By Cristi Farrell

Ten years ago, I shoehorned a tour of the Italian countryside into six days while trekking through Europe as a backpacker. At this lowest rung of the traveler hierarchy, my aimless wanderings were dictated by public transportation and my consumption constrained to a limited budget of fresh-baked bread, sun-ripened tomatoes, green fistfuls of basil and buffalo mozzarella.

The quarter-inch pane of glass on the high-speed train separated my fulfillment of exploring expanses of unfamiliar terrain and meandering stone paths through villages where tourists rarely tread.

The aftertaste of that journey left me feeling isolated, neither integrated with the landscape nor connected to its inhabitants.

Six months later, riding a motorcycle began to change the way I experienced the world, granting me the freedom to move about the country while eliminating my dependence on public transportation and schedules. It was time to rediscover Italy.

With a bounty of unmistakably Italian rides to choose from, I opted to embark on my gastronomic expedition on an MV Agusta Stradale. Not for the faint of inseam, the Stradale’s 34-inch seat height gave even me, at 5 feet 10 inches, a run for the money. It was an issue easily solved by a few unrestrained trips to the gelateria—ergo, compressing the suspension another half-inch.

Not wasting any time, I ate my way toward flat-footed freedom my first evening in Milan, barely able to finish the most sublime panna cotta (so fresh it curled right onto my flatware). In my defense, the aggressive beat down from transatlantic jet lag curbed my appetite, but nicely primed me for a good night’s sleep.

The Stradale proved to be equally agile. It was comfortable on my morning cruise over cobbled streets through the sleepy village of Pavia. As I crossed over 709 feet of brick and stone arches of Pavia’s Ponte Coperto, I couldn’t help but chuckle over the hours of deliberation which must have been involved to officially name a bridge “covered bridge” in Italian.

On the open road, the MV easily handled the curvy, tree-lined two-lane roads across the Ligurian Apennines mountain range. Meanwhile, I focused on essential goals: eat twice my body weight to make up for all these years of lost consumption; hydrate accordingly each evening with equal parts acqua frizzante (sparkling water) and Prosecco; and savor the beauty of the ride.

My imagination ran wild as I dreamt of Italy’s epicurean delights and devouring all things fatta in casa (homemade), interrupted only by the satisfying grunts of the Stradale’s engine as I rolled on the throttle at the apex of each corner.

While linearity would favor a storyline where each successive feast exceeded my expectations, my very first stop in Bobbio (in Emilia Romagna) was where all of my gastronomic fantasies were realized in a single meal.

Of everything ingested on what I dubbed the No Pasta Left Behind tour, the least forgettable was the freshest, simplest and most delicious ravioli I had ever eaten: tortelli di ricotta filled with spinaci e salvia (ravioli with ricotta, spinach and sage) at the Ca’ Del Sartu.

When you close your eyes and mentally wipe the day’s slate clean, only to have visions of ravioli pervade your dreams, you know it must have been a meal immortalized in your mind’s black book of food porn.

Second only to the pasta was the location in which it was served—as picturesque as one could possibly imagine. A packed gravel path traced uphill toward a sunken, covered patio of smooth stones and rough-hewn wood beams in the shadow of a grand Italian villa, enveloped by neatly arranged rows of grapevines spilling over into the lush, green valley floor below. The tranquil setting would have been the perfect place for deep contemplation had the seductive smells of salty salumi (cured meats), savory figs and sweet chocolate-orange torte with coffee gelato not called me back to the trough.

A few zealous twists of the throttle flow from my stomach toward my extremities, bringing me back safely from the precipice of a food coma.

The well-balanced MV adeptly tackled the tightly woven switchbacks that descended the rocky promontory toward the sandy bay of Camogli. The coastline’s svelte streets, on a lateral and vertical plane, made for a bit of unplanned adventure in an area where GPS hesitates for two turns before updating.

 

 

Frequent roadside stops meant an opportunity to crack open my visor and deeply inhale the delicate onshore breezes of the Ligurian Riviera, and I was content to stay lost, in the electronic sense.

As the sun settled in for the evening, pulling at each layer of the horizon, it illuminated the sleepy fishing village in vibrant orange, red and pink hues.

Mornings didn’t officially begin until I had quietly sipped a double cappuccino and felt the slow drip of caffeine filter through my veins. To supplement my morning addiction was a colossal spread of fresh fruit, tortes and cakes and all the chocolate, pistachio, honey and custard croissants you could inhale.

Balancing out the sugary-deliciousness of a pastry-filled receiving line was a selection of salami, cheeses, plain yogurt and muesli.

Only a few meals into the trip, it became clear that no one with the goal of indulging their inner foodie would ever leave Italy disappointed. The everlasting breakfast buffet ritual created serious havoc on my motivation to stray far from the table. But the unmistakable throaty notes of 798ccs of thundering Italian fury was a pleasant reminder that decadent consumption can exist in an alternate, non-edible forms.

From the bay back up into the mountains, Strada Provinciale 38 served up a never-ending section of similarly angled, sweeping turns on the smoothest of freshly paved surfaces. The rhythmic side-to-side motion leaning into each corner lulled me into complacency on the Stradale, deep within a wall of trees until an errant decreasing radius turn jolted me awake.

Riding through the occasional series of mountain tunnels provided a source of entertainment as the distinctly Italian rumbles of the MV’s engine reverberated off the walls, but also a brief respite of cool, damp air to combat punishing stretches of 100-degree temperatures.

Porto Venere, the southernmost collective of small villages and islands, was a highlight of Cinque Terre’s series of coastal gems. Tourism was in full swing, as evidenced by packed beaches, parking lots and cafés. But the best seat in the house (apart from my moving one) took in the view from Castello Doria.

In the shadow of the castle, Byron’s Grotto, a cliff-diving spot of international acclaim, teased me with the promise of mist-filled ocean breezes to quell the irrepressible heat.

The next day’s ride between Lido di Camaiore and Firenze (Florence) was brief, allowing me to think ravenous thoughts and mentally stimulate my metabolism before the next escapade into Italian gastronomy. My evening stroll across the famous Ponte Vecchio felt as though I had stumbled right into a Renaissance painting: the deepest blue sky contrasting with the subtle lamp light, gently reflecting off each stone surface.

As I indulged in crispy, thin-crusted heaven, moderately sauced and zealously littered with an exquisite minefield of shaved black truffles, the sounds of other restaurant patrons faded into the background. As day faded into night, my final hours in Italy effortlessly attempted to destabilize my past convictions of a good meal and a great road.

Given this second chance with a new set of eyes, Italy mercilessly preyed on my weaknesses. Go for the irresistible allure of Italian engineering; stay for the gut-busting, dream thieving, culinary delights. And, if you can successfully push past the lethargy of overindulgence, beyond the restaurant door stands an entire country of architectural splendor and centuries of storybook history to feast upon.

Cristi Farrell is an AMA member from Los Angeles.