As Easy As

Monday, August 11: Day 4 of Vacation (Day 3 here)

“Good morning!” Dan began. “Want to ride bikes to the beach?”

“Sure!” I answered, because 1) I tend to lack common sense among other brain functions first thing in the morning, 2) My husband has a way of bringing out the lunatic in me, and 3) I didn’t realize that the beach was 20 kilometers away, an island called Lido orbiting the far side of Venice.

We got through the rigmarole of finding the beach towels, piling prosciutto on bread, and bathing in SPF 4,000 and set off just as the streets began to sizzle. At first, we wound through lazy neighborhoods, past bakeries and stationary shops and bars all closed for vacation, breathing in the singular thrill of morning. We turned down a long avenue with its own bike path—double lanes!—and a sidewalk for the hundreds of perky dogs taking their owners for a walk. It was beautiful and relaxing, as easy as waking up one pedal at a time.

BUT. Of course there had to be one, and this particular BUT was a doozie. The straight tree-lined path ended, and I found myself swerving through a roundabout—those navigational horrors of European driving that only begin to feel natural once you accept that the other cars will veer into your lane without warning. And then a sudden bridge, far steeper than I expected, and oh my god, we’re on a highway, OH MY GOD, WE’RE ON A HIGHWAY AND IS THAT A BUS? A BUS, A BUS!! SPEEDING THREE INCHES FROM MY HANDLEBARS?! ARE YOU KIDDING, WE HAVE TO CROSS THIS INTERCHANGE, AND HOLY GUACAMOLE HERE’S ANOTHER BUS!!!!!!!!!!

My life, it flashed. Sophie babbled happily behind me as I gripped the lifeblood out of my handlebars and practiced Lamaze breathing techniques all the way down a gravelly merge lane and onto the second terrifying highway. I have never felt so close to death for such an extended period before, even though the bus drivers were exceedingly courteous in that not one of them ran us over.

And then Death got distracted by something more interesting, a drunk hang-glider or perhaps a Qantas jet taking off, and we were finally on the infinite bridge to Venice—long and arrow-straight and glory of glories, equipped with a bike path. I know by this point, you’re getting bored and thinking So are they ever going to get there?, and believe me, I was wondering the same thing as the bridge stretched on in front of us. And on. And then on some more. And then once we miraculously reached the end of it, there were still two mammoth hills between us and the ferry, and a mile to ride once we got off the ferry, and hunger and sweat and my butt weeping in pain…

…but make it we did. I have never been so grateful to lie down in a big pile of hot sand surrounded by topless grandmas and diminutive Speedos. We had our inevitable beach disasters—Sophie catapulting herself into the sea and Natalie disappearing (and my resulting coronary, of course)—but our time there as a whole was deliciously serene. Dainty blue hints of waves, sand castles decorated with copious sand flowers, our own umbrella-niche of shade to relax while the breeze whisked away the effort of our trip.

We made it back home as well with 75% fewer hyperventilations on my part, the girls’ sleepy heads bobbing to and fro in the waning sunlight, bike pedals moving of their own accord to get us to our gate. We dragged ourselves inside, collapsing in a family heap on the bed, and I decided that #13 from my birthday list, “Have an adventure”? Is officially crossed off.