115 meters to go

Giro d'Italia - part one

For two hours, sweaty and thirsty, you watch the 125 meters to go mark on your left, the 100 meters to go on your right. On your left the road has no end, it must come somewhere from the coast. On the right, you detect the finish line far far away. 115 meters, are they kidding? You extend your neck to see it - never have 115 meters looked so distant. And still for them it will be one part in one and a half thousand of today's 176 km stage, six seconds only. The six seconds on which everything depends, the triumph and the fall.

For two hours you wait, like a hungry child you extend your hand begging for stupid gadgets that you will later throw away, you feel part of a big circus, you are embarrassed of being such a blatant and easy target for advertising. For two hours you fight for the place you found, there, at 115 meters to go, with screaming people on your left and screaming people on your right. Turn left, turn right, you see nothing. Only in front of you, behind the fence, you see an empty piece of road that is so dear to you.

And then they come, and they stop in front of you. They don't move from left to right, they are not a video - they stop in front of you, for a few tenths of a second they stop in front of you to let you paint the image in your mind and keep it forever.

In that image you see two jet fighters, one behind the other, one model Cavendish, the other jet named Petacchi, escorted by other jets behind just watching the fight; in that image there are two hounds, one behind the other, one called Mark, the other Alessandro, escorted by a pack of dogs behind them watching the hunting scene.

Who is the hunter? Who is the hunted? The one ahead has his eyes fixed on that finish line 115 meters away, so far and still only six seconds away, six never-ending seconds. The one behind has his eyes on the other, he can't let him go, he only has six seconds of time, six seconds that are running away too fast. And the others behind, they suffer and watch the two ahead of them, mere human spectators to a contest of gods.

That image lasts only a tiny fraction of those long seconds, you are not permitted to see more. While those human spectators to the contest of gods effortlessly and silently move from left to right in front of you, a screeching voice somewhere in the sky yells "Cavendish... Cavendish... Mark Cavendish!".



(Mark Cavendish on the left, Alessandro Petacchi on the right. From: www.bettiniphoto.net)

Sante the bandit

I'll start my blog with a story set in those old times, when truth and fantasy, facts and legend, love and violence mixed together. The story starts somewhere on the Piedmontese hills, about one hundred years ago.

Cycling was living its first epic years. The first Tour de France was raced in 1903, the first Giro d'Italia exactly a hundred years ago. Two of those Giros would be eventually won by the first Italian Campionissimo, Costante Girardengo. He became one of the Greats, at one time being more popular in Italy than Mussolini himself, so they say.

As a child he wasn't alone in dreaming of becoming a cyclist. His best friend Sante Pollastri too wanted to become one. But Costante had that exceptional talent which Sante lacked. And soon Sante chose another career.

Who knows why he chose that career? Police killed his brother, some say. According to others, he happened not to like a rhubarb candy he tasted in a bar; he spat it out - unfortunately on the boots of a pair of carabinieri, who saw it fit to beat him down.

Whatever the reason, he became a feared bandit, a killer of policemen and especially carabinieri; soon he was enemy of the state number one; but he also became an admired bandit, a novel Robin Hood or Fra Diavolo for the ordinary people: people who were more and more oppressed under the Fascist dictature.

In Paris in 1927 his bandit career came to an end. He was betrayed. By whom? His friend's, the great hero Girardengo's name was mentioned too. Who knows where lies the legend and where the truth. Costante and Sante did know each other, but was it since childhood? Or did they only meet in Paris a few days before Sante's arrest? Were they really friends, or only a champion and one of his countless fans?

Whatever the truth, forgive me and let me believe in the following romantic version, so wonderfully narrated by Francesco De Gregori in this song:



Feel and smell those long gone times. You'll easily find the original, Italian lyrics, but here is my attempt at a translation:

Two village boys who grew up too fast;
a common passion for the bicycle;
a strange story of crossing destinies,
the memory of which has long been forgotten.
A story of old times, of before there were engines,
when you raced for anger or for love -
but between anger and love the distance is already growing:
you already know which of them will be the champion.

Go Girardengo, go great champion!
Nobody is following you on that wide road.
Go Girardengo, we don't see anymore Sante:
he's behind that turn, he's farther and farther behind.

And behind the turn of flying time
there is Sante on his bicycle with a gun in his hand.
If they chase him at night he fires
and hits every headlight:
Sante the bandit has an outstanding aim.
Banks know it, and so does the police headquarters.
Sante the bandit does really frighten.
Ransoms are of no use, bravery is not enough:
Sante the bandit has too much advantage.

Maybe it was old misery, maybe a suffered wrong
to make that boy into a ferocious bandit.
But nobody escapes his own destiny:
you wanted justice but found the Law

But a good policeman
who knows his trade
knows that every man has a flaw
that will make him fall.
And it made you fall, that great passion of yours
of waiting for the arrival of your friend the champion.
That intermediate prize line in the race saw you in handcuffs
that shined in the sunlight like two bicycles.
Sante Pollastri, your Tour is over!
And they are already whispering that someone betrayed.

Go Girardengo, go great champion!
Nobody is following you on that wide road.
Go Girardengo, we don't see anymore Sante:
he's farther and farther, farther away,
he's farther and farther, farther away...