Gladiatori.

   I will never forget the day I reached Rome. It began as most Italian mornings have- cold, with a heavy fog. I was crawling along the Via Flaminia, which, as it reaches 50km from Rome, becomes a seriously dull ride. Following the train tracks I hauled my bicycle up and down rolling hills, just as the prostitutes of Lazio were being dropped off at the road side to start work. Definitely not an inspiring or comforting road to travel.

   I heard the whirr of the moped first. Then the beeping of its horn, followed by "Hello, hello! Bravo!". A great little Vespa scooter pulled alongside me, flying a standard size Italian flag from its handlebars. "Giro, Giro, Giro!!" said the driver as we climbed another curving gradient. He gestured behind us down the hill, and sure enough, bent double over their handlebars in perfect single file, was a cycling team!

   Not wanting to let the boys down I refocused myself to stop swaying all over the saddle and force all the power from my body down through my legs. As the team churned by and each man gave the customary cyclist nod of recognition, I dropped gears and clung to the back wheel of the end man. It was done in jest really- I thought to myself that I'd provide some comic value for these fine tuned, lycra and carbon fibre styled pro's, and possibly do enough to pull me to the next flat. The road levelled out and the draft order shifted. Gears clicked up through cogs and water bottles wheezed as they quenched a well earnt thirst.

   At this point I underwent a thought process that is exactly the same mentally, but the polar opposite physically as lying in bed and saying " Just another five minutes..."

"Just another kilometre." I told myself. "Just until the next climb, then I'll drop off and resume my Shirehorse-esque plod, and let these geldings take off."

"Just another hill..." I held on.

   On a particularly lengthy flat section, all six riders reached to their back pockets in perfect synchronisation for an energy gel. I reached to mine, but the best I could conjure up was a washed out, sweaty, Yoghurt ChewChew that had survived from a party mix I'd picked up for the boat ride from Croatia.

"Just another town..." I continued.

   On we sped, cruising through red lights and junctions as our moped controlled the traffic for us. It was all very exciting. A number of times I found myself shuddering over pot-holes as my mind drifted to fabricating its own little Tour de France, complete with imaginary fans and cow bells as we topped hills.

   I looked at my cycle computer- 10 kilometres! I'd stuck on a racing team's wheel for 10 kilometres! In a moment of insanty and enthusiasm I rose out of the saddle and pushed my way to the front! It was my turn to lead and battle the wind. All my limited knowledge of racing technique buzzed around my head. After a few minutes of worrying, I reconciled myself to just hold the pace at 25km per hour, and if that wasn't good enough then someone else could take charge.

   One rider drew alongside me and we used charades to establish that I'd come from Istanbul and was going to Ireland. These boys were doing a tour from Treviso to Rome. This was Squadra Fortissimi, and they were doing that distance in three days. I'm hoping to do it in ten...

   A few kilometres of hard graft later and an increase to 30km per hour, an amazing thing happened. The draft order changed once more and I resigned myself to drop out the back and continue alone to my campsite, but instead the squad split 3/3 and were sheltering me in the middle! A silent acceptance had taken place and I was officially riding as part of a team.

   Finally the junction appeared where I'd leave the Flaminia and go my own way to the Tiber river for camping. I pulled out of formation and gave my sincerest "Grazie, arrivederchi, grazie" to the rider that had done the charading.

"NO!" He screamed, "TO ROMAAAAAAA!!!!!!"

The other five riders responded with an eruption of "COLLESEO!" (Or Coliseum in English.)

  My heart spluttered into a new rhythm and adrenaline coursed to my cheeks and hands. I smiled and enormous smile, gripped the handlebars, dug deep and shouted, "COLLESEO!" in euphoric response. I felt totally alive.

   Another 10km zipped by, faster now, especially now that I knew what I was part of; a slick machine working together. One rider took off suddenly around a bend. I was talking to myself about saying "yes" to situations in life, and even though this adventure would add 40km to my day by going all the way to the city centre, this was definitely a time to say yes. We rounded the corner and the guy who'd taken off before was waving us down.

"Ah dear." I thought. "Puncture."

   Little did I know that it wasn't at all, instead it was lunchtime! A woman emerged from a camper van parked nearby, came to me, gave me a huge hug and a kiss, all the time talking in Italian and saying things like "Bambino! Grande Grande!". The rest of the team rolled in and a translator organised a spot for me at the table, but before that could happen, and whilst the lads all had a go lifting my bike and saying "Incredible..." I was ushered behind the camper where a man hung out the window and showered me down! It was a proper little support team.

Refreshed and wrapped up I joined the rest at the table. Mountains of Foccacia appeared, a brick sized slice of soft cheese, perfectly sliced proscuttio, Coca Cola, water, then; before the mammoth portions of macaroni were given out, FOUR BOTTLES OF PROSSECCO HIT THE TABLE! Apparently it's a tradition in Treviso, so we sat supping on bubbly while feasting at the roadside. (I did commit the cardinal Italian dining faux pas and spill the Parmaggiano cheese all over the table... Though it was all mopped up in good spirits and shared out. No harm done.) A second course of bread and cheese appeared, then a rest and some photograph taking, before the perfect climax to the meal in the form of Apricot tart and espresso to kick start our engines! These guys really know how to do it. I was so happy and ready for the 28km zip into Rome proper.

   Just as we were donning our helmets, the heavens opened. Nothing I hadn't faced before, but this time I was racing and so instead of slowing to a careful crawl through curtains of rain- I was bent double over the bars, gritting my teeth and squinting my eyes so much, that two day later it still hurts a little to raise my eyebrows.

   The ride was superb. Again we were drafting all the way which was spectacular especially in the tunnels around Rome's ring road, as you could actually feel the effects of sitting in the slipstream and hear the wind screaming past your ears.

   Suddenly we were passing beautiful marble bridges and signs for the Auditorium. THE Auditorium. That is a special thing- the original Auditorium, in the sense that the word was created for that building.

  Cycling in a pack in city centres is a magical thing. People began cheering us, clapping, mopeds hooting, and with the pace slowed, we were riding handsfree and soaking up the glory of looking like the real deal! Raucous shouting broke out from a few riders to which the public responded with great cheers of appreciation. Though I had no idea what was being said, it felt great.

   Rome. I had made it. I joined the vocal celebrations. Istanbul to Rome! Traversing ancient roads such as the Via Egnatia, the Via de San Francesco, and the Via Flaminia. Roads that are included in myth and legend. Roads that changed the world, and now, my life.

   We swung around the Piazza Venezia, and up ahead of us, there it was. The Coliseum. In many ways the Mecca of sporting history. Olympic stadiums, Camp Nou, Wembley, the Bird's nest- there are many great stadiums of human physical endeavour, but this, the Coliseum- has more blood, sweat and tears baked into its foundations than any other.

    I haven't battled with anyone but myself on this adventure. I felt like some sort of new-age, peace loving, self mutilating Gladiator. Sat high on my trusted white steed, having taken on the wind, rain, sun, dogs, terrain, food, cold, insects, distance, loneliness, despair, tears, fears, and nerves that the past month had thrown my way- I felt like a champion. This was compounded when the other boys reached across and patted my back as we freewheeled over the ancient cobbles. Sharing success and joy. This was being alive.

   In the days since I've had a great time dining with two zoo keeper friends at my campsite, enjoyed litres of fine (and not so fine) wines, reorganised my kit, and spent hours washing and drying clothes while dodging the downpours of what is being called Cyclone Cleopatra.

   My mother arrives today for a few days of indulgence- stocking up the old fat reserves before I swing North towards France. Lines have been drawn through the Alps, across the routes of the Giro d'Italia, Tuscan vineyards, and the Tour de France. Its time to get high, and cold.

The hills of Umbria, close to Assisi. Home of St. Francis. A peaceful place to say the least.

The sunrise of the day I cycled to Rome.

Myself and Squadro Fortissimi at the Coliseum. Moderna Gladiatori della Nord.