Villetta Barrea is an idyllic little town in what you could call a tri-state national park; it overlooks an artificial lake, which is common for this region, where hydroelectric installations are widely in use.
It can only be reached by scenic secondary roads that meander through valleys and over mountains, across a well kept national park where the grass
actually is greener on the other side.
We did not get anywhere near it.
I had arranged to meet Witold around 12:30, later than we should have set off, but I couldn't manage any earlier than that. I first heard, then saw him arrive aboard a British racing green
arrow, sharp and lethal, and thought to myself "ah, he took the Norton".
From our meeting point we headed towards Subiaco and quickly ran into a heavy storm that left no room for interpretation: what I mean by that is that this wasn't one of those situations where a bit of optimism can help you find a sliver of blue sky somewhere and say "hey, it'll clear up in a bit and we'll be fine". Oh no, this was a dark and menacing sky, saturated with cold water and whipped up by strong winds that funneled everything down the valleys straight at whoever was on the ground.
We found a very good bus shelter out in the middle of nowhere and waited it out for twenty minutes, then we continued towards Vallepietra and stopped at a nice (if very basic) restaurant, where we had some food and tried to figure out if we had been delayed too much.
Shortly after however, the rain picked up again, coming down in waves and it got dark outside. About an hour later it was still raining but we decided we had to go... either back home or press on towards our intended destination.
Neither of us wanted to just give up, and despite having been admittedly complacent with our gear (hardly any waterproofing, no shoe-covers for Witold), we decided to just keep going, no matter the weather.
We had resolve, and every intention to keep at it, but in my head I was trying to figure out how many miles were left, and how slow they'd be; what time we'd get there and in what state. It wasn't a pretty outcome.
I then saw one of those old-fashioned hotel/restaurant/pizzeria places and thought to myself "if it gets really bad we can always find a place like this and stay there". And on we went, through winding mountain roads, water everywhere, the air definitely chilly and mist building up. Slowly around corners, grit and dirt and twigs making things challenging. The two Norton Commandos, true champs, kept up with no protest, and we continued.
Then, as it got even darker we rounded a corner, came upon a small bridge and a bright yellow sign that said "Camp site, 2 clicks" and an arrow pointing left; I signaled Witold to pull over, lifted my fogged up visor and said "let's just go check it out, maybe we can stay there".
Two kilometers of rough, rough trail led us to an unbelievable place in a forest, by a brook.
Tall fir trees, their boughs entangled in a white wispy fog, the ground was wet but somewhat sheltered, and we were told we could ride into the forest and camp where we liked.
A faint smell of burning firewood and smoke merged into the mist; another smell, that of wet earth and grass, made the place appear quiet and ethereal, as we set up our tents and took stock of what was wet and what had stayed dry (very little).
We had a decent meal and our own personal stash of genziana to finish off the evening; Witold spent a chilly, damp night but I was very comfortable in my tent, so much so that I was able to hear the swirling cosmos high above the trees, and it made the sound of a sitar, carrying from a distance a classical raga, perfectly in tune with the stars and spinning galaxies. And to think we had considered turning back and going home!
Daybreak came silently and very slowly, the bikes were still very wet, and Witold's headlamp had taken in so much water that it genuinely looked like a fish tank with a Lucas motif on the front!
We had to figure out a way back since we were somewhat off-course from our planned itinerary, and this is where a good old-fashioned paper road map comes in very handy, as it doesn't run out of batteries or rely on a radio signal.
With a bright sunny day to greet us as we emerged from the forest, we descended upon the town of Fiuggi like a winged fury and a Bialozar (look it up...), the torquey parallel twins blaring out like the trumpet of Jericho; incidentally, I can now tell you that the Armour silencers I fitted last week are phenomenal: they are definitely quiet at low revs and low effort, then come alive as you accelerate hard with a satisfying, deep, fruity note.
Down along a fast sweeping freeway with huge corners and long stretches with perfect visibility and good grip from the new Avon tires, we uncork the Nortons and my Commando propels me forward as the 4S camshaft kicks in. After a while Witold is overcome with the need to stop for local produce, and picks up a bag of wild mushroom and other bits. What's wild about the mushrooms is the price!
We wave goodbye as I veer off towards the Monolith and he continues for a final blast up the autostrada towards Rome. A very cool weekend indeed.
The campsite is basic and a little rough around the edges, but with the right preparation we could organize a fantastic weekend for a few friends and our British bikes. It'll probably be a season opener for next year, so we have plenty of time to work it out.
Now, I hear your question coming in unison from across the æther, and it is a fair one: "is the Norton Commando still, objectively, the best motorcycle in the world?" and the answer is undeniably yes. Yes it is.
