The joy of being l’intrepida

When was the last time you felt pure, unadulterated joy? In our village, we can schedule it for a Sunday in October, when L’Intrepida, a vintage bicycle rally, surges across the starting line. L’Intrepida, which means ‘The Intrepid,” embodies many things that bring Italians joy: dressing up, bicycles, an announcer over a loudspeaker, a marching band, food, and a big crowd.

It happens every October. Over 900 people take part, choosing routes of 42, 85, or 120 kilometers (26, 53, or 75 miles). Lest one still thinks that this might not be too difficult, bear in mind that only steel-framed bikes prior to 1987 are allowed, and that riders must wear vintage clothing. Forty percent of the ride is on unpaved roads, and there are loads of hills. Plenty of scenic rest stops (some in front of castles) are provided, well stocked with wine, vin santo, pastries, and pasta. In the twelve years since it began it has grown to being second only to the L’Eroica vintage bicycle rally in terms of participants and prestige.

Even after watching the rally depart for twelve years, I still get choked up when the riders start, with the mayor in a sash and the priest leading the way. Watching their faces, so alive and filled with joy, brings me such pleasure and a reminder of the things in life that matter.

Some friends of mine from California and France have come to ride in L’Intrepida twice. These friends have always intimidated me with their athleticism, taking on insane challenges like the Death Ride (cycling over 100 miles and five mountain passes in the Sierras.) As experienced as they are, they approached L’Intrepida with focus and caution—practice rides to get used to the rented vintage bikes, checking and rechecking all aspects of the equipment, poring over maps.

Within this group, my friend Dee was the lone non-extreme athlete. But a year before coming to Italy for L’Intrepida, she realized that the best way to spend more time with her husband was to start cycling. So when this band of cyclists signed up for the rally she gamely agreed to do the 42 kilometer race, while the others opted for the longer routes.

As the day approached, I could see her getting more and more worried, especially as she’d be doing the route by herself. We planned out what would happen if she had a flat tire or became too tired. She’d call me with her coordinates and I’d pick her up.

On the day of the race, John and I cheered them on at the starting line in the main square. It was an amazing scene: hundreds of people in wildly-varied vintage costumes, old bikes of every type, and rally support vehicles which included classic Vespas with sidecars and old Fiat 500s.

The starting gun went off, L’Intrepida started, and slowly the square emptied, our friends tucked into the middle of the pack.

We went back home and waited. By afternoon our friends slowly started to arrive back as they finished their routes. I kept checking my phone to see if I’d missed a call from Dee, but there was nothing. The 85-kilometer group arrived back, full of stories. Then the 120-kilometer participants stumbled in, exhausted, but having had a wonderful time. All agreed it had been their favorite rally ever. Still no Dee, though. We were all starting to get worried.

We decided to go back to the square to look for signs of our missing friend. And we found her, at the center of a circle of a dozen older men, laughing as they toasted her with prosecco. Turns out she’d been adopted by a group of Italian friends who were riding together in the rally. The fact that they spoke no English, and Dee spoke no Italian, turned out to be irrelevant. They communicated partially through songs, like “California Girls,” describing her. One man indicated he was from Milan but preferred the countryside. Unable to express more about why he liked to get out of the city, he sang a line from “The Sound of Silence.”

The group stuck by her for the whole 42 kilometers. During a particularly tough unpaved climb, one man, whom Dee guessed was in his mid-70s, rode beside her and placed his hand on her back, helping to propel her to the top of the hill. By the finish, they still wanted to hang out together at the bar. And Dee realized the joys of being intrepid, and the special type of kindness typical of Italians, even perfect strangers.

The second time my friends came to participate was also memorable, culminating in eating and dancing to big band music in the square after the finish. One friend was amazed to see a man’s expensive bike frame, which he’d just bought from a vendor near the dance floor, grabbed from his arms and passed over the heads of the swing dancers. One dancer found it perfect to play air guitar on. Instead of being worried or angry the empty-handed bicycle buyer joined in with the dancing. laughing, until the frame made its way back to him.

Today, watching L’Intrepida depart, I was hit by the importance of finding and embracing moments of joy. Tragically, our friend Dee passed away a couple of years after her ride. For me, L’Intrepida will always be infused with her spirit and her knack for finding joy, even on a steep uphill climb on an old bike with lousy gears. May she, and this crazy place where I live, continue to help us all find our way to joy.