29/08/2026
a blast from the past. I found this log book from a solo winter ride I did back in 2006, 20 years ago, with my Kawasaki ZZR600. I enjoyed reading it again. I hope you do too.
Rome, February 14, 2006
Having abandoned the idea of the Po Delta, I set off alone, pointing my helmet south. Pure bliss.
Armed with a change of clothes, my digital camera, the usual Cordura and H2Out thermal suit, a TCI map, and a craving for the blue of the sea and sky.
An obvious destination, you might say, but the Amalfi Coast never loses its charm. Its fascination is renewed every single time I visit. Highways? Out of the question. I only use them out of sheer necessity between Caserta and Castellammare, and later on the return leg from Salerno to Caserta.
The route guides me past the deep blue of Lake Castelgandolfo, the waters of the Ninfa gardens, and the dunes of Sabaudia. The sea hides from me for a while, only to greet me again in the Gulf of Naples.I spend the morning chasing the horizon through the narrow streets of the Sorrento peninsula. I climb up to Monte San Costanzo and wind down to Punta Campanella. Suddenly, I am facing the island of Capri, with Mount Faito and Vesuvius standing behind me like two sentinels watching from their post. I turn around and claim the most spectacular coastal road in the world.
Hanging a hundred meters above the water, it twists along rock parapets that plunge straight into the Tyrrhenian Sea. The road is wide enough all the way to Positano to maintain a brisk pace, but the view is a relentless spectacle. Every bend reveals a new perspective, an unexpected angle, a fresh scent. The engine noise feels almost intrusive. My small digital camera captures only an infinitesimal shadow of the reality. The reward awaits at the end of these 50 kilometers: the Ariston café. What better name? A authentic Neapolitan sfogliatella and a tazzuliella ’e cafè. The idyll is complete.
It’s Sunday. I should turn back to Rome and dive into the traffic... but I can't. Tomorrow is Monday. The world can wait, but paradise cannot.
No sooner said than done. With a reckless smile, I bypass the highway and follow the road into downtown Salerno. I pull up to the port, greeted by the heavy scent of the docks, ferries, and the weary energy of the sea. I feel an immediate urge to set sail—to travel by ship, slow and unstoppable, toward distant lands. The sudden rattle of a metal chain snaps me out of it. Steering my motorcycle toward the city’s waterfront, I experience a flash of Barcelona. In an instant, Salerno feels Catalan. Maybe it was the light, the urban beach, or the Sunday tranquility. I don't know, but I welcome the flashback. How long has it been, Barcelona!
The engine thrums low under me as I leave town, passing shacks, two roadside circuses, half-opened beach clubs, and people working under the sun. Soon, the sea vanishes behind a line of eucalyptus. Their intense, medicinal scent alternates with the salt air. For me, it feels like August, even if the north wind bites whenever the sun dips behind the trees. Amidst the winter squalor of these closed resort towns, a few luxury hotels emerge like surreal oases. I am approaching Paestum.
Suddenly, the cyclopean walls appear. The ancient temples rise right across a cabbage field. How much they have witnessed, how many centuries have passed—yet they stand. It makes me pause. I stop, observe, take a photograph, and think for a moment before setting off again. The Cilento coast stretches ahead for 120 kilometers. The riding is pleasant, though the asphalt can be treacherous. Shielded from the north wind, the sun warms and caresses me. Pure delight. The views are striking, and I stop frequently for photos.
The road to Maratea is still long, and another masterpiece of Italian civil engineering awaits me: the SS18 Sapri-Maratea-Praia a Mare. Twenty-eight breathtaking kilometers of perfect asphalt.
It’s getting late. The sun is sinking rapidly, and I’m still far from Sapri. By the time I reach Palinuro, I remember the road leading toward Marina di Camerota and realize it would be the perfect spot to capture the sunset. I arrive just in time. I set up the tripod and shoot. It’s not flawless, but it works.
By the time I hit the road again, darkness has fallen, with about forty kilometers left to go. I reach Sapri in the twilight, but as I finally turn onto the SS18, the sun is long gone. Fortunately, I have company: a dazzling moon that occasionally mirrors itself in the deepest inlets, aiding the headlight of my "old lady."
The 18 kilometers separating me from Maratea slip away fast—faster and more enjoyable than I ever expected. Riding in the dark on a road carved into a cliffside puts me in a state of hyper-awareness. I notice every micro-shadow, every minor detail. I cling visually to the red and white reflectors on the asphalt, the center line, and the road signs. I process everything at an unusual speed. My mind clears, and my movements become almost subconscious. I am pure rhythm and fluidity. When I finally arrive in Maratea, I’m almost disappointed that the road has ended. But the cold is biting now, and I need to eat. The sfogliatella from earlier has given all it could; now, it’s time for a proper hot meal.
