By Leone Belotti
Eschborn - Frankfurt 2018
I thought I would please him by showing him the photo of Bar Refaeli, the Israeli model who will be the face of the Giro d'Italia. But Gino doesn't appreciate it.
«But which Bar Refaeli, I'll show you the godmother of the Giro at the Rosti Bar!»
When he gets angry, it's better not to contradict him. Gino is an old womanizer, a disabled civilian, a former cyclist. I am a forty-year-old with no driving license, sentenced to do a certain number of hours of community service. Never got on a bicycle after the age of 14.
“And her name is Mery,” he specifies.
All right, let's go to the Rosti Bar to see Mery. Lost somewhere between the Adda and the Brembo, it's a typical sports bar in the process of extinction. Gino introduces me to his broom buddies. Marelli, a retired electrician. Berlinguer, the trade unionist. And others I don't remember. And then Mery.
Thin and sour as a merlot vine, huge green eyes and an aquiline nose in a jellyfish of black hair. An indefinable age between milf and granny. But in heels and a miniskirt she still cuts her dirty figure, with those legs that don't stay still, I must admit.
On TV there is the last great classic of the north, with the finish in Frankfurt. Eight break away, then four remain.
"They don't catch them anymore," says Berlinguer, when the lead exceeds a minute.
"But stop it, I'll take those debauched ones too," replies Mery. She has that porno-hoarse voice that's music for men only. She must have lived for 30 years before getting behind the counter. A few kilometers from the finish line, the escapees are swallowed up by the group.
“Mery has always known cyclists well,” says Gino, and winks at me.
Just to say something, in my ignorance, I bring up Gimondi.
“Look, the real Bergamo rider on the pedals is not Gimondi,” he replies.
"No?"
"No, dude. Gimondi was a winner, and then he talked too much. The true Bergamasco on a bike is a loser who goes faster than the winner, and doesn't talk."
Gino smiles. He already understood. "What do you mean?" I ask him.
«That is, someone like Baronchelli. When they interviewed him, he would say: what do you want from me? I'm a farmer, I have nothing to say.»
Meanwhile, the Norwegian Kristoff triumphs at the finish line in Frankfurt, but the Belgian champion Oliver, wearing the Rosti jersey, also climbs onto the podium.
No Miss, no kisses. The oral phase of the award ceremony is a nice jug of beer that the Belgian Rosti sips without hesitation. And at the Rosti Bar, consequently, Gino croaks: «Mery! Give me a nice cold beer!»