LOCALadk Magazine

LOCALadk 44 breathing from Simon, we – and more importantly our marriage – survived. In fact, retrospectively, parts of it were actually pretty fun. Riding along ridgelines with views of rural villages, small vineyards, and the Medi- terranean sea was a real "pinch me" moment, especially when we paused at overlooks between the steep and rocky descents of the trail. The lower portion of the Rollercoaster trail was aptly named with steep com- pressions and rises, and tight berms in tunnel-like pas- sages. Descending ancient stone steps through car-less villages felt like riding in a video game. Our sense of shame returned as we easily climbed the road from Pietra Ligure to the San Martino church, our last stop before we returned to familiar territory in Finalborgo. While we cruised past our new Bavarian friends on our e-bikes, we cheered them on for tack- ling the hills unassisted. They probably couldn't hear us over the sound of their heartbeats pulsing in their ears, but it's the thought that counts, right? At lunch, Simon graciously offered us an easy out from the rest of the tour. We were beat up (emotional- ly for me, physically for Rhiannon), and only a few hun- dred yards from our hotel. We retreated, recovered, and recalibrated. The trails in Finale were clearly not rated on the same scale we were used to, so maybe it was time to check out some beginner terrain? Over the next few days, we sampled a huge variety of single- track in the region, from technical rock spines on flat terrain (green circles), to rolling footpaths (also green circles), and steep boulder gardens filled with sharp fist-sized rocks (still somehow green circle terrain). It wasn't all non-sensical suffering though. Surrounding the NATO-Base region, which, unsurprisingly, starts at a defunct NATO base now covered in spectacular graf- fiti, we found several trails with manageable jumps, fun descents, and rocky features reminiscent of those at Hardy Road in Wilmington. Finally, we hit our stride. For our last full day in Italy, we booked a room at a spa resort near the airport. We could throw our bod- ies down the mountainsides thousands of miles from home, we owed it to ourselves to don a robe and stroll the manicured gardens of a resort on our final day in Italy. Very un-dirtbaglike. Despite the overtly cultish tones of drinking the same colorful cocktails and wearing the same robe as about 100 other people on a bright lawn full of lounge chairs, I have to admit a spa day once every decade or so doesn't sound terrible. (I also could have done with- out the dirty looks from people misinterpreting Rhian- non's endless bruises from mountain biking as evidence of mistreatment.) The array of water treatments was astonishing, from cold plunges, steam rooms, saunas, outdoor hot tubs, heated waterfalls, scorching jet sprays, and contrast ankle baths, it was simultaneously overwhelming and incredibly relaxing. Looking back almost exactly three years to that sun- ny, culty lawn, I think of the other ways love has al- lowed me to change. I don't have to scare myself in a kayak or on a bike as much to feel joy, I've learned that a well made cappuccino is better than gas station cof- fee ( you know the one), and actual beds are a lot more comfortable to snuggle on than sleeping pads. But I've also learned that Rhiannon knows she married at least a part-time dirtbag and it turns out, she's got a little dirtbag in her, too. So whether we're tumbling down the mountainsides of Liguria or enjoying a 5-course meal in Rome, you can bet we're leaning into the way love changes us both. t

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