Issue link: http://trailridermagazine.uberflip.com/i/1544609
8 Trail Rider www.TrailRider.com EnduroGP Round 1 EnduroGP Round 1 Custonaci, Italy Custonaci, Italy By Rachel Gutish By Rachel Gutish Photos By Mastorgne Photography Photos By Mastorgne Photography ENDURO IN PARADISE Eat your heart out Condé Nast Traveler Kiwi (my suspension tuner and coach), Andy (my fa- ther), and I (your beloved narrator) are wedged like canned sardines into the bench seat of Kiwi's van, hauling ass through Portugal. Andy is a large American man; he is not built for ny European vans. His elbow has been firmly lodged between my sixth and seventh rib for the last two hours. With all the politeness I could muster, I finally inquired whether it might be possible for him to remove his elbow from my ribcage. He grum- bled and shi ed, trying to find a be er place. Finally, he gave up and used my head as an armrest. It was almost an improvement. Only thirty-one hours to go… I make our lunch out of a cooler, hiding from the Span- ish sun as the diesel pump flows (2.7€ a liter x 65-liter tank x 6 tanks on the trip = I hope Kurt likes this story, or I'm gonna cry). Smoked salmon competes with the smell of diesel, balsamic vinegar, fresh pears, arugula, hot asphalt, feta, and a drizzle of olive oil that tastes like liquid sunshine. Most people don't eat this well in their own homes, much less on the road. Twenty-seven hours to go… My father first yanked up the sewer grate, and is now holding me by the ankles as I hang down into the (thankfully dry and mostly scentless) sewer, trying to retrieve my favorite tanium spork that made a bid for freedom out the side door of the van. I come back up victorious, spork in hand, dry grass and a single cigare e bu in my hair. Based on the cigare e, you can probably tell we've crossed into France. Twenty-five hours to go… Speaking of France, did you know they have a chain restaurant that imitates American BBQ? Unfortunately, they don't seem en rely certain what BBQ sauce is. There might have been a transla on mishap; I was offered Tabasco. No fried okra or mac and cheese in sight. My steak was decent. I was intrigued from an anthropo- logical perspec ve. It s ll felt like I should be ea ng beef tartare somewhere instead. I bet you could blow a Frenchman's mind with jala- peño-cheddar cornbread though. Twenty-three hours to go… My father and I have finally found a semi-com- fortable arrangement. I'm bent over double,