The Bikes of Lago Di Como
LEANINGS
The bikes of Lago di Como
Peter Egan
SO MUCH WAS I LOOKING FORWARD TO this assignment that I actually took an 8-week night-school class in Italian this past winter. My work seems to take me to Italy about once a year, so I decided it was high time I learned such important phrases as “Waiter, please give the check to my friend here,” and “Can you direct me to a famous cathedral with a men’s room?”
The “assignment” was to drive a 1951 Ferrari 340 in the Mille Miglia road rally, and the man who invited me to co-drive this car was my old friend and motorcycle touring buddy, Gil Nickel.
Gil, who owns Far Niente vineyards in Napa Valley, moved to Italy for the summer this year with his companion, Beth Yorman. In addition to packing the usual suitcase with a clean change of socks and shirts, Gil brought along a ship’s container filled with three vintage race cars, a transporter truck, a 1929 Belle Isle Bearcat cigarette boat and his BMWI 100RS.
Exactly what I’d do if I won the lottery, or discovered oil on our property while shooting at a possum. And up through the ground come a bubblin’ crude....
Anyway, Gil and Beth rented an apartment for the summer (with 3-car garage beneath) on the shores of Lake Como in northern Italy.
This lake, it turns out, is one of the most beautiful places on Earth. The snow-covered Alps loom high at one end and the banks of the lake are so steep that most of the villages are stacked, terrace-like, up the hillside.
And there is a road around the lake.
A beautiful twisting and sipping road that passes through tunnels, narrows suddenly for ancient stone walls, winds through lovely villages and gardens, past old royal estates and around craggy cliffs. At the north end of Como, the road climbs straight into the Alps, headed for St. Mortiz or Davos. At the south end it opens up into the Po Valley and greater Italy.
What I am trying to say is, this is ideal motorcycle country. And bikes do pass by the lake. Many, many bikes. But back to that in a moment.
Gil and I ran the Ferrari in the Mille Miglia and survived the whole thousand miles, from Brescia through Ferrara, Ancona, Rome, Siena, Florence, Bologna and back to Brescia, all in two days and one evening. We did not win the rally (thanks partly to my low math skills, dyslexia and Attention Deficit Disorder, not to mention the participation of 300 other cars), but drove the begeezus out of the car and had a great time.
After the rally we returned to the sunny shores of Lake Como. We had planned to do some motorcycling, but Gil’s BMW had become enmeshed in the red tape of customs. So we suddenly found ourselves with five nonmotorcycling days to kill.
By default, we hiked, cruised the lake in Gil’s boat and rode along the lakeshore on mountain bikes borrowed from Gil and Beth’s kindly landlords, Danilo and Petra.
And each day we somehow found ourselves at a little outdoor cafe and bar called the Bar Centrale in the village of Menaggio, drinking one cappuccino after another and watching the parade of motorcycles arrive and leave.
Many Ducatis, almost all red 900SS models similar to my own. and a few Monsters. Moto Guzzis, new and old. Lots of Honda Transalps and VFR75ÜS. Most numerous, probably, were 250 and 35ÜCC dual-purpose bikes-mostly Japanese-ideally suited to the narrow village cobblestones and climbing switchbacks.
After that, an eclectic mix of older trail bikes and scramblers (Bultaco Matador!), a few trials bikes and even a pristine chocolate-brown Honda CB500 four-piper. A flock of Americans, touring on Harleys. Many mopeds and scooters. The place was Bike Heaven. But it was strange to sit there and watch people climbing off their motorcycles, stopping for coffee, anticipating their assaults on the Alps, or talking over their recent descents, without my own bike handy. In civilian clothes, as it were.
But this time around I really didn’t mind being bikeless. Those idle hours at the cafe gave me time to plan and scheme. I may have appeared stationary and inert, but the gears were turning. Some summer-maybe next summer-I would have to return with everything organized. With a motorcycle.
My friend and colleague, Clem Salvadori, who writes for Rider magazine, has many relatives scattered around Italy and leaves an old Moto Guzzi Twin permanently in-country, stored with a family member. When he visits, he has a bike waiting.
Maybe I could do the same thing. My Ducati 250 Mach 1, currently under restoration, might be the perfect Lake Como bike, if I could figure out how to ship it inexpensively. For longer runs into the Alps, the 900SS might be better. Or maybe I could just buy some old nail locally.
I did learn just before flying home that Danilo’s Aunt Franco, who lives nearby, still has her late husband’s old Moto Guzzi sitting in a shed, gathering dust. No one in the family could tell me much about it, except that it’s a Single from the early Fifties.
A nice old Falcone, perchance?
I never had time to see the bike, but it lives now in my tentative dreams. Maybe I could negotiate the purchase of this bike, and fly to Italy next summer with just a set of tools to get the old Guzzi running. Leave it there and return every year.
The possibilities are endless, and seductive.
The only thing I know for sure is that this is not my last trip to Lake Como, but I sincerely hope it’s my last visit without a motorcycle.
Finding oneself poised between the white-capped Alps and the age-soaked stone and ochre villages of Italy, with bike, is one of those dreams that keep the planet spinning. E3
