Home to Italy (12 page)

Lucrezia was helping
Filomena put dinner on the table when Peppi arrived at the door. Costanzo was there with Maria and the kids. They took their seats while Luca pulled the television in from the living room and set it up at the far end of the table so that they could all watch the beginning of the race while they ate. Luca could barely contain his glee as he beckoned for Peppi to take the seat across from him.

“Sit, sit,” he said excitedly, “they're just getting ready to send the first rider off in the prologue.”

Lucrezia nodded a hello at Peppi, but otherwise said nothing at seeing him come in. She put the big bowl of pasta she was carrying on the table and returned to the kitchen to help her mother finish preparing the meal. She soon returned with Filomena. The two women filled the pasta bowls and everyone settled down to eat and watch the race.

The prologue of the Giro D'Italia is Act One of a three-week drama full of triumphs, tragedies, politics, and, above all, passion. It mesmerizes cycling fans—and cycling fans are among the most rabid sports fans in the world, for they hold one great advantage over devotees of other sports. Whereas most professional athletes compete in constructed arenas where they are, for the most part, safely separated from the mob of spectators, cyclists compete out on the open road, an arm's length from the crowds that line the sidewalks as they whiz by. Cycling fans can reach out and touch their heroes, especially when the race enters the mountains and the competitors drag themselves up toward the clouds, often at a snail's pace. That is where the real fans, the
tifosi,
come out to watch the races. They line the steep mountain roads, leaving a path no wider than the back of one's hand for their heroes to pedal through. They paint the names of their favorite riders on the road. They paint their faces to match their national flags. They run alongside the cyclists wobbling up the road, screaming in their ears, exhorting them to pedal harder, to stay ahead of the chasing pack, to catch the rider just up the road, or perhaps just to help them survive to race another day.

Unlike most of the long, arduous stages of the Giro, where all the riders leave the starting line together and the first man to the finish line wins, the prologue is a short time trial, an individual race against the clock over a course of perhaps only three or four miles.

But it is three or four miles of sheer agony!

The riders go off one at a time at two- or three-minute intervals. This is their showcase, their introduction onto the stage, and for those three or four miles they tear apart their hearts and legs and lungs in a desperate attempt to show the cycling world that they have come to Italy ready to race. In many ways a time trial is the sport at its most basic and most brutal. It is not for nothing that they call it
la corsa di verità,
the race of truth.

As they gobbled down their food, the men took turns commenting on the riders as they entered the start house, noting the aerodynamic equipment each used.

“Not like in the old days, eh, Peppi?” Luca said for the benefit of Costanzo and Gianni. “Back when we were young you raced with the same bike every day no matter if it was a time trial or a mountain stage or a race on the flat roads. None of these special wheels and crazy handlebars they use today. We raced like men!”

“Yes, that's why you went so much slower,” remarked Gianni.

Luca gave his grandson a withering look before bursting out in laughter along with the others. “Is that so?” he chortled. “Suppose you get on your bike and I'll get on mine and we'll see who pedals up the climbs faster.”

“Nonno, I'd drop you in a minute,” boasted Gianni.

More laughter ensued and then they turned their attention back to the prologue.

“Speaking of climbs, that reminds me, Peppi,” said Luca. “Did I tell you about the stage to Abettone?”

“What about it?”

“They're going over the San Pellegrino this year,” he told Peppi. “A group of us are planning to ride the climb ahead of the race. It's a little tradition we started a few years back. We always try to do at least one of the Giro climbs.”

“You're not planning on doing it, are you?” Maria asked Costanzo.

“No,” he told his wife, “I wouldn't make it half way up.”

“You're smart,” said Filomena. “Not like these other ones. They all want to see who can be the first one to croak on the mountain.”

“It's not that bad,” scoffed Luca. “You just have to set a nice easy tempo. Besides, the
tifosi
are always there to give you a little push to keep you going.”

“Don't listen to him, Peppi,” said Lucrezia with an edge of concern in her voice. “It's much more difficult than he makes it sound.”

“I don't know,” said Peppi. “It sounds like fun.”

“It is!” exclaimed Luca. “Practically everyone in the group is planning to do it. We'll all ride up, and later on we'll have a little picnic on the mountain and watch the race go by.”

“That's if any of you are still breathing,” said Filomena.

“Don't listen to them, Peppi,” said Luca with a wave of his hand. “Let's watch the race. We'll talk more about it later.”

After dinner Luca rolled the television back into the living room so that the men could relax and digest while they watched the rest of the race. Meantime Maria and Vittoria helped clear the table while Lucrezia and Filomena started the dishes. Alone in the kitchen with her for a few moments, Filomena looked at her daughter as she scrubbed one of the big pots.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“What makes you think something's wrong?” said Lucrezia.

“I'm your mother, I know these things,” replied Filomena. “Besides, you've barely said a word since dinner.”

“There's nothing wrong,” said Lucrezia testily.

“Then what is it?”

Lucrezia tossed the sponge she was using into the sink and turned to her mother. “I just think it's a bad idea,” she said.

“What is?”

“Papa taking Peppi up that mountain,” she said.

“So do I,” huffed Filomena. “But you know how men are. There's no talking to them about these things. They have to show off for the women, as if any of us care. Besides, what do you care if Peppi goes?”

“I don't,” said Lucrezia awkwardly. “It's just that…”

“What?”

“It's just that he was sick and he's just starting to get better. I'd hate to see him get hurt for no good reason, that's all.”

“If you don't want to see it, don't go,” said Filomena in a matter-of-fact tone.

“I'll go if I want!” cried Lucrezia, slamming the pot she'd been washing down into the sink. Then she stormed out of the kitchen in a fury.

Later, after the prologue had finished and everyone had left, Luca came into the kitchen to see if there were any leftovers to pick at.

“What happened with Lucrezia before?” he asked as he peered into the refrigerator. “I heard her yelling about something.”

“Who knows?” said Filomena. “She was just in one of her snits. You know how moody she gets.”

“Hmm,” grunted Luca, spying a plate of leftover veal, “maybe we should try to get her to eat more olives.”

The road to the summit
of the San Pellegrino in Alpe starts far below in a lush, pleasant valley in the midst of the Apennines. Over the next twelve and one half kilometers, it climbs steadily toward the five-thousand-foot peak at an average gradient of ten percent. What that means is that the road rises one foot for every ten feet of pedalling for nearly eight miles. To get an idea of what a ten percent grade looks like, one might take a ruler, tilt one end up an inch or so, then draw an imaginary line along the ruler to some point in the distance. One soon sees that the imaginary line rises at an incredible rate!

It is the excruciating finale of the climb, however—the last two kilometers—that attracts the
tifosi,
the maniacal fans of competitive cycling who turn out to cheer the racers up the mountain. There the road goes straight up toward the sky at a staggering twenty percent grade! That is where the pedals turn over at an agonizingly slow tempo.

Each rider has his own style for getting up the mountain, his own method of survival. Some riders stay seated, their upper bodies relaxed and motionless to conserve energy as they make their way up the mountain. Others stand on the pedals and thrash about on the bicycle, desperate to find the energy for each successive pedal stroke. The one thing they all have in common, even the leaders who seem to defy gravity itself, is their suffering. Though the air gets thinner and colder as the riders near the summit, the sweat still pours out of them, leaving white splotches of salt across their faces and jerseys. They gaze with blank expressions at the road ahead, their red-rimmed eyes fixed on the pavement directly in front of them. To look further up the daunting climb toward the summit is an invitation to despair. Here is where real cyclists earn their keep. Their lungs burn and their legs cry for mercy, but they pedal on, for this is where the true contenders of the Giro come out and show themselves.

Peppi knew full well that he was not a contender for the Giro crown that year. His name would not be inscribed in any record book noting that he was one of hundreds of amateur riders, fit and unfit alike, who were foolish enough to pedal their bicycles up that ridiculously steep mountain road to the summit of the San Pellegrino in Alpe that day. He knew that no matter how soon he finished there would be no reward, monetary or otherwise. No medal, no commemorative patch, no certificate verifying the deed. Nothing.
Niente.

Peppi knew all this and yet, as he struggled up the last few kilometers of the climb, his legs aching, his body ready to topple over sideways at any moment, he would have preferred to die than to get off his bike and walk, even though walking would most likely have been faster. Instead, Peppi kept his gaze glued to Luca's rear wheel just in front of him. As if hypnotized by its rotation, he focused all his mind and body into keeping pace with it; but try as he might the wheel kept slipping away from him. Now and then, Luca would look over his shoulder and slow down so that Peppi could catch up, but each successive effort to keep pace was starting to take its toll.

Peppi looked up at the mob of spectators along the road. The frenetic scene surpassed anything he had ever imagined. There were people everywhere, eating and drinking and singing and dancing. Youngsters waved their nations' flags and chanted the names of their favorite riders while they tried to out-sing the fans from other countries. To be sure, the majority of the fans were Italian, but there were also sizable contingents from all of Europe and across the globe. As he gazed in wonder at the spectacle, it seemed to Peppi that all the world was woven into this colorful tapestry on the mountain.

To Peppi's surprise, the
tifosi
cheered each of the amateurs with almost as much zeal as they showed for the
maglia rosa,
the pink jersey worn each day by the Giro's leader. Some of them sat by the road and called out words of encouragement as the amateurs toiled away up the climb. Others ran along beside them, screaming in their ears, exhorting them to push harder. At one point, a man dressed as a red devil trotted up next to Peppi.

“Die! Die!” the devil screamed at him, shaking his pitchfork for emphasis.

For a moment Peppi was stunned, for he could not understand what this satanic impersonator wanted of him—he was already dying. As it was, he expected to see Anna waiting for him at the top of the climb. Then Peppi smiled and laughed despite the pain. He realized that the devil was not screaming the English word die, but the Italian word
dai,
meaning
give.
He was exhorting Peppi to give all of himself to the effort, all his heart and soul. That moment of levity was enough to give Peppi a burst of energy. He stood up on the pedals and moved up alongside Luca.

“Coraggio!”
the devil called after Peppi, giving his backside a healthy push to send him on his way.

“Dio mio!”
puffed Peppi, “these people are nuts!”

“Don't worry,” laughed Luca, “you're doing great. How are you feeling?”

“My legs are getting ready to fall off.”

“Don't give up,” said Luca, “take a look at that.”

Peppi looked up ahead and saw the banner over the road that told them that they were one kilometer from the top. From there on the crowd grew even thicker, but the end was now definitely in sight.

“Finalmente,”
gasped Peppi.

It was then that Luca and Peppi, despite their years, overtook a small group of younger riders struggling up the climb. Peppi tucked in behind Luca and the two pedalled as far as possible over to the side of the road to get by them. One of the riders, though, was having a particularly hard time of it. He wobbled and weaved, doing all he could to stay upright. For a moment he lost his concentration and veered into Peppi's path. Their wheels crossed and both riders went down hard on the pavement.

At hearing that awful scratching sound of metal and man against the road, Luca squeezed his brakes and jumped off his bicycle. He hurried back to help his friend, but by now Peppi and the other rider were engulfed by a group of fans who had picked them up and set them on their feet. Peppi had taken the worst of the fall. His shorts were torn and his forearm was badly scraped, but all in all he would survive. The other rider was practically in tears, apologizing to Peppi for causing the mishap.

“Colpa mia!”
he cried.
“Mi dispiace!”

“Don't worry,” Peppi told him, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “These things happen, my friend. Besides, I needed the rest.”

At that bit of bravado the crowd around them broke out in laughter.
“Bravo!”
they all cried. Then they helped Peppi and the other rider back onto their bikes and everyone took turns pushing them along to get them started back up toward the summit.

“Hey Peppi, you're a hero now!” laughed Luca as they resumed the ascent. “I bet they'll remember that crash better than anything else they see the pros do today.”

“Well, I know
I'll
remember it,” said Peppi, giving his forearm a quick look as they pedalled on.

Pandemonium reigned at the top of the climb. At crossing under the banner that marked the summit, some riders would dismount and raise their bikes overhead in a triumphant salute to the cycling gods. Others would pedal over the top, blowing kisses to the crowd as they passed. The rest, Peppi and Luca among them, were content to simply get off their bikes and wade through the crowd in search of their families and friends.

“There they are,” said Luca, pointing to an open spot up away from the road where the group from Villa San Giuseppe had set up camp. Filomena and Lucrezia were there, calling and waving to them as they waited with the others for the last few stragglers to make it up the mountain before the real race came through. As Peppi and Luca drew near, though, the smiles on the women's faces disappeared.

“Dio mio!”
cried Lucrezia at seeing the nasty scrape on Peppi's arm.

“What happened?” said Filomena.

“A little accident,” shrugged Peppi, “nothing serious.”

“Don't worry, he's a hero now,” said Luca, giving Peppi a wink. “Anyone else would have quit.”

“Who cares about heroes!” yelled Filomena, giving her husband a slap across the shoulder. “I told you something like this might happen. Didn't I say just yesterday that…that…”

Filomena's tirade halted when she noticed that Lucrezia had taken Peppi by the arm and guided him over to the blanket they had laid out on the ground. There her daughter made him sit while their friends gathered around to pat Peppi on the back and hear the story of how it all had happened. Meantime Lucrezia opened a bottle of water and began to clean the wound on Peppi's arm.

“Ouch!” Peppi winced, pulling his arm away. “That stings.”

“That's what you get for listening to my father instead of to me,” she chided him. “Now be still while I clean this or you'll end up with an infection.”

While she continued to scold him, Lucrezia meticulously picked out the bits of gravel that were imbedded in Peppi's skin. When she finished, she took a cloth napkin and used it as a bandage to cover the wound. Then she ordered Peppi to stay there and relax while she got him something to eat and drink.

Filomena watched with keen interest as her daughter fussed over Peppi. She let her gaze alternate between the two. Lucrezia was giving him an earful, but in that way that women do only to men they truly care about. For his part, Peppi was offering no resistance whatsoever to all the attention.

It was a very interesting situation.

Luca, meantime, was not paying any attention at all to the scene unfolding behind him. “You were saying,” he said to his wife, interrupting her ruminations.

“Never mind what I was saying!” Filomena exclaimed, giving him another whack. “I've got more important things on my mind right now.” Then she took her husband's arm and led him over to the blanket where she would be able to keep a closer eye on things as they developed.

 

That night, after they had left the madness of the Giro behind and returned home, Luca drove Peppi and the two women into Sulmona for dinner to celebrate their adventure on the mountain. After a hearty meal and a few carafes of wine, they all went for a stroll around the city's piazza. It was a cool but pleasant evening with a soft breeze drifting down from the mountains. As always on a Saturday night, the piazza was filled with people, young and old alike. In the middle of the piazza a statue of Ovid kept a contemplative watch over the proceedings. At the feet of the Roman poet sat a group of teenagers singing love ballads along with a young boy strumming the guitar.

Luca was in fine spirits as he ambled along, talking nonstop with Peppi about the Giro. “You know, some might say that the Tour de France has more prestige,” he was saying, “but the Giro has more of the soul, the real spirit of cycling.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Peppi.

“Don't let him get started,” said Filomena, walking with Lucrezia a few steps behind. “He'll bend your ear for the rest of the night if you let him.”

“But it's true,” said Luca, coming to a stop. “You know yourself, Filomena. Tell Peppi about the day we all went to watch Andrea from Introdacqua the last time the Giro came through here.”

“You tell him,” sighed Filomena, rolling her eyes for Lucrezia's benefit.

“You had to see it,” Luca began. “The group let Andrea pedal up ahead so that he could stop and say hello to all his family and friends who had come out to watch him race. They do the same thing sometimes in the Tour when the race goes through a rider's home town. But what's different about the Giro is that this time all the riders ended up stopping, not just Andrea, because Filomena and some of the other women had baked a load of pastries for them. It was incredible: almost two hundred guys on bicycles pull over and start gobbling down all the sweets they can get their hands on. Even the guys on the motorcycles and the race commissars grabbed a couple! Then one of the racers pedals off with a tray of cannoli and starts serving them to the other riders as they went along. It was great! You just don't see that sort of thing in any other race—only the Giro.”

The four of them continued their walk until they came to the edge of the piazza. Just across from it was a little park where they sat down on the edge of one of the fountains. Peppi leaned over and smiled when he saw the brightly colored fish swimming about in the pools. Lucrezia turned in time to see the smile on his face.

“What is it?” she said, looking with him into the pool.

“I was just remembering when I was a little boy,” said Peppi. “My parents used to bring me here sometimes and I would always get soaking wet trying to reach in and catch the fish.”

“How sweet,” said Lucrezia, still gazing into the pool. “You must have been so cute.”

Peppi made no reply, but simply smiled and stared with her at the tranquil water.

Filomena, meantime, jumped up, took Luca by the arm, and tugged him away from the fountain.

“What are you doing,
amore mia
?” he said to his wife as she made him walk with her down the path by the other fountains in the park.

Filomena looked back over her shoulder to see if Lucrezia and Peppi had even noticed that they had left. “I'm doing whatever it takes,” she said firmly. Then she smiled, coiled her arm around Luca's, and the two walked on together.

Left to themselves, Lucrezia and Peppi sat by the fountain chatting about the day's adventures. It was a good long while before either noticed that Filomena and Luca had disappeared. Peppi finally turned and looked about to see where they might have gone to.

“I wonder where your parents are?” he said.

“Don't worry about those two,” said Lucrezia, “I'm sure they haven't wandered far.”