Lucca Lucca

There are two Luccas,  Lucca dentro, inside the ancient walls (the locals call it Lucca Lucca) 

and Lucca Fuore, the Lucca outside the walls; roomier, greener, but with less history and charm. 

Our apartment is on a tiny medieval street in Lucca Lucca: this is out our window.  Note the guy on his telefonino - everyone is always on their telefonino.  On their bikes, in their cars, walking...it's a miracle there are no collisions when the streets fill with pedestrians and bikes (and the occasional car despite the myth that Lucca Dentro is a pedestrian-only zone), all on their phones, but so far so good.

We joke that by law all the shutters are painted dark green.  And all the windows have shutters.  All.  We're in a great location, but being on the first floor (the second to Americans) on such a narrow street, surrounded by four story buildings so close you can almost reach across the street and hold hands with your neighbor, it's a bit dark.  We're in a canyon.

Spacious, modern and comfortable, great kitchen,

and with room for bikes. 

Giusto, the best bakery in Lucca is next door,

So it takes us a while to get going in the morning.

But eventually we get to Chrono bikes - crowded, warm and welcoming, fabulous Pinarello bikes outfitted with Campy for rent, and run by the winner of the Steve Baillie look-alike contest. 

The owner is the fastest mechanic in the west, knows by looking at us our size and seat height, has our pedals on in one minute, maps out routes for us, and we're on our way.  (Apparently he's had customers even older than we are.)

Thankfully there are dozens of cyclists out - the map is a little unclear on how to get out of the city.  But with some help we make it and are in spectacular rolling countryside.

Michael Balaban wants to buy a vowel...who knew there was a village in Italy named for him?

We ride to Lago Montecciuccolo, miss a turn and suddenly it's steep and lorries are thundering by.  

We survive.  Great day.

n + 1

It's the number of bikes you need, n being the number you have now.   Always one more.

This zippy equation (makes you feel smarter already, doesn't it?) is brought to you courtesy of Dan Harvey, our neighbor and uber-cyclist.  The Danimal, his team mates call him.  Also Danorexic.   You have to be thin if you want to be really fast.  He is.  And he spends an inordinate amount of time on his bike.  I mean his bikes.

His garage looks like a branch of the local bike shop, bikes lined up neatly in rows.  Lots of bikes.  In fairness, some probably belong to the kids (perhaps the ones with the tiny tires?) and one may even be his wife's.  But he's approaching double digits in his own bikes, and still...n + 1.

He's also fast on his feet.  He brought up the topic, and the equation, over dinner in the garden.  If you've been paying attention you've probably noticed that a lot of stuff happens over dinner in our garden.  We all got the impression that Leann thinks she has to pick her way past quite enough bikes just to get the groceries and the kids in the back door, and another bike is not what's required here.  In fact her equation would probably be n minus 1...or 2.  But Dan had his eye on a sleek new mountain bike, and so he trotted out the equation on support of his position.  And after a bit of rosé we could see his point.

My vice is not bikes.  I have one Colnago I am inordinately attached to.  Physically as well as mentally, if all is going well.  Not really in the market for another bike, altho that new Colnago C50 with the fancy paint job is pretty slick...But apply the equation to shoes and you have my full support.

When we took the kids home the other night after pizza (yes, in our garden) they proudly pointed out their dad's fizzy new mountain bike.  And it is beautiful...I felt faster just looking at it.  It's thick and curvy and sexy, with a paint job that looks like it crawled off a poster from a 60's head shop.  But it's part of the n now.

Can't wait to see what the next + 1 will be.

The Tour de France

Riding the Tour de France with B and R seemed like a good idea when we signed up. We would have the winter and spring to get in shape, John was having a significant birthday (it rhymes with heavenly, sort of), and he was planning a big European birthday bash. So we made hotel reservations and bought plane tickets.

Then his grandchildren's mother said no thanks to an all-expenses-paid European vacation (I know, I know, you're not the first to say "Adopt me! I have cute kids!") so John and Pam will head home after the ride. But we're still doing the ride.

I suppose I should confess that we had had several bottles of excellent red wine when we got this Tour de France brainstorm. I should also confess that in the wet and cold of winter as we were drinking more red wine instead of riding we rationalized: "We can get in shape in the spring." That was the red wine talking. And in April when we were just beginning to rack up some longer rides interrupted by lavish lunches we rationalized that we still had two months...

Or not. I spent all of June in bed coughing and sniffing and wheezing and sleeping. Finally got drugs and swelled up like a big purple grape. An itchy purple grape. I won't pass the drug test because of the steroids I took to quell the rash, and I'm not any faster. And did I mention we are the oldest people on this trip by about a hundred and twelve years? But at least I'm not itchy and purple. And we're here, ready or not, to ride the B&R version of the Tour de France.

So we will be riding the last week of the Tour including the Col de Tourmalet. As Wally says, "I've never met a hill I can't walk up." I've also never seen him walk up a hill. I, however, have walked up many a hill, whining and swearing and eventually getting back on my bike.

And since in is a Butterfield trip with excellent food and wine, training takes on a new dimension -

You can't eat all that wonderful food and drink all that fantastic wine without training. So we are in training. Tales of adventures, triumphs and tribulations to come. I keep reminding myself the worst experiences make the best memories.And the best stories.

The Housesitter Chronicles

It's almost more trouble than it's worth, getting the housesitter up to speed.  But we have animals depending on us (not the gophers and ground squirrels, they seem to do fine on their own). And we have a garden - a rather large garden.

So the housesitter comes to learn how everything works. And since it is hot, and since we are trying to get some miles in our legs (and other body parts thank you for noticing) before the day is scorching hot, she comes at dawn. On a Sunday. And of course in showing her how the alarm works it goes off. And in the interest of education, and making sure she can turn it off when we are gone, we let her turn it off. This takes a while.

Sunday morning in the suburbs. When the alarm finally quits banging and screaming we peer out the front door. The street is full of neighbors in bathrobes looking slightly stunned. They look like they have just emerged from a chrysalis and are not sure what to do next. Blinking at the bright light of day. Not happy. Definitely not happy. As one usually pleasant neighbor pointed out "It's not even eight effing o'clock. On Sunday effing morning." In fairness he does have unruly children who were probably up until dawn, and he was clearly caffeine deprived.

A few jars of homemade jam, a liberal distribution of home baked cookies and neighborhood harmony is restored.  When we last saw her the housesitter was prone in front of the TV watching QVC, the alarm had been conquered and the neighbors all fully caffeinated. Harmony restored. And we are off to ride the Tour de France with Butterfield and Robinson. Makes my tushie sore just contemplating it.