Remo Capelli stands squinting in the sun as I approach on my bike. His shock of white hair reflects the bright light like a Colorado snowfield in springtime. This seems fitting since his surname means “hair” in Italian. His stance is vaguely reminiscent of a cowboy—body listing to one side, palms facing backward, arms slightly bent—ready to quickly draw a six-shooter from its holster. Only in this case he is wearing worn, gray coveralls and will only be drawing the nozzle from the gas pump on this humid afternoon.

You see Capelli runs one of those strange oases that seem to exist only in Italy—the AGIP gas station/bike shop. And not just any bike shop. He is an official Colnago—the Ferrari of bikes—dealer.

Initially, he seems confused when I call out to him. Finally, he recognizes me—I’m dressed like an alien in full cycling regalia with helmet and Oakleys— as I move out of the sunshine and under the awning covering the pumps.

“Ohhhh, John! Come stai? Tutto bene?!” he booms in a high-pitched, raspy voice.

I reach out a sweaty, gloved hand to shake his rough, grease-stained paw. Neither of us is the picture of manual hygiene at this particular moment. He wipes his brow with a rag. It’s getting warm and I’ve caught him right before he closes up for lunch.

Capelli’s filling station-cum-bike shop occupies a dusty corner along the highly-trafficked slab of the two-lane provincial highway 569 that runs from Bologna through Bazzano to Vignola. It is commonly known as the “Bazzanese.” On one side of the station there is a little bar frequented by older men in porkpie hats who sit around small tables playing a card game called briscola and speaking in the local dialect. You often see them trundling by on their ancient, creaking bicycles or chatting with Remo before heading off to the pub. On the other, there is a small luggage shop. Just beyond, a new gelateria has opened. (It’s quite good.) Stefania’s parents live around the corner.

On this day, I have stopped by to say hello and buy some C02 cartridges (Have you ever tried to pump up a racing bike tire, after flatting, with a mini-pump?). We pass into a large room behind the front office where more bikes are on display. The lights are off. Sun streaming through the windows illuminates the dusty space. Capelli doesn’t direct me to a display of cartridges but instead reaches into a drawer behind his desk, pulls out a small box and asks me how many I want. I reach in, take a few and ask, “Quanto costano?” (How much?) Capelli thinks for a moment and replies, “Cinque.” (5 euros). After forking over the money, I notice that he didn’t give me a scontrino or receipt. Technically speaking this is illegal.

Capelli runs a small, all-cash business. It's not a big deal, you say. Perhaps. But he is still required, by law, to give out receipts or risk the wrath of the financial gods. (The law is intended to prevent off-the-books transactions which are quite common in Italy.) Maybe he just forgot to give me a scontrino. Maybe those cartridges just fell off a truck and into my pocket. Who knows?

What's more, Stefania bought my Colnago frame for my 40th birthday here at Capelli's shop. She did pay cash for it but also got a receipt. It would have been really illegal—even in Italy— to sell an expensive, new bike frame sotto banco (under the table). Not to mention that I would have been unable to keep it under warranty. Besides, frames are so heavily marked up these days that you can get great deals on previous years’ models without resorting to risky business transactions. It is of course strange for a gas station/ top-end bike dealer to except only cash, but certainly not unheard of. One does have to keep the overhead low, offer competitive prices and avoid unnecessary bank charges.

When you come to Italy on vacation, don’t expect to haggle your way to a nice discount on those designer jeans you’ve been eyeing. The art of the deal works like this: First of all, Italy is a clannish society. Allegiance to one’s campanile (bell tower) still matters. Witness the weekly soccer match/riot. Many of these communities were literally at war with one another a few hundred years ago. As an outsider, you just can’t walk in off the street and expect to close the deal of the century on that Prada bag, no matter what they say on the Travel Channel. Unless you know the shopkeeper personally, I wouldn’t even think of trying to bargain. And even then, it is a dicey proposition. Moreover, as I stated above, paying cash for something off the books to get a discount is illegal; you could get in as much trouble with the Guardia della Finanza (fiscal cops) as the proprietor if caught. Lastly, there are plenty of legal ways to obtain great merchandise at low prices. Just ask me, I’ll tell you. There’s that Prada outlet store near Florence or discounter Sotto Sotto in Casalecchio di Reno, etc. More importantly, if you are a foreign national, you can get reimbursed for the value added tax (VAT) that you just paid on that ridiculously overpriced leather jacket.

Road with a view

Cars rush past me as I hug the white line bordering the road like a circus tightrope walker. Unlike the quiet confines of the Cherry Creek bike path, there is not much room for error here. There is no net. Moving my hands to the tops of the brake hoods, I tap the shift levers selecting an easier gear as my bike sweeps through a rising bend. The headset (steering mechanism) needs adjusting, I think. Still a little tight.

We are just outside of Bazzano, 1km from my apartment. I make another turn to the right, following the sign for Montebudello. The road narrows and pitches up precipitously. Trees, thick with dark, green leaves, lean in from the far side of the drainage ditches. I stand on the pedals. The sound of the C02 cartridges rattling against the new phone in my back pocket draws my attention; a flat tire would be a good excuse for stopping, I reason. But then, ominously, I imagine one of those cartridges exploding from the friction. Maybe the Samsung would take one for the team and stop the shrapnel. I like that idea. As a cyclist, I have a love/hate relationship with cell phones, anyway—I love to hate them. You see this is what happens when I don’t take my iPod—my mind, like the wheels beneath me, infinitely spins myriad scenarios.

The road flattens and exits the humidity of the woods onto a ridgeline. A farmer’s mower disgorges hay as I struggle past. Neat lines of vines, a rose bush at the head of each row, stretch down the hillside with their delicate branches reaching skyward like outstretched arms cheering me on. Steep green buttes dotted with vineyards, pear orchards, small farms and colorful villas all peer down at a two-lane highway that wends its way through the valley. Poplar trees stand tall on the hilltops as if to put an exclamation point on my view. Allied troops of the 10th Mountain Division fought pitched battles here along the Gothic Line in the winter of 1944/45 in an effort to push the enemy out of these rugged hills and onto the plains of the Po Valley.

My only battle remains hauling my well-fed carcass up the rest of this hill. I pause next to a small cluster of houses when I come to a flat spot in the road. This rather short, painful journey was worth the effort, though. This definitely beats working for a living. I take mental notes on things to come back and do: Have to eat at Trattoria San Antonio—Stefania’s parents say the crescentina (fried bread with salumi and cheese) and tigelle (flat bread) are supposed to be wonderful—and maybe try some of the wine from the local vineyards at La Locanda gli Ulivi. Memo to self: Increase weekly mileage by 300% to offset massive calorie intake and put tab on the Scripps credit card. Wait, was I supposed to give that back?

But it all starts and ends with Remo Capelli. He was my first cycling contact in Italy, sold me by dream frame, serves as my chief mechanic and keeps me supplied with C02 cartridges. Without him I would not be able to be standing here in this beautiful place contemplating delicious dinners, magnificent vistas, cranky Italian motorists, narrow roads, steep hills, fizzy wine, no ice cubes and oh yeah, unemployment. Furthermore, when in doubt remember John’s rules of the road and keys to happiness (out in paperback soon): Always ride your bike, take the road less traveled, keep your tires properly inflated, buy bib shorts, wear a helmet, use sunscreen, (male cyclists) shave your legs, carry tools/tubes/C02, ask stopped riders if they need help and please clean that god-awful, squeaky chain of yours.

And I almost forgot—support your local bike shop!