Fall mornings are particularly beautiful here in Piemonte. The leaves are changing, the green fading from yellow to orange from the veins outwards. My bike tires make light crunching sounds on the fallen leaves as I lead Vicini out the front gate. I slide the heel of my left boot onto the pedal and toss my right leg over the frame, pushing off.
Though the sun is out, it's crisp and cool, making me glad for my gloves and favourite merino and possum wool cap. I skim through the leafy roundabout and to the left, slipping between cars to turn down the path towards country roads.
It's usually quiet at the top of the hill of death: the teenage boys in their growling motor bikes save their displays of testosterone for the afternoons. The first part is particularly steep and winding, so the brakes stay on. What it means is that I can actually see the mountains, hilltop towns and castellos instead of whipping by. I gain speed, reveling in the wind slapping my cheeks as I cut onto the first of the back farm lanes on the valley flat.
I keep a steady pedalling pace, passing by crumbling stone sheds, covered fields and windbreaks of weedy poplars and dried corn stalks. The mists are slowly rolling off the hillsides surrounding, revealing undulating slope of vineyards.
Successfully dodging the hurtling semis, I cross the highway into sleepy Pollenzo and coast into the bike rack in front of the Agenzia, bracing myself for the six hours of class ahead.
As the end of class nears, realization hits anew that the hill must be faced and it's a challenge at the end of a long day. And as anyone who is acquainted with my bike history knows, I've not been a fan of hills. At all. I've approached them without grace, trying desperately to remember cycling resolutions to pedal harder, think positively, enjoy the sweat and shut up. It doesn't always work. But here, the hill of death is unavoidable and can have the tendency to loom even bigger in my thoughts.
All in all, I spend at least forty minutes a day on my bike, which translates into a whole lot of time spent heavy in contemplation. And these days, my daily ride and especially the uphill battle of that hill seem to reflect my state of being.
Living overseas is a mirror of sorts. Stripped of all that's dear and familiar, your support systems and routines, you're left raw and naked: the emperor's new clothes. Who you really are is concentrated: your best self is often your best, but your worst can be foul. Who you are in this moment, who you want to be and what you want out of life are distilled to their very essence.
My interactions here and my relationships at home combined have shown me my brokenness and how much I have yet to learn. I've had to face painfully ugly truths of how little I've expected of God, myself, love and the people around me. The areas where I've broken promises to myself and settled for so much less are burned in acid on the canvas of my heart and mind. It's far from the masterpiece I believe our lives are designed to be.
And yet, it's ironic that the very experience that breaks down your soul is the best place to rebuild it.
Without the crutches and memories of home.
In a fresh place, where people show kindness as they're facing their own foibles.
Where I can experience Grace and Peace in new and unexpected ways.
While this ride may find my cheeks tear-stained more often than not these days, there's no more dread, but a fierce joy in conquering that hill. There's more strength available to me than I ever imagined in climbing it - this valley may be where I spend a time, but it's not where I belong. And every day, it gets that little bit easier, one pedal stroke at a time.
