Leaving Verona for Vicenza, my back wheel soon started to feel as if it was slipping from under me. Looking down and seeing the tyre spread out more than it should be, my first thought was that it may have deflated slightly over the long road the day before. I stopped at a garage and used a car tyre pump to reinflate it. All seemed well, so I continued down the road. After a further few miles, the same happened again and ended up on the side of the road removing my rear wheel from the frame, the tyre from the wheel and the inner tube from the tyre. I inspected the whole thing and inflated the inner tube on its own and all seemed well, the tube held the air and there was nothing visibly wrong with the tyre.
Putting it all back together again, I decided that if I had further trouble I would stop at a repair shop for a professional opinion. Further trouble I had and I stopped at a town whose name I forget and found a little bike shop with the requisite professional. He swiftly found the puncture I could not and soon had a new tube fitted. I took the opportunity to switch my rear and front tyres, since the former was nearly bald and the latter still nearly new.
With the bike in order and still plenty of time in the day, I set off much happier and rode hard through to Vicenza, enjoyed a whistle stop tour of its glorious architecture before stopping for a plate of pasta and a large slab of chocolate, donated by Marco’s father that morning. This fuel took me through a great hour after lunch, my best of the trip thereto. I then followed the flat, straight roads through to the outskirts of Treviso. I started to notice a problem with my left cleat and on inspection discovered the forward flange had disappeared. Thinking it prudent to sort this out sooner rather than later, I stopped off at a large bike shop just outside the city.As I was discussing replacement cleats with the owner, Andrea, my front inner tube exploded with a load hiss behind me. This was surprising, as the bike was standing with no pressure on a flat, carpeted floor. There seemed to be no connection between the string of misfortunes that day so I cautiously put it down to coincidence and after another round of repairs I rolled into the centre to meet another Marco in the Piazza Duomo.
I had wanted Treviso to be ugly. I thought it so unfair that one region of one country should have so many beautiful old cities. The bridges over the fast course of the several rivulets which pass through the centre, the shadowy arcades and the impossibly stylish inhabitants came together to provide a further injustice and to make this my favourite city yet.
Marco’s family were faultlessly kind and I had another enormous Italian supper before Flora bake dozens of sugared biscotti for me to take along with me the next day.
Distance covered 76 miles
