as planned.
A short nap.
Played a game.
Looked through photos from the previous weeks.
Thousands of pictures.
Thousands of memories.
Snow-covered Alps.
The Dolomites.
Quiet villages in Calabria.
Crazy roads.
Friendly hosts.
Fantastic food.
The Amalfi Coast.
Beautiful.
Overrated.
The incredible roads of Abruzzo.
And countless unexpected moments that never appeared on the original route plan.
The motorcycle stood quietly outside.
Covered in thousands of kilometres of Italian dust.
A few insect casualties.
And enough memories to fill several books.
Today’s riding distance wasn’t enormous.
Around 240 kilometres.
But kilometre numbers stopped mattering weeks ago.
The quality of the ride mattered.
And today’s ride was exactly the farewell I wanted.
Five mountain passes.
Nearly three thousand curves.
Perfect scenery.
And one final reminder why Italy remains one of the greatest countries in Europe for motorcycle travel.
Not because every road is perfect.
Far from it.
Not because everything always works.
It certainly doesn’t.
Not because every destination is beautiful.
Some definitely aren’t.
Italy is special because it constantly surprises you.
Sometimes with breathtaking scenery.
Sometimes with terrible roads.
Sometimes with unbelievable hospitality.
Sometimes with thunderstorms arriving exactly ten minutes after checking into a hotel.
And occasionally with dinners so good that you happily stay three nights instead of two.
Tomorrow the adventure points north.
Home is waiting.
But somehow I already know one thing.
It won’t be long before the mighty old RT points south again.
#dustysocks
