ide a few minutes in the Dolomites and you’ll find five different visions of Italy. Arcadian alpine slopes—with long-tailed sheep and scolding shepherds—are just a minute outside little Germanic villages that could easily be mistaken for Austria or Switzerland. If your route dips into a valley floor, you’ll likely find the cold concrete of fascist Italy in the form of hard, old infrastructure that keeps on powering the manufacturers of machines and parts. And should your route ascend to the peaks, you’ll find a skier’s paradise that keeps its lifts busy through the summers with bicyclists and hikers and paragliders. And everything in the middle? That’s a motorcyclist’s Italy. The Italian Alps, by both reputation and fact, are among the finest places in the world to ride a motorcycle. Well-paved roads ascend dizzying heights by way of technical switchbacks. Little roadside hotels cater to motorcyclists, and Italian policemen do little but tip their hats generously at minor traffic violations. It’s a kind of rider’s nirvana. Naturally, we overdid it. I blame the Tuono.