Katie and I left Hong Kong with two racing bikes packed in cardboard boxes and a couple of purse-sized bike bags, each holding nothing more than a few tools, a first-aid kit, toiletries and some cycling clothes. We are in search of good food and a challenge.

The quest starts at Lierna on Lake Como. Bellagio is the place to go, or so we are told by the owner of a shop filled with tempting pastries. 'Shorge Ca-loonie,' the shop owner's mother explains, the former ER actor being Bellagio's most famous resident.

We have a wonderful meal as the sun sets over the lake and, although George Clooney doesn't pop by, the man on the electric organ keeps us entertained with such classics as New Your, New Your and Do Americanos. It's easy to find bad music in Italy, but not a bad meal.

This is just an interlude before the real challenge. Near the Swiss border, 1,500 metres above the town of Bormio, is Passo dello Stelvio. At 2,758 metres, it is the third highest pass in Europe and a favourite in the Giro d'Italia, the Italian counterpart of the Tour de France.

Altitude and jetlag defeat Katie early on. She turns back with a headache, leaving me to ride alone. Last year, my big challenge was France's Col du Galibier. Motorists greeted me with saucer-sized eyes, honks, cheers and finally applause when I rolled breathlessly onto Galibier's summit. The Italians couldn't care less. Stelvio is steeper, longer, higher and punctuated by 34 dizzying switchbacks. It is covered in snow, for God's sake! But, they stare right past me, seemingly unimpressed even by the scenery.

A quick photo, a certificate from the tourist office, a souvenir Stelvio jersey and I am racing back towards Bormio. Less than 500 metres down the road, there is Katie. What a trooper! She has ridden the pass after all and was cheered the entire way by the same stony-faced Italians that didn't give me a second look. 'No breasts,' she explains, but I think it is her jersey. A bright pink number, it is a replica of that worn by the Giro d'Italia race leader. Over the course of our trip, we have seen many an Italian woman whose skimpy, tight jeans walk the subtle line between revealing and an embolism, but nothing draws the attention of Italian men like Katie's pink jersey.

As we zip back to Bormio, the temperature is around freezing and we both shiver uncontrollably. It's time to head for warmer climes, so we pack our rental car and drive to Florence.

When French author Stendhal visited the Santa Croce basilica in the Tuscan city, he was so overwhelmed by its beauty and art he passed out. Doctors reportedly still treat a dozen or so cases of Stendhalism a year. One look at the queue for the Uffizi museum and we nearly do a Stendhal ourselves. Spending the day standing in line is out of the question, so we go to the Palatine Gallery. This is so packed with Titians, Botticellis, Caravaggios and Van Dycks we hardly feel deprived.

After two days of sightseeing - the Palazzo Vecchio (with its replica of Michelangelo's David and his freakishly large hands), the Duomo (upon the facade of which David was supposed to rest, hence the freakishly large hands), the Ponte Vecchio, Boboli Gardens, markets and side streets - we each buy a book and cool our heels in a cafe.

'We should be reading that!' an English woman rasps to her husband as she jabs a finger our way. I assume her finger is directed at Katie, who is reading E.M. Forster's A Room With a View; I am reading a novel about a pastry chef and a family of homicidal clowns.

Later, we swap and I find something particularly poignant about reading Forster in Florence. Even with the throngs of tourists it is so redolent of history, the city seems timeless. It would not seem strange to see Lucy Honeychurch trotting round the corner, Baedeker in hand.

Of course, Lucy doesn't come trotting round the corner. Tom does. Tom was one of Katie's college classmates and is on holiday with his wife. In addition, Kate's high school pal is honeymooning in Florence and two of my colleagues are in the neighbourhood. If you are American and you are looking for old friends or classmates, forget about those online reunions; get yourself a fold-up chair and head for the Duomo. They'll be along shortly.

From Florence, the bike tour proper begins. We head for Greve in Chianti. Everything I know about Tuscany comes from films: dry, brown, hot and filled with gently rolling hills covered in vineyards, olive groves and old stone farmhouses. We find plenty of vineyards, olive groves and old stone farmhouses, but there is nothing brown about the place. Tuscany is lush and green and many parts are forested. As for the hills, there is nothing gentle about them.

I had been wary of Tuscany's busy highways, but almost any road is pure joy after Hong Kong's shoulderless, minibus-ridden byways. Even when we are crowded to the white line by a noisy tractor pulling a load of grapes, it seems like more of a cultural experience than a fist-shaker.

Pedalling out of Greve for Siena the next day, we run into a cycling tour group. Tuscany is lousy with them. Norma from Wisconsin rolls our way, perched atop her tour-company-issue mountain bike, helmet pitched precariously rearwards. With a broad customer-service smile, Norma gives us a hearty 'Ban-jerr-no!' (I don't stop and talk to her, but trust me, a greeting like that could only come from someone named Norma who hails from midwestern cheese-wrangling stock.)

What comes after that is a bit of a blur. We ride through more medieval towns than you can shake a lance at: Monteriggioni, San Gimignano, Volterra, Massa Marittima, Roccatederighi, Montalcino, Montepulciano. I am vaguely aware of carving through spectacularly fast, long descents outside Buonconvento and Massa Marittima. I feel the steep climb into Volterra that nearly finishes us both and the 20 per cent gradient outside Roccatederighi that does. Then there is the empty road outside Tati that winds through dark lush woodland; an elderly truffle hunter, dressed in worn green jacket and a brown fedora, leaning heavily on a cane in his right hand while he taps out an SMS message with his left; a picnic on a huge rock outside Castelnuovo, every hilltop in sight crowned by an ancient castle.

In 10 days we ride 550km of some of the most picturesque and challenging roads in Europe. We eat outstanding food and drink wonderful wine and coffee.

We pedal, we sweat, we ache and we smell bad; but we smell bad together ... and if that's not love, then I don't know what is.