Published in L@bel Magazine - Bicicle Issue
Philosophy of the bike. Sort of.
Like riding a bike.
That’s what you say of things you never forget, which, on a closer look, would only be sex and riding a bike. Who knows where the natural instinct for pedals comes from.
Riding a bike. Piece of cake, almost always. Two side-wheels attached to the back, then just one, and finally on a Sunday when it’s sunny out, dad decides it’s finally time, and I’m holding you, I’m holding you, don’t worry, you just look ahead ‘cause I’m holding you. It’s not true, your dad is not holding anything: he lets go almost immediately and you start riding by yourself. There’s no way back: you wanted a bike and now you’ll never forget how to ride it, even if you try.
I have a mountain bike I bought when I was in elementary school to race my next door neighbor. I didn’t touch for over ten years. Hillside town: too much work riding uphill.
Since I haven’t touched a bike for over ten years, I can say it: you really learn to ride a bike once and for all.
Now I live in the plain, and plain means bicycle. It means half an hour ride from home to work, cold weather or hot, as long as it’s sunny out. Sunny out means it’s not pouring rain. And if it’s sunny out, then it’s a go: countryside and thoughts. Thoughts that get interrupted, surrendering to the joy of the cool air over my face and the sun that makes my eyes squint. Thoughts that leave room to the desire to let go of the handle, straighten my back and open my arms. And fly.
Though, often, between me and free-flight my bike gets in the way. I bought it second-hand. Serious balancing issues: the rear grocery basket, poorly secured, makes my bike wobble from side to side. So all of my flights are hesitant, interrupted, too fast, almost stolen from the laws of physics.
History of the bicycle. Sort of.
Even though it’s hard for me, I still try, to take off.
Like Bartali, in that picture my grandpa took of him.
A minuscule photograph, black and white, the kind with the zigzag border. In the back, in blue, washed-out ink, there’s a writing that says: “Gino Bartali and Fausto Coppi, finish line”.
Bartali is in front: skinny, smooth, sweaty, a smile that looks like a grimace.
His arms lifted up, he rides through the crowd.
His arms opened, he flies to the finish line.
Coppi is small, behind him. Second place: the first of the last, some say. Bent over the handlebar, he’s pedaling to the end, his eyes fixed on a point slightly beyond the front wheel, sparing not even a glance over his winning adversary. He’s an obstinate champion and runs to the finish line.
Heroic spirits of bicycles and old Italy, of one nation split in half: Bartali or Coppi, Coppi or Bartali? Coppi, I would have said. Because he was second and obstinate, in that photograph. Just for that.
I imagine him so well, my grandpa, at the end of the race.
I imagine him with that American actor look he puts on when he’s in front of the camera.
I imagine him in the Italian crowd of real bicycle lovers: men smoking national cigarettes, and women wearing perms and nylons from the American market.
I imagine him, camera in hand, capturing the moment. The champion wins in front of his eyes, but he’s not running towards him, he’s framing the shot.
I imagine my grandpa as a young man, he lived in the mountains and didn’t know how to ride a bike. Who knows what kind of a miracle that was, for his walk-only eyes, the Giro d’Italia. With Bartali and Coppi one after the other, even.
Right. Even though, if I had to be specific, I’m not so sure that the picture portrays both champions. I’m positive that the one in the foreground is Bartali. And I’m almost sure that the one behind him is his rival. I think I’m pretty sure about the writing in the back. If I were right that picture would be a piece of history, a momentous snapshot.
I could be wrong, though.
Geography of the bicycle. Sort of.
There’s a street I ride through everyday, called via Bocia del ’24.
There’s a shop where they repair and sell used bicycles. And gas stoves.
The front of the building is covered with paintings: they’re portraits of the greatest bikers of all time. They’re all Italian, except for Indurain, whom Paolo, the owner, loves.
Paolo’s last name is Pinarello, as in the bicycle guy. Pinarello the bicycle guy built jewels that could win more than a bicycle world competition. Incredible bicycles, the kind that cost a lot of money.
Paolo is his grandson: honest mechanic and seller of used bikes. As lesser representative of a family with a glorious history, Paolo shows with pride the collection of portraits they commissioned on ceramic, or pricey cotto Veneziano, I don’t remember. He lingers with delight on every single two-wheeled hero: he knows each one’s history, battles, victories.
Once I told him of when I went to pick raspberries at Gimondi’s house, without even knowing who he was.
He gave me a discount price.
Across the street from Paolo’s shop there’s a restaurant called da Coppi. They have good wine for a good price and fish appetizers free for the ladies. Inside the restaurant, snake skins. Outside, smokers holding a glass of prosecco wine.
The owner is never around. He was always on his bike when he was younger: for everyone, for the last thirty years, he’s been known as il Coppi.
When I happened in via Bocia del ’24 for the first time I thought it had to have been the site of some historic episode in bicycle history. The biker portraits and the name of the restaurant gave the place a vague scent of legend.
I was wrong, via Bocia del ’24 is like any street in a country town. Bicycle mechanic on one side, restaurant on the other.
It’s got the same downhearted look of a photograph where there could very well be both Coppi and Bartali, but instead it’s only one of them.
The same clumsy imperfection of a bike that keeps swaying dangerously, while you try to keep it on a straight course.
And fly away.