Greetings, fellow 2wheelers! Starting with the best intentions, Day 15 delivered a surprising twist right from the beginning. A fire in Sardinia led to the cancellation of our planned ferry ride, transforming our anticipated Mediterranean shortcut voyage into a motorcycle ride home. While I was certainly tempted to lament the change, deep down, I relished the chance to savor more miles on the open road. It’s moments like these that make motorcycling adventures so unpredictable and captivating. But let’s rewind a bit, shall we?
Pontedera Pit Stop – Piaggio Museum and Forgotten Bills
Our journey unfolded from where we had rested our heads – Pontedera. And what better way to kickstart the day than visiting the Piaggio Museum? The museum isn’t massive, but don’t let its size fool you. It’s a treasure trove that holds the history of the iconic brand Piaggio and its legendary Vespa. Here’s a helpful tip: While entry is free, you must make an online reservation. Stepping into this space evokes a sense of nostalgia for motorcycle enthusiasts like myself. It’s a testament to how innovation and passion can shape an entire industry. Speaking of Vespa, I can’t help but chuckle at the memory of participating in the European Vespa Days, both this year at Interlaken and last year at the birthplace of Portugal – Guimarães. Something about those quirky little scooters brings out the camaraderie among riders – it’s a community that transcends borders and languages.






As the museum visit unfolded, I realized my phone had become a hub of missed calls. It turns out that I had inadvertently left our hotel without settling the bill. One of those things that can happen on longer journeys, but the situation is always a humorous reminder to be mindful. Fortunately, the hotel was nearby, and we quickly squared away our dues. With a clearer conscience and no “most wanted” billboards featuring our faces on the horizon, we set out for Pisa, our destination as renowned as it is busy.






Pisa and the Leaning Tower – A Sweltering Quest for the Perfect Shot
Heat, August, tourists – the unholy trinity that makes summer travel an epic tale. Pisa was there for the taking with its iconic leaning tower, but I mustered my courage to remind you all: it’s hot, and we’re in tourist mayhem. Every summer, we pilgrims swarm these hotspots for that one perfect shot that’ll warm our winter hearts. As expected, parking was a puzzle, and a kilometer away from the tower seemed like a cruel joke. Navigating through a sea of fellow photo-op seekers, we conquered the Tower. We couldn’t help but indulge in the classic pose, making it look like we were holding up the tower. It’s one of those cheesy tourist traditions that feels utterly ridiculous yet irresistible. Ridiculous? You bet. Memorable? Absolutely.



On the Fast Lane and Paying the Price
Between our time at the Piaggio Museum and our antics in Pisa, the morning dissipated like water under a scorching sun. Our plan of riding kilometers upon kilometers lay ahead for the afternoon and early evening – a whopping 500 to be precise. The destination? France. As soon as we aimed for the French border, reality took over. The time constraint forced us to forego the leisurely backroad riding we adore in favor of the efficiency of the freeway. Ah, freeway riding – the dull, tire-consuming, fuel-guzzling counterpart to the winding roads we hold dear. And let’s not even get started on the eye-watering fuel prices in Italy. They really ought to come with an age-restriction label, because the price reality is pure pornography
However, before our afternoon ride, we stumbled upon the holy grail of lunch spots for budget-conscious, time-strapped motorcycle adventurers – LIDL. No, we aren’t sponsored by this supermarket chain, but let’s give credit where it’s due. Faster, cheaper, and satisfying – it’s a lunchtime oasis for riders on the go.



Lost in Translation: A French Odyssey
And then came the journey to France – a path that couldn’t be as straightforward as the GPS claimed. An accident-blocked exit and a fallen bridge in Genova conspired to plunge us into the labyrinth of lost directions. Our GPS, like a mischievous spirit, led us astray, and an hour vanished into thin air. As the Italian roads begrudgingly gave way to the French border, a collective sigh of relief swept over us. France is a land of diverse landscapes, and fabled motorcycle routes, and with its diverse riding spots, never fails to astound. Yet, here’s the twist: I’ve come to suspect that I’ve acquired a curious kind of French karma over my two-wheeled odyssey.
Before I write the next lines, a word of advice to all the French readers – take it lightly “s’il vou plait“. I’ve been riding through France for most of the last 20 years. Because our home base is in Portugal, getting to anywhere in Europe by motorcycle means crossing first Spain and then France one way or the other.
French folks, for reasons unbeknownst to me, seem to have a knack for disliking me even before I utter a word – especially if that word happens to be in English, or even worst – in my poor attempts at the French language – it seems, is considered an affront to the sanctity of the French language. While it’s probably just a series of unfortunate events, it’s amusing how a stereotype can come to life.



French Gastronomy and the 9 PM Dilemma
French gastronomy – a world reference, right? Well, not at 9 pm. Checked into our Draguignan hotel by this hour, and visions of a sumptuous French dinner danced in our heads. As the clock struck 9:50 pm, the quest for a warm French meal in the culturally confused twilight of France began. Little did I know, the French notion of cuisine comes with a curfew. Restaurant after restaurant, the same refrain echoed – “Non. La cuisine est fermé.” At that moment, it seemed the French code for “go away.” It was a true culture shock, reminding us that we’re still students of the world. We lost count of how many restaurants had turned us away, and the disappointment mounted as each door closed. Even a smile seemed a rare currency. Our quest concluded at a McDonald’s, where a stern warning reminded us that they’d shut their golden arches at 11 pm. Afraid we might be ushered out by broom-wielding staff, we wolfed down our burgers and retreated to the safety of our hotel room. At that moment, a decision was born – tomorrow, we would ride like the wind, keeping the law on our side, seeking solace in the arms of “nuestros hermanos,” in Spain.
Stay tuned, for the next chapter of our adventures.