An Italian puffed his way up the narrow road literally. His hands clutched his handlebars, leveraging them for power as he cycled uphill. That left only one place for his cigarette: between his lips.

He smiled in greeting as we passed. Headed in the opposite direction, I had just crested the hill and my speed was picking up. On this sunny Saturday in spring, I had already coasted past fields of gnarled olive trees, seen a pheasant scamper into the grasses, breathed in Cypress-tinged air and encountered scads of Italians in skin-hugging bike shorts zipping across Tuscany (the vast majority, without tobacco).