The valley narrows to a gorge and up we go again, up and down weaving through mountains scoured of soil and crumpled in a giant's hand, hairpin after hairpin tracing the sharp folds. I cross a terrifying bridge from which I dare not look down, and then up again on the last long climb. The bike rides oddly. My gut tightens. I ease into the concrete ditch on the side of the road. The rear wheel is punctured. Damn, damn, damn.
On the way up, I had noticed a farm on the left-hand side. I ride back slowly, stop at the gate and walk down a concrete ramp to the farmhouse. The farmer meets me at the door, a square, well-muscled man in his forties - a child's plastic wheelie toy out in the yard, no sign of a wife. Sure, he tells me, of course I can park the bike back of the house. I need anything? A drink? Any help?
"I'm fine," I reply, although I am nervous. I last took a wheel off a bike somewhere back in the early sixties. I tell myself that mechanics is logic. I lay out the tools and set to work. No problems. The farmer tells me to leave my kit in the house, drives me to the last town to have the tube repaired and insists on waiting, and then drives me back.
Thank you, farmer.
Old Man On A Bike Simon Gandolfi p220