By Sophie
YELLOW ROSTI – Sophie’s Tour
July 15, Roubaix
Two hours after the Tour arrived in Roubaix, 3000 km away, in Russia, with goals from Griezman, Pogba and Mbappe, we French are world champions. I watched the game with a detached mind. Croatia played better. I told Inq. who called me to congratulate me. His comment was lapidary: "It wasn't the best who won, but the strongest." As in life. As in cycling.
Back to Roubaix, the cycling stage of yesteryear, with all these stretches on the cobblestones...
Narrow, paved, dusty roads, on which the history of cycling is written. The cobblestones in France are considered a national monument, and as such are periodically restored with care and love, numbering each individual stone. A painstaking, slow, patient job. But when you race the Paris-Roubaix, or the Tour, it is an escalation of punctures, falls, breakages. The cobblestones put the man-bicycle duo to the test. The mechanics of emotions take their revenge on the planned performance. When exiting the cobblestones, the real pitfalls arise, when the wheels regain grip on the asphalt: they should regain bite, but instead they go haywire.
Porter has to retire due to a bad fall, but also Dumoulin, Mikel Landa and Uran lie down to kiss the cobblestones. And my Bardet is in trouble too, I don't know how many times he has to stop, but every time he starts again. With 50km to go he is 50'' behind.
In the finale, on the pavé de la Justice, the yellow jersey Van Avermaet sprints ahead with two companions in adventure, and in the end gains 30'' on all his rivals, and almost 2 minutes on Uran, but he has to give up the sprint and the stage victory to the German Degenkolb who on the podium dedicates the victory to his friend who died in an accident. There is real pathos in that destroyed face marked by tears and mud. These are moments of glory. The love between me and the Tour is being reborn.
July 16th, rest (!)
Today is a rest day for the men of the Tour, not for me. I pedaled from morning to night, following the course of the Brembo, discovering the humus, the “genius loci” of this territory, just to understand if the “lucid madness” of people and businesses like the Inquietante and the Rosti knitwear factory are isolated factors or endemic characteristics.
I will use the method of human geography, with some concessions to historical geography. I am interested in drawing a map with the most relevant companies/businesses, the great historical figures, the "special" places and the cycling champions.
The Inq. gave me some tips on the cycle paths, complete and very well-kept on the Adda side, while on the Brembo side he explained to me that “I have to make do” in the valley section, between dirt roads, cart tracks and rope walkways, then in Zogno the “spectacle” route begins, created on the bed of a former railway that runs panoramically halfway up the hill, between narrow tunnels, pine forests and old stone bridges.
My “upstream” the river begins a few kilometers south of the confluence with the Adda.
In the middle of the fields, a warehouse of an unmistakable color, aquamarine. The oldest bicycle factory still in existence, since 1885, the racing bike par excellence, known throughout the world. I think of my grandfather, who has one from the seventies hanging like a painting in the living room, and proudly tells his guests: "Yes, it's a Bianchi".
Not far from Bianchi (which, I discover, also made motorcycles and cars, the small and famous Autobianchi), here is another historic factory of peasant vehicles, the Same tractors, ugly, squat, orange, with that perforated sheet metal seat, which has become a stool that is an icon of made in Italy design. Same and Bianchi, tractors and bicycles, a pairing that is very Tour-like.
Going up the river, I will encounter three other large international brands, which already in their names, first of all, are territorial brands: Dalmine pipes, Brembo brakes and Sanpellegrino water (praised throughout the world, and yet allow me to say that our Perrier is something else).
But my real interest is in a factory that no longer exists today, Caproni Aeronautica Bergamasca, with headquarters and airfield in Brembate Sopra, where I hope to find traces to trace my father's identity.
All I know about my father is that he was a lifeguard in Saint Tropez the summer I was conceived. From a postcard found in a neighbor's memory box in Marseille, I learned that his name was Vittorio and that he was "very young" the summer he met my mother (who was instead approaching 40). He was born in France to an "already elderly Italian comrade", Cesare, who had worked for Caproni, in Brembate di Sopra.
Until 1945, Caproni produced war planes, especially seaplanes, and some very strange ones at that. It was directed by a very creative engineer, Cesare Pallavicino. Cesare? Is he my grandfather? Impossible: I only need Wikipedia to discover that after the war, when Caproni was closed, Pallavicini did not end up in a council house in Marseille, but remained in Italy, where he designed the Lambretta (in the same years his colleague D'Ascanio, also a creative aeronautical engineer, was designing the Vespa. This D'Ascanio, already the first inventor of the helicopter - Leonardo da Vinci's old idea - designed the propellers for Caproni).
To tell the truth, I'm more scared than excited. But I'm in it now. That's why I'm here. Tomorrow I have a series of appointments in Bergamo in historical archives and study centers. I hope to find lists, names and surnames, to give a surname to my grandfather, and therefore to my father, and thinking about it, to myself too. Help!
July 17 - 18
Tuesday. Today begins the Tour of the Alps. Then there will be the Massif Central, then the Tour of the Pyrenees.
With 100 km to go, there are 20 of them, including the yellow jersey. They reach a maximum advantage of 7 minutes, which progressively decreases. Alaphilippe wins alone, very lively. Van Avermaet, who everyone thought would collapse, gains 2 minutes on all the contenders for the yellow jersey. Instead, the polka-dotted climbers' jersey, won by the stage winner Alaphilippe, and the white young riders' jersey, now on the shoulders of our Latour of AG2R, change wearers. My Bardet holds up well, even though the team is now reduced to 6 units.
This morning the Inq. left in a group with all the staff of the knitwear factory to go and see the Alpine stages. To my great regret, I had to give up the “trip beyond the Alps”. The appointments in the historical archives of Bergamo in search of information on Caproni were too important for me. And then tomorrow I have two exams at the University of Milan, agreed with my faculty.
The visits to the archives are a disappointment. The hope of finding a nice list of names and surnames of the Caproni workers is immediately dashed. I will have to do the work of a library mole, the old fashioned way, pulling out old folders, and cross-referencing the data. Registry office of the municipality of Brembate, parish registers, police headquarters and finally the microfilms of the newspapers of the time. All in search of a Cesare, probably a fascist, who worked at Caproni and at the end of the war, when fascists were being killed in the streets, fled to France (or perhaps first to Switzerland).
Wednesday. Stage dominated by the Sky team, with Thomas who sprints imperiously towards the end, overtakes the escapee Nieve in the last kilometer, wins alone and is the new yellow jersey. Van Avermaet collapses with a 20-minute delay. Uran also drops out of the rankings. All the other big names are there, from Nibali to Bardet.
I spent the whole day in Milan, faculty of literature and philosophy. At 9 in the morning, exam on Camus and the myth of Sisyphus. I finish by saying: «Like Sisyphus, we spend our lives pushing a heavy boulder up a steep slope every day, and every evening, when we reach the top, the boulder rolls down the valley. And the next day, we will start pushing it up the mountain again. In this daily absurd life, there is only one truly serious philosophical question: that of suicide. Judging whether life is worth living or not, that is the fundamental question of philosophy».
Professor: "And is it worth it?"
I answer: "Yes. When every morning we decide to pick up our boulder, we make a choice. In that moment, we enjoy a good that justifies everything else. Freedom."
Professor struck to the heart, 30 cum laude. At 11 I should have the exam on Celine, but the chair holder performs the show I hate the most, contempt for students, first making us wait two hours, and then telling us to come back at 18. At 18 he doesn't show up, and at 19 an assistant arrives who sends us back to next week. Crazy stuff.
July 19th, Alpe d'Huez
This morning new territorial excursions on the Brembo. Theme: special places and cycling champions. I wrote about the workers' village, a UNESCO site, of Crespi d'Adda in the early days, on the occasion of the Trambai-Rosti. Adjacent to Crespi, separated by a small wood, there is Leolandia, formerly Minitalia, with Italy spread out in the middle of a small lake, and the most important monuments reconstructed like dolls' houses. Further on, towards Bergamo, in Valbrembo, on the banks of the river there is the airfield for gliding. At the end of the meadow, inside a large wood, the Le Cornelle wildlife park, practically a zoo in the green. Going up the embankment, you are in Brembate Sopra, where Caproni used to be, and today there is the astronomical park of the Torre del Sole, to look at the stars. Finally you arrive in San Pellegrino and let yourself fall into the large spa, among the pleasures of the calidarium-frigidarium, like the ancient Romans. History of the language lesson: SPA is a Latin acronym, Salus Per Aqua, meaning health and well-being thanks to water (which in Latin is written without the c). Conclusion: along this river, there is an unprecedented concentration of “special places”, playful, fantastic, out of time, for children and adults. Who said that these people from Bergamo only know how to work?
Afternoon. I look at Alpe d'Huez, a legendary stage that has made the history of the Tour. Called the mountain of the Dutch, and in fact the Dutch Kruijswijk is flying in the lead and at 50 km he has 6 minutes on the peloton. This Dutchman in a solitary breakaway (and virtual yellow jersey) is riding a Bianchi, and I can confirm, it is truly unmistakable with its historic aquamarine color.
The climb to Alpe d'Huez begins. Kruijswijk still has 3'30''. 10 km to go, with the chasing group reduced to 10 units. There are Quintana, Landa, Roglic, Dumoulin, Bardet, there is Thomas in yellow with his teammate-competitor Froome and there is Nibali, who is testing out the extension to measure his competitors. At 7 km Bardet flies agilely on his gazelle legs. Finally my protagonist Bardet. Highly concentrated, angel face, the Rosti jersey open in front, besieged by the cheering fans, he continues to gain. At 4 km Kruijswijk is caught. Now the hardest stretch. Thomas puts himself at the service of Froome who attacks the blender.
Then disaster strikes. Nibali falls because of a spectator who hooks his handlebars with his camera strap. It's absurd. On Froome's initiative, the front 4 stop to wait for Nibali, and pedal in barrage formation. Nibali heroically comes back, but will have to retire due to a fractured vertebra (perhaps caused by the impact of the radio on his back... and we're still in the absurd.) Bad story, bad loss. Nibali seemed to be in great shape, ready to fight to win the Tour.
At the finish line Thomas wins over Dumoulin. On the podium he declares: «I had no chance of winning today. I can't believe what I did!».
On the AG2R front, they are fighting tooth and nail. Bardet is fine, third on the finish line today, fifth in the standings at 3 minutes. Latour still in the white jersey, but with Gallopin's retirement, ours are now only 5.
July 20, at first skin
Today is a sprinter stage, but many sprinters have already retired (especially those with the G: Gallopin, Greipel, Gaviria, Groenewegen). Sagan wins the sprint, his third victory. Tomorrow Pyrenees.
The curious fact happens towards evening, at the end of my excursion (theme: the champions of the Brembana Valley: Gotti from San Pellegrino, 2 Giro d'Italia; Pesenti from Zogno, 1 Giro d'Italia and obviously Gimondi from Sedrina, 3 Giro d'Italia and 1 Tour de France).
In Sedrina I also find a church with an absurdly east-facing facade. I enter and discover a masterpiece by Lotto that could be in the Louvre. But that's not the curious thing. Instead of returning to Bergamo, where I have a room in a boarding school/hospice run by nuns, feeling good, I decide to take the state road and pedal quickly towards the knitwear factory to see if the tribe has returned from France. I can't wait to hear the Inq.'s impressions of Alpe d'Huez. With these thoughts in my head, I find myself in a place that the Disturbing One himself had strictly forbidden me to visit, when he gave me "the tips" on things to see.
“You don’t even have to mention it,” he’d said, and he’d sounded deadly serious.
“Why can’t I even name him?” I asked. The Creepy One answered me with a look.
But without meaning to, like Little Red Riding Hood, I had gotten lost in the woods. And now in front of me was the sign of a warehouse that read “Santini Maglificio Sportivo”.
What would Little Red Riding Hood have done in my place, seeing an arrow that said “Spaccio-outlet”?
Once in the showroom, I understand everything. I also find a book-brochure with all the greatest champions of the last 50 years dressed by Santini. I devour it. Like Bianchi bicycles, Santini jerseys have made cycling history.
How could the Disturbing One even think of opening a competing knitwear factory just a few pedal strokes away? Meanwhile, in the center of the Santini showroom, I realize that I am tagged Rosti from head to toe. I assume an attitude of great nonchalance.
Half an hour later, pedaling furiously, with the Santini brochure tucked into my jersey, I return to the Rosti base in Brembate. It's already eight in the evening, but of course the Inq. is still on the ball, in his post in the creative office.
I come up behind him. He’s designing a vintage-style jersey on the computer, dark green and black. I immediately attack him, in rapid succession, without giving him any respite. “Why didn’t you tell me that Santini was the first to use lycra and nylon?” “The first to make colored jerseys.” “The first to make jerseys with patterned designs.” “The first to introduce the chamois.” “The first to use technical fabrics.” Then I throw the brochure on the table, and land the final blow: “Santini is the first in everything.”
He simply looks at the cover that bears the Santini brand and the slogan. And patiently, like a good teacher with a not-so-bright student, he asks me: "Sophie, do you see what's written under Santini?"
"Of course I see it! It says: Santini, a second skin. A second skin"
And he: "Do you see that he is not first in everything?"
I'm about to tell him "good joke", but I don't have time.
He is already sneering and saying: «At first glance there's Rosti».