I gasp for breath and my quads burn as I pedal up the steep switchbacks of Vallassina Road high above Lake Como, gutting out the last leg of Italy’s famous cycling races. I’m a weekend rider, not a racer, but I’ve hired a cycling guide because I’ll see more of Lombardy than if I took a boat or walking tour. Pierluigi, my guide, suggested riding to Italy’s most famous cycling chapel, blessed by the Pope in 1948. But he didn’t tell me the chapel is 2,470 feet up and to get there by bike, you have to pedal up endless steep switchbacks. The hairpin turns are particularly terrifying, especially when a semi-truck loaded down with cut logs passes. Pierluigi turns his head and calls out “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I lie. My mouth is so dry I can barely speak. Perspiration is dripping down my back and he’s not even breaking a sweat. Why have I chosen this death-defying ride when I could be sitting on a terrace in Bellagio sipping an aperitivo and watching the ferries cross Lake Como? I could be strolling the narrow stone lanes looking up at the centuries-old buildings or admiring the silks, hand-painted glass, leathers, and handmade shoes in the small boutiques. And I chose this?

Early this morning, I walked the path around Lake Como and met a woman who spoke English. When I told her I was a tourist, she asked if I wanted to accompany her to a very magical place, just ten minutes away. Of course! We crossed the street, walked up an endless flight of narrow cobblestone steps and down just as many, and suddenly we were in Pescallo, a small fishing village. The main square was surrounded by small stone houses with colorful flowers everywhere. We sat on a bench at the edge of the lake and listened as the water lapped gently against the shore. In the water, fishing boats bobbed up and down on their moorings. “This is my favorite place,” she said. “Every time I come here, I feel so at peace.” There were no other tourists, just a few other women who greeted us so warmly I felt I belonged.

But I don’t feel I belong right now. My quads are screaming and I’m white-knuckling every turn, following close behind Pierluigi. Finally, after more than an hour, we arrive at the 400-year-old cycling chapel. It is wall-to-wall racing bikes of every vintage and cycling club flags covering the ceiling. A bronze eternal flame burns beneath a portrait of the Madonna of Ghisallo, patron saint of cyclists. The flame, too, Pierluigi tells me, has also been blessed by the Pope. Next door to the chapel is a sleek and modern cycling museum with woolen cycling jerseys from the 50’s, films of the greatest Italian champions of every decade, bicycles used by the Bersaglieri rifle regiment, and a $15,000 hot Colnago-Ferrari bike that makes Pierluigi salivate.

We fly back down the switchbacks until midway, Pierluigi stops in front of a small village of stone buildings. “We go now for cappuccino,” he says. The barista in the coffee shop asks, “Cioccolato?” and when I nod, she hands me a frothy steamed milk drink topped with a chocolate powder smiley face. A perfect break. Then we’re back on the bikes and we veer off to road and head up a dirt trail. Uphill again? We pedal past a farmhouse, a chicken coop with noisy hens and a swan, huge milk cows in the fields, and a female scarecrow wearing a checked Italian housedress. At the top of the hill, we dismount and gaze down at cypress trees, small stone villages with red tiled roofs everywhere, lush gardens, and the azure Lake Como. Pierluigi points to the distant Alps and says, “Switzerland is the second mountain ridge over.”

Next stop: Loppia, a picturesque port and former landing dock where gondolas used to transport the goods from Lake Como before the roads and trains. Pierluigi points out three wooden gondolas which he figures are at least 100 years old. Then he picks up a flat stone and throws it across the water. It skips six times. “Six?” I say.  “How can you do that?”

“I was brought up on the water,” he says. “That’s what we do. You try.” My first stone clunks into the lake. He pick out a flat stone, shows me how to twist my wrist, and I’m able to make the stone skip once. After endless tries, I skip it four times. Later, when I think about the day, I’m proud I was able to cycle all the way up that scary road, but equally proud I skimmed a stone four times across one of the most beautiful lakes in the world.

The Curse of Locanda         

Late the next morning, a motorboat drops me off on the only island of Lake Como, Comacina. The island is so tiny I can walk completely around it in less than fifteen minutes. Except for a few artist’s cottages, the only building on the island is Locanda Restaurant, which has served the same menu six days a week since 1947. The all-you-can-eat feast includes typical authentic platters of antipastos and main dishes served with Italian white wine. I gorge on prosciutto and Bresaola, fresh trout, free range chicken, and a wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano larger than a car tire. During dessert, owner Benvenuto Puricelli pours enough brandy into a huge copper pot of coffee to flood Lake Como. He sets the mixture on fire, and as the hot orange flames lick up to the ceiling, he tells us that this fire ritual will undo a mysterious curse cast upon the island in 1169. He tells us a long confusing story of the curse, but by that time, I am so full of wine and brandy coffee, I’ll believe anything he says.

Villa del Balbianello

Overlooking Lake Como, Villa del Balbianello can only be reached by boat. Originally, it was an 18^th century rest home for Franciscan monks. The last owner, Guido Monzino (leader of the first Italian expedition to climb Mount Everest) bought the villa in 1974 and filled it with important collections of Chinese, African, pre-Columbian art, and 18^th century English and French furniture. In 1988, Villa del Balbianello became part of the Italian Trust. It’s now open to visitors, and has been seen in many films including Star Wars and Casino Royale. While the interior is beautiful, the three-level terraced Italian garden at the edge of the lake is magnificent.

Hiking up to Cadenabbia

I am on my final day in Bellagio, trying to decide what to do. Antonio Calzolaro, the manager of the hotel in which I am staying, suggests a twenty-minute ferryboat ride to the town of Cadenabbia, then a one-hour hike straight up the mountain. Even better, he offers to take me there. We deboard the ferry at Cadenabbia and walk down the main road until we come to the path to San Martino. We cross a small bridge and start the path. Soon, we are in the middle of the woods, and still climbing the path, which is now all stairs. Every fifteen minutes or so, we come across another tiny chapel with mosaics depicting the Mysteries of the Rosary. At the mid-way point, a chapel dedicated to Saint Charles, there are no more stairs, just a steep trail to the top. It’s worth it – below we look out at all the neighboring villages and towns, including Bellagio.

When we descend, we don’t head directly back to the ferry. In true Italian style, we stop at Vecchia Torre, a cozy stone pub dating back to 1400. The chairs are old milking stools and the small crookedly tables are hand-hewn. Antonio orders grappa. “Salute,” he says as we clink glasses. “Now, if you were Italian, we would have had a grappa before we started up.”

“There’s always next time,” I say, thinking about all the stops listed on the ferry schedule I have yet to explore – Menaggio, Tremezzo, and Lenno – of course, with a grappa in hand.