a wall, a fall and a ball in lucca

Ten days in Tuscany meant I had the luxury of indulging in more than just childhood memories and ping-pong at our special place in the hills. One of our standout day trip destinations was Lucca. It’s the birthplace of the composer Giacomo Puccini and bears the nickname “City of 100 Churches.” But its showstopper attraction is the 16th-century wall that once kept invaders at bay. It’s now the only city wall in Italy to be completely accessible by foot or bike (or car, but only for the police). The top of the wall is dotted with art installations, small playgrounds and cafés; its flat, wide road is perfect for bicycling. My daughter learned to ride her bike relatively recently, and until now — though the training wheels are gone — she hasn’t cycled much beyond the safety of our local schoolyard. When she heard us mention in passing that someone had recommended riding atop the old wall, she was game. Then we arrived, in the middle of a downpour.

No drizzle or mist: This was steady, driving rain. It was the first wet weather we’d had on the trip. So I was surprised when, as Matthew manipulated our Fiat through teeny medieval streets and piazzas which I’m not sure were even legal for cars, Lulu’s voice rose above the windshield wipers: “Where are we renting our bikes?”

We wanted to pull the plug on the plan. What to do? When one of your daily struggles includes teaching your kids not to quit when things get tough — and you’re surprised and a little charmed by your very cautious daughter’s enthusiasm for an uncomfortable and, frankly, maybe slightly dangerous adventure — you look each other in the eye, shrug, say a little prayer and look for the nearest bike rental. The guy in charge was so unsure about riding in this weather (did I mention the distant thunder?) that he told us to come back if it was too much for us, at no charge. Lulu got pink wheels; Matthew’s bike towed a little wagon in back for Max. I got my own (a girls’ bike, if you must know — I’m short) and we set off.

Lulu was shaky at first, and soon told us she didn’t like pedaling past, or near, any other human beings. This was problematic, because there were a surprising number of other crazies braving the elements for a spin around the wall. She wanted to quit. But we pushed on. Soon we were sailing, looking (in my mind’s eye) like we belonged in an old Mentos commercial: four carefree souls, wind in our hair, drops of rain freshening our bronzed faces.

Smooth sailing and happy faces for these guys. What could possibly go wrong?

Then we turned around and realized we couldn’t see Lulu. (Yep, PTSD flashback to that time in Paris when we lost her temporarily.) I had visions of her shakily maneuvering her bike straight off the side of the ancient wall while we breezed on. Matthew tried to turn around quickly to go back for her. His bike easily made the U-turn, but the wagon carrying Max: not so much. It hit a tree root and Max was thrown a short distance, landing face down in a big mud-and-gravel puddle.

My son is a happy, exuberant, smiley soul but there are a few things he can’t countenance. One is getting wet when he doesn’t want to be wet. Another is getting dirty. He wasn't injured, thankfully, but his entire face was covered in mud. His pants were soaked. And filthy. Angry and scared, he didn’t want to get back in the wagon. We’re too far from the rental shop, we explained. Daddy will be careful. So Max climbed back in. (I should note here that the safety straps were too small for him and we had no helmet. There, I said it. Send any mom-shaming hate mail to me c/o the Lucca Department of Child & Family Services.) Soon Lulu came tooling along, intrigued by all the fuss.

Despite the Max mishap, and our wet clothing, Lulu begged to go around again. But the lightning and thunder that were now close, and our pitiful parent-fail with poor Max, meant we knew we were done. We returned the bikes and walked the old cobblestone streets. We bought Max a new pair of pants and socks, ate some pizza and got the ultimate cure-all (gelato, duh).

Wet or dry, Lucca’s charms are hard to resist.

My brave guy in his (dry) new sweatpants.

Co-conspirators at work — plotting for gelato maybe? We found an amazing shop. And in a move that defied all odds, 3 out of 4 of us ordered licorice with mint (I got mine with chocolate) because they let us sample it and it was that good.

On the 70-minute drive back to our Tuscan cottage, I wrestled with guilt over Max’s accident and ruminated on risk-taking with kids. The pure joy in his eyes before he fell and the angry tears that soaked them not a minute later. The blind trust a child has in a parent, the unawareness of our many frailties. The fine line between letting them truly experience life and exposing them to real harm. My new awareness of my daughter’s courage and my son’s fortitude. Everyone slept well that night. The next day, both kids asked when we could ride bikes again.

POSTSCRIPT: Not too long after this adventure, Max picked up another child’s little bike in an Italian playground. After wobbling and veering for a few minutes, and picking himself up from a few falls, he rode on his own for the first time ever. Was he just ready, or did his accident in Lucca send an emergency signal to his brain: Never, ever let your parents be in charge of your two-wheeled destiny again!!? I don’t know, but my heart swelled. I’m looking forward to giving away his training wheels when we are home.