From Pisa To Lucca
(conclusion)

The tunnel was followed by a long downhill, then a 16-kilometer (10-mile) stretch of absolutely flat road through a succession of small towns. Though the road’s shoulders were a bit rough in places, I tried to ride in the drops and push the pace as much as I can, time-trial style. The sense of speed was so exhilarating that I was wired by the time I entered Lucca. Then the sun came out as if it was welcoming me to the city.

(Above: A church near Santa Maria del Giudice along the A12)

Lucca, or more precisely, its walled city, was a very interesting place. On this late Sunday morning, the place seemed deserted of inhabitants. None of the shops was open and there were very few cars in the streets. It felt as if I were in a giant medieval theme park or a living museum. Apparently, Lucca was one of the few city-republics in Tuscany that did not succumb to Florentine might; it managed to retain its independence throughout most of the middle ages. The city has had a long history of prosperity associated with banking and the silk trade. Erasmus and I meandered lazily through the deserted streets, and I tried to take in as much as I could of this enchanting but mysterious-looking city without getting off my bike.

(Above: Lucca's Duomo di San Martino)

I stumbled into one of the most delightful piazzi I’d ever seen, the Piazza Antifeatro, just as the sun unleashed its most powerful rays of the day. I took advantage of this sunny interlude and had lunch at one of the outdoor cafes. Well…lunch and an obscene serving of rich ice cream, plus the obligatory cappuccino. Sated, I got back on my bike, looked around some more and then started back for Pisa.

( Below: Lunchtime at the Piazza Antifeatro)

(Above: Via del Fosso and the canal that parallels it, eastern section of Lucca)

More Lucca pictures.

Since I missed the B-version of the SS12 on the way to Lucca, I decided to find it and ride it on the way back to Pisa. I wanted to catch the 15:45 Pisa-Firenze train so I could be back to San Gimignano early enough to check out that city (though based there, I’ve seen very little of it the past two days). Knowing my proclivity to get lost, I left Lucca at 14:00 to give myself adequate time to get back to Pisa.

(Below: A section of Lucca's Renaissance walls)

I found the road that was supposed to take me to the SS12 outside of Lucca easily enough, but then lost it without realizing how and when. I rode round and round, over ramps and under passes, but irritatingly kept ending up in the same place in Meati, which was south of where I needed to be. Meanwhile, precious minutes kept ticking and I was getting no closer to Pisa Centrale and the 15:45 train. Eventually, with the help of an amused group of Italian tourists from Milan, I managed to find the route and saw where I had zigged instead of zagged earlier. It was almost 15:00 and Pisa stood almost 26 kilometers away.

Earlier, on my way to Lucca, time trialing crossed my mind. Little did I know that I would be doing it out of "necessity" on my way back. I can usually easily manage 22 kilometers in 50 minutes on flat roads, but I was a bit anxious this time because I wasn’t sure what the terrain would be like (hilly, flat, busy, narrow). I also knew that 22 kilometers would probably get me to the city limits of Pisa, but that it would take additional time to get to the train station in the middle of the city, to run to the platform (while wearing awkward cycling cleats), and to get to the right car. Well, OK, so there was another train leaving less than an hour later, but for some reason my mind was fixated on catching the 15:45 train, so there.

(Above: The inviting SS12 near Ripafratta on my way back to Pisa)

I put my head down and I pedalled furiously for the first three kilometers. A funny-looking tricycle overtook me. After a couple of minutes, I realized that the tricycle was no longer gaining on me, so I drafted behind it for the next two kilometers. Soon it became apparent that the trike couldn’t do more than 20 mph, but I kept drafting anyway to save my strength, even though I could have gone faster without its help.

I recalled a somewhat similar scene from the movie Breaking Away where this Italian-obsessed young cyclist drafted (improbably I might add) behind a semi on a highway in Indiana. I half-expected the driver of the tricycle I was following to stick his left hand out, a la the driver in Breaking Away, and signal with his fingers that we’re going 30mph…40mph…50mph. Though I felt a bit guilty "cheating" this way, I continued on, as the driver in front didn’t seem to mind, on the contrary, he seemed to be amused by it. Soon he reached his destination, slowed down and waved me on. I was on my own again. Instinctively, I accelerated. The effort caused lactic acid to build up in my quadriceps, and caused a sharp burning sensation in my thighs, but I’d be d----d if I let that 15:45 leave without me (the road was so flat, I needed a diversion, you see…)

As I’m wont to do, I concocted imaginary situations to help push myself. First I imagined I was riding to catch the last helicopter out of Vietnam. I loved the smell of napalm in the morning. Smells like victory. Crank, push, turn, spin I…must…get…there…before Saigon falls. Soon this role-play got old. I then became American pro cyclist Bobby Julich, the revelation of the 98 Tour de France. An American underdog time trialling against battle-hardened Continentals, riding beyond his ability to try and limit his time losses. Got…to…keep…my…speed…up. Riding anaerobically was a bit painful, but to me it was "good pain" (those who ride to their "redlines" would appreciate).

Then morbid thoughts started cropping up inside my head. What if I died of a heart attack from this over-exertion? Sure, that would be a bummer, but what a way to go, huh? It would kinda sum up my life. But I didn’t die and the kilometers flew by. And I passed one little town after another: Ripafratta…Pugnano Venti…Molina Di Quosa…Rigoli…Pappiana. Soon I found myself back in familiar San Giuliano, with 25 minutes to go. To my relief, the road remained flat throughout. I was afraid that this road, being only a couple of miles west of the road I had ridden on the way out, would similarly climb over a mountain and into a tunnel, and cost me precious minutes. But this version of the SS12 bypassed those obstacles. Ten minutes later, I pulled in, dog tired, at Pisa Centrale.

Since I was drenched with sweat, I sat with Erasmus in the carriage compartment of the train bound for Florence. Two off-duty train conductors were sitting across from me. One was reading the Corriere, was stockily built, and was wearing sunglasses ala Marcello Mastroianni in La Dolce Vita. The other was bald and chubby and was vainly trying to get the Inter-Milan v Juventus game on the radio. The latter, staring at Erasmus, absent-mindedly said "Campagnolo" to no one in particular. I said "Campagnolo é prima clase!" of course getting the accent and the inflection all wrong. Menacing-looking Mr. Mastroianni looked up from his paper, then glanced at the bag he had on the floor, by his feet. The thought that he was going take out a gun and shoot me for disturbing his reading crossed my mind. But he merely nodded as if to humor me then went back to his reading. Thereafter I just sat meekly for the rest of the trip.

That is, until I had changed trains at Empoli and another Italian signore suddenly approached me—gesticulating wildy, molto animato, in stereotypical Italian-from-the- Bronx manner. He pointed to Erasmus and then launched into a fusillade of Italian words that fell harmlessly by my wayside, without much of them having been understood. For all I know he could have been saying "you look ugly in Lycra" or "that’s a bitchin’ bike you got there." "Non capito," I said. He retreated to a more basic level of discourse that I could understand. As best I could gather, he was an avid cyclist as well. Di Poggibonsi. He was a youthful 81 and very hip-looking in his Wayfarer sunglasses and canary-yellow Sports Walkman. Everytime I managed to successfully respond to his questions, he would take my head with both hands, and playfully shake it like a basketball. I wasn’t sure if I was being treated as one of their own or being made fun of, so I just played along. Quite a character he was.

The End.