As I went to bed on the evening of the 25th of May 2011, I thought happily about what was waiting for me on the following day. After more than 6 months of withdrawal, in fact, I was finally going to watch another cycling race live, from behind the barriers and not from behind the tv screen. Said race was the San Pellegrino Terme stage of the Giro 2011.
According to the family plan, my sister, my mum and I should have reached San Pellegrino (which is less than 10 kms far from my house) at 1 pm. Then we would have walked around the village for a while and, in the end, we would have found a nice place from where we could have watched the arrival of the riders.
I was really happy about our plan because, for the first time in two years, I was going to watch a Giro stage without having to wake up early and stay on the top of a mountain (sat on the wet grass) for hours. According to the plan, moreover, I would have been able to prepare everything we needed for the race (photocamera, autographs' book, a Gazzetta, a bottle of water, etc.) on the following morning, so that I would have even been able to study a bit of philosophy (damned Heidegger!) before midday.
But still, plans and expectations never correspond to reality, and that's what happened also this time.
At 9.45 am of the 26th of May 2011, I had just woken up. Five minutes later I had just grabbed my school book (what a good student, she studies even when the Giro is riding almost in front of her house!) when my mum ran into the house. 'There is already a big traffic jam on the main road and the penultimate bus to San Pellegrino leaves at 10.30!! If we take the bus at 1 pm, we'll never make it to the village on time! It may take us an hour to get to San pellegrino and the roads get closed at 2! Go waking up your sister and get ready, we're leaving in 40 minutes time!!!', she screamed to me as she started running around the house and cooking my dad's meal at the same time.
In panick, I went to wake up my sister. Then, it was hysteria time. All of a sudden, my sister started to scream that she had to wash her hair, because: 'There's no way I'm going to see Thomas Lovkvist in this condition!'. My mum, on the other hand, started doing many different things (shouting at me, cooking, getting dressed, helping my sister, shouting at me, preparing the rucksack with the autographs' book, cooking and shouting at me), whereas I took my daily copy of 'La Gazzetta' (apropos, Ulissi gets married this autumn!) and put it in a bag. Then I rushed to the computer in order to download the photos that were on the photocamera's memory, I took all the pens I had in my pencil case and put them in the above mentioned bag and I printed the picture of Menchov and me that I took in Como last October. In the hurry, I even put my philosophy book in my Giro bag, together with the rough copy of my 'tesina'. As you can understand, I was a confused woman. And I became even more confused when I had to get dressed. First, I spent a lifetime in front of my shoes, trying to pick a comfortable pair that wouldn't have made me sweat too much. Then, I wore my favourite shirt and a pair of jeans. Too bad that, on my way to the mirror, I realised that my sister was wearing the very same things as me. 'Take that off, girl! That's my outfit for today, go choosing something else!', I screamed. 'Oh no dear, I've worn it before you, it's up to you to find something else!', she replied. Her Majesty the Judge (aka my mother) said my sister was right, so I was the one who had to change her clothes. So I rushed to my bedroom (with my brush-teeth in the hands), grabbed a pair of black trousers and a black t-shirt (yes, I'm a cunning girl: there were just 30 ° Celsius and I wore a completely black outfit) and, while brushing my teeth, I put on the shoes.
After other screams, other moments of hysteria and other ridicolous scenes across the corridors, my mum, my sister and I finally got to the bus stop at 10.29. It had been hard, but we had made it. We were on our way to San Pellegrino.
As soon as we got on the bus, I realised that the girl in the first seat was wearing my very same t-shirt. How annoying. At the same time, my sister and I also realised that my mother had exaggerated the traffic condition, which wasn't actually that bad.
After a relaxing travel, we girls from the family finally arrived in San Pellegrino at 11. The people from the Giro staff had already prepared the barriers and the bus driver had a tough time driving through them. When we were still on the bus, I kindly tried to explain my mother that:
1. the cyclists wouldn't have arrived before half past four. Therefore, she shouldn't have shouted: 'Fede, who's that rider?!?' already at midday while pointing at an old man wearing a T-Mobile kit.
2. the team buses would have arrived already at 2 pm, but they wouldn't have had any cyclist inside.
In this way I saved myself from embarassing scenes in which my mother tries to stalk the bus' drivers in order to ask them if they're transporting any rider hidden in the back of the bus.
After telling my mum these vital things, we finally got off the bus and landed in San Pellegrino (no, I didn't kiss the asphalt for the joy of being there). This village is pretty famous (at least in some European countries) because of its mineral water (words can't describe how I felt when I came across a San Pellegrino water bottle in a German supermarket!), but in the past it was also a very important holiday center. Unfortunately, over the years the village entered a period of decadence which hasn't finished yet.
A symbol of San Pellegrino's past grandeur is the 'Grand Hotel' (pic above and below). In the past, this great building hosted members of the Romanoff and of the Savoia families, the football players of Helenio Herrera's Inter and many other famous people, like the Italian poets Eugenio Montale and Salvatore Quasimodo. Unfortunately, with the birth of modern tourism San Pellegrino fell in decay and the hotel was eventually closed in the 1970s, together with the town's Casinò.
As far as cycling is concerned, San Pellegrino hosted the 'traguardo' of a Giro stage in 1937, 1953, 1955, 1956, 1959, 1964, 1969, 1977. Amongst the people who raised their arms in the little village by the Brembo there are also Bitossi and Coppi.
San Pellegrino, in addition, is known as the birthplace of Ivan Gotti, who won two Tours of Italy at the end of the 1990s.
Back to the Giro stage of the 26th of May, however, the San Pellegrino people really did their best in order to offer a warm welcoming to the Giro riders. In fact there were pink balloons and pink t-shirts everywhere and, as you can see in the pic below, even the water of the local 'fontana' changed its colour for a day. The first picture of this post instead shows you the 'Bronzi di Riace' that, by wearing pink jerseys, had transformed themselves from symbols of virility to heroes of the Gay Pride.
Even the old bridge of the town (pic below) was covered by pink ribbons, whereas all the shops showed pictures of Gotti. The restaurants had special prizes for the occasion, so my familiars and I took advantage from that. We had an aperitif in a bar and then we went to a restaurant, where each of us had pasta, meat, ice cream, water and coffee for just 15 euro pro person. Wow.
While eating, a very friendly man with a 'Gazzetta' keyring gave us salt and his menu, whereas I absorbed a remarkable quantity of alcohol by having an Amaretto ice cream (the ice cream was actually floating on the Amaretto, it was impossible to eat it without drinking the liquor) and by having the most alcoholic vitel tonné ever.
After lunch, my familiars and I visited a little exhibition about cycling (which had pictures of cyclists of different historical periods, from Coppi to Mercx and from Cassani to Riccò - no, Sgarbozza was't featured) and we were moved by the sight of a big '108 presente' cartel.
Then we wandered around looking for the place where the team buses would have parked. On our quest we saw a man from the Giro staff sleeping quietly on a bench in a park and we also reached the hotel 'Le Terme' by mistake. It is a very nice hotel and, in fact, Saxo Bank spent the night there. Eventually we found the bus' place and, satisfied, we sat down on a bench. At that point, and just for a few seconds, I seriouly considered the idea of studying philosophy there, while waiting for the riders to arrive. Luckily, it was just a very fast moment of craziness.
The team buses started to arrive at about 2 pm and I was amazed by the similarity between Vacansoleil's bus driver and Santa Claus. After the arrival of the buses, my mum, my sister and I went to the finish-line area, where we were shocked by the fact that all the best spots had already been taken. And it was just 2.15 pm, unbelievable!!
Considering this fact, my familiars and I took a quick and painful decision: we would have placed ourselves next to the 'telecamere fisse di Nazareno Balani' (they exist!! I saw them!!), right after the last curve of the race (the one between the bridge and the finish-line), and we would have stayed there until the arrival of the riders. That meant that we would have had to stay there at least 2 hours and a half, so we weren't actually that happy. But still, that was our only way to see something decent from the race - and we were not going to lose our spots just because we were tired to stay there.
In the following hours, I could enjoy another ice cream and we could hear the race reports coming from the speaker. At 3 o'clock we were told that the riders had kept an average speed of 53 kmph during the first hour of race, a thing that really made us happy. Then, in Bergamo Alta, 16 riders (including Tiralongo, Carrara and Pinotti) got away from the peloton.
Everyone was entusiasthic at that, and the ride of the local politicians towards the finish-line received no attention at all. The podium misses and the girls from Playboy, instead, received many applauses and some men whistled and howled at them. Poor girls.
At about 4 pm we discovered that on the passo Ganda Capecchi, Pinotti and Seeldrayers had dropped their breakaway companions. Everyone started to hope for a victory by Pinotti and to get ready for the arrival of the riders. Old people switched off their tvs and went to watch the race from their balconies (Figbash, the pic below is dedicated just to you!) and a camera man arrived. A kid asked him to film the people on the balconies, but the man refused (he was actually too busy).
The man behind me kept on telling his wife (the photographer of the family) to take a picture of the first three breakaway riders and begged her to take a decent photo of Contador, 'at least of Contador, he's in the pink jersey!'.
At 4.15 pm everyone started making calculations. 'They'll be here in ten minutes time', one said. 'No, in twenty!', someone else replied. 'No, they're arriving right now, can't you see the helicopters?', an old woman screamed. From my spot I was actually lucky, since I could see how the race was unfolding from the little screen next to the cameraman.
At about 4.45, then, the riders arrived. Pinotti was the first rider everyone saw, followed by Seeldrayers and by Capecchi. I screamed 'Vai Marco!' with all my strength (I even hurt my vocal chords while doing that!), but the noise made by the other supporters was so loud that I couldn't even hear my voice: it was like screaming and being deaf at the same time.
Immediately after the trio had ridden past me, I tried to see whether I could get a glimpse of the sprint without abandoning my position. Unfortunately, everyone else had my very same idea, so everyone became much taller than they actually were and someone even started to jump. So, no view of the sprint for this poor supporter, who immediately started asking who had won the stage. The noise produced by the supporters in fact had been so much that we hadn't been able to listen to the speaker commenting the sprint, so that no one actually knew who had won. 'Pinotti has won!!', an old man said. 'Pinotti?', I asked. 'Are you sure? It seems strange to me, because I don't hear anyone screaming...' And, in fact, the lack of screams was a bad sign for Marco's supporters, since all the people who saw the sprint had shut up as soon as they saw Capecchi raising his arms to the sky. But still, after a few seconds of disappointment the good mood came back again. 'Capecchi is young, strong and Italian, it's nice that he won!', many people said.
In the meanwhile, the riders kept on coming. Brambilla looked very focus as he entered the last curve in front of Tiralongo. I screamed as loud as I could when Bakelandts arrived and, when the peloton faced the last curve, I didn't manage to see a lot of riders.
The secret to watch the whole peloton in bunch sprints (and to be able to tell who-is-who) isn't actually that difficult to understand. In fact, you 'just' need to focus on a point of the road and see the riders who ride in that point. Unfortunately, if you watch the same rider for more than 0.00001 seconds, you'll lose all your chances of spotting the other guys, as then it takes too much time to concentrate again on a particular part of the road.
Right after the peloton ended the race, my familiars and I went to the bus zone, where my sister took some pictures. The first ones were really bad, but then she got better and better (click on the pics to see them in a higher quality). Below, for example, you have a picture of Kiserlovski (that was the - poor- result of my fangirlistic: 'Sister, look!!! That's Kiserlovski!! Take a picture, I neeeeed it!' screams)
Below instead you have Garzelli - or, better, the back of Garzelli. Stefano, who has really nice eyes, in this pic was wearing his green jersey.
As I said, my sister's pictures soon got better (luckily for everyone). Below for example you have a picture of Pinotti, who looked pretty sorry for not having succeeded in winning the stage (click on it to see it better, it worths it). I told him 'Bravo Marco!' and he, kind as usual, looked at me, had a sad smile and thanked me. In that moment Pinotti could have really used a hug.
Below instead you have a picture of Peter Stetina. A quiet day at the office for him on that afternoon!
Matteo Carrara instead had a busier day. In fact he entered the initial breakaway and, in the end, Andrea De Luca (RAI's journalist) stopped him to interview him. It was actually a nice thing to see, since De Luca simply needed to stop Carrara, tell him 'Marco, an interview', and advise the big chief Bulbarelli (RAI's coordinator for the Giro) that he had a rider ready to be interviewed. Then, he could simply start asking question. Fascinating, isn't it?
Below then you have Maxim Gourov...
...Whereas in this picture you can see a tired Downing making his way to the team bus. Russell entered the breakaway du jour too, so I can understand why he looked that tired!
Gastauer instead looked cool...
...just like Jufre (pic below).
Since I was in front of Astana's bus, I could see also Tiralongo who, 24 hours later, would have got his first professional victory.
Talking about the Saxo Bankers, I could see Didier very well.
Then, all of a sudden, my mother said something about tongues, I turned my head and - guess what? - there I saw Richie Porte, following Veuchelen and showing his TONGUE!!! (yes Mar, this is dedicated to you and to the other Tumblritas who love riders' tongues!)
I could see also Przemyslaw Niemiec (auntie Ania, where are you?) from the place where I was staying, but unfortunately my sister could just take a picture of his back.
On the other hand, sister took a perfect picture of Marzoli and Taborre, looking tired and (probably) speaking to each other.
I could see also Frank riding towards his team bus when, all of a sudden, I realised I was very close to Geox' team bus.
Before going to San Pellegrino, I had printed the picture of me and Menchov that I took in Como last October. I wanted him to sign it, so I went to Geox team bus as soon as I realised that no other rider was arriving from the finish-line zone. While watching the door of the bus, I suddenly turned my head right and, guess what?, I caught a glimpse of Denis Menchov. He had already had a shower, was wearing a normal t-shirt, a pair of shorts and awful compression socks which arrived until his knee (and which underlined the fact that my ankles are twice bigger than his). I walked towards him but, all of a sudden, he jumped into Geox' team car. Below you can see the tragic moment when I screamed all my despair to the world ('Mum, he's gone!!! He's on the car! I'll never get him to sign my picture!') and in which my sister realised that Menchov was there, a few meters far from her. She was quick enough to take a photo of Denis' hand closing the door of the car (please notice the grandmother dressed in pink who doesn't even realise that she's so close to a great guy like Menchov!), but she didn't take a pic of himself. That was actually the key moment of the day for me, since it marked the beginning of a series of tragicomical events starring me and mr. Denis Menchov.
Right after Denis closed the door of the team car, the Fangirl in me (which usually speaks with my mum's voice) ordered me to go tapping on the window of Geox' ammiraglia. 'I can't do that!', Logic said with disgust. 'I'm not a crazy, stupid Fangirl like you! Menchov needs to relax now, he's under pressure and he surely doesn't want to waste his time with us!'. 'Well', Fangirl replied, 'I'm not going to cause him a nervous breakdown if I ask him to sign a picture, right? And then, tonight there's no post-stage transfer by car, so he can waste 5 seconds of his existence signing a picture to a supporter, can't he? He shouldn't be this sneaky with fans, it's not fair!'. Logic had to admit that Fangirl had a point about the lack of the post-stage transfer and, as soon as her control on Fangirl got softer, she suddenly found herself in front of Geox' team car, tapping on the window together with Fangirl. 'WHAT THE HELL ARE WE DOING?!?!?', she screamed to Fangirl. 'Let's get away from here, now!', she continued. 'Come on, Denis hasn't heard us yet, we still have a chance to get away with this thing, let's go away, silently... Nooo, he's seen us!!!', Logic screamed as soon as poor Denis Menchov (who was writing a text message on his mobile phone) raised his eyes and saw me tapping on the window. The Russian made me a gesture meaning: 'Wait a second and I'll sign your picture' and in that moment, considering how nice he was being to me, I felt really bad. I wanted to disappear, to hide my head in the sand, to jump in the river Brembo and not to come out of it anymore. I had never been that embarassed before, never. But still, the worse hadn't come yet.
Menchov kindly took the picture and, with it, he took also one of my pens, the one that I normally use at school. 'Close your eyes and everything will be over in 2 seconds time!', Logic thought. Too bad that my pen decided to die in Denis' hands, as soon as he wrote the 'M' of his surname. Poor Menchov tried to write his autograph one, two, three, four times, almost making a hole in the sheet of paper (he was trying hard to make the pen work, poor boy) and even looked in the car in order to find a functioning pen. Then, while he was giving me back the picture (with just a half written autograph), I realised I had other 4 pens in my bag. I took one, gave it to him and he finally signed me a decent autograph. With a completely red face, I got away from Geox' team car as fast as I could, embarassed as never before. But still, my adventure with Menchov wasn't over yet.
As I put the picture and the pen in the bag, I realised I had a Skoda catalogue in my hands. To my shock, horror and fear, I remembered that Menchov had put it under my picture while signing it. That meant that I would have had to bring it back to him. It meant that I would have had to go back to Geox team car.
Trying to look as innocent/embarassed/cute as I could, I quickly walked to the car again. Menchov was signing an autograph to a child (who, unlike me, had immediately given him a functioning pen) and, when he saw me, he probably lost a year of life. I went to him, tried to look as serious as I could and to kill the instinct that suggested me jumping in the river Brembo and disappearing and, in Spanish, I said: 'Esto es tuyo' while handling him the catalogue. He looked shocked, but he was nice enough to take the catalogue, thank me and watch me disappear as fast as I could. But still, my bad day with Denis wasn't over yet.
As soon as I turned my back to the car, I could hear someone starting it off. At that point, while sighing of relief, a woman arrived, running. 'Who's in that car?!?', she asked me. 'Menchov', I answered. The woman immediately ran to the car, tapped on the window and asked Denis for an autograph. Unfortunately, her action attracted the attenton of many other 'autograph hunters', so that the Geox's car soon found itself circled by a crowd of young children asking for autographs. And once again, it was my fault. Ooops...
As you can imagine, after that I ran away from the Geox's team bus as fast as I could. While escaping from there I saw Oscar Gatto (pic below) talking quietly to some journalists.
I soon reached Astana's bus, where Roman Kreuziger was being interviewed. He had a plate of pasta in his hands and Martinelli looked like a father trying to protect his child. He made sure Roman was eating and, when the young rider finished the interview, Beppe prohibited people (children included) to get autographs from the Czech cyclist.
After walking past Astana's bus, my sister had a dream-like vision in front of Sky's bus. Whereas my mum was contemplating the washing machines hidden in Sky's bus, in fact, my sister noticed a cyclist riding towards her. As in a dream, she saw him arriving near her, getting off the bike and walking in a cool way towards the bus' door. Said cyclist was Thomas Lovkvist.
'Thomas!!!', my sister whispered to get my mother's attention. 'Thomas? Lovkvist? Where? Oh, there he is! BRAVO THOMAS!', my mother screamed in order to get Lovkvist's attention. The Swedish boy smiled at her (he always looks very shy with supporters, that's so cute!) and then a boy asked him for a picture. After that, right before he disappeared in the team bus, my sister pulled all her braveness together and asked him for a picture too. I quickly got the photo machine from her, thought 1. 'Oh my God, Lovkvist is watching me!' and 2. 'Oh my God, my sister will kill me if I don't take a good picture' and then I pressed the magic 'Photo' button. And below you have the result: my sister and Thomas Lovkvist, looking nice and shy. After that, 'Lolo' disappeared in the haze of Sky's bus.
Lovkvist was actually the penultimate rider I met on that day in San Pellegrino. While walking back to the bus stop, in fact, I saw a Liquigas guy riding in the traffic. I looked more carefully, realised it was a true Liquigas rider (and not a supporter wearing the team's kit) and, to my amazement, I realised it was Vincenzo Nibali, looking for his team bus in the traffic. He rode past me twice, but I couldn't get any picture of him.
On the bus, me couldn't go past the shock of my encounter with Menchov, whereas my sister kept on talking about how lovely Lovkvist was. A hundered meter before getting off the bus, a final surprise: Omega - Pharma Lotto was staying in the main hotel of my town. 'Let's dine there tonight!!', Fangirl cried. 'You've made enough disaster for today', Logic answered. 'And after all, you'll have the chance of creating other problems tomorrow, in Bergamo', Logic added, feeling desperate at the idea.
