NED BOULTING!
THE ITALIANS TAKE THEIR CYCLING SERIOUSLY, AS NED DISCOVERS...
Ihave recently returned from commentating on a bike race in Italy, where riding a bike involves an almost complete absence of fun. First, some perspective: Italy is a wonderful country. I am the first (well, maybe not the very first) to wax lyrical about the symbiotic relationship between the land, the language, the smell and the taste of the Italian Peninsular. Barely a day goes by, on the smoky, early spring-washed roads of Tirreno-Adriatico, when I am not forced into a eulogy about a perfectly seasoned Amatriciana, a rich and intoxicating wild boar ragu, or a finely balanced Barbera d’Asti. Yes, it’s tough being a cycling commentator.
The rolling Appenine mountains form the consistently breathtaking backdrop. Italian people are warm, garrulous and funny, for the most part. There is much to admire, plenty to adore, and not a little to make you seethe with jealousy.
Not everything in Italy is worthy of a standing ovation. There is, for a start, the fading national obsession with the now, finally, sidelined former prime minister, Silvio Berlusconi. Before we leave politics alone completely, it’s worth mentioning the Roman taxi driver I found myself talking to who, after roaring with laughter at the words ‘Camilla Parker Bowles’, and making a rude hand gesture, decided to apprise me of his own political persuasions.
‘I,’ he said, pointing at himself, ‘…fascist!’ This was funny, somehow, until he pointed at a black man on a pavement, and cursed: ‘And, I, racist!’ That wasn’t so funny; as gobsmackingly unamusing as the Mussolini tea towels and Hitler souvenir mugs sold at the gift shop at the caves in Frasassi.
Leaving aside their penchant for the far right, there is much to be learnt from Italy’s love of cycling. It is noticeably different from the homely fluff of British cycling culture (well, most of it). They don’t really do cycling for fun, you see.
It’s far too important for mere pleasure. Cycling is one of those things that Italians don’t seem to greatly enjoy, like Catholicism. But, like the church, it’s part of their birthright and duty.
There is precious little utilitarian cycling in Italy. This is not Holland, or Denmark. It’s not even Britain, itself hardly a bastion of mainstream bike-ness. The idea of nipping to the shops on your town bike is as alien to most Italians as the fanciful notion of not wearing sunglasses every day.
No, cycling is a thing best done alone. It involves mortification, mountains, suffering and neoncoloured Lycra peppered with the logos of small businesses from the region in which you have been raised, and your father before you and his father before that. It necessitates the wearing of specialised snoods and bandanas. It is inconceivable that it should be undertaken in chatty groups. It is solitary, and serious.
How else do you explain the continuing fetishisation of the memory of the fatally flawed Marco Pantani? A man whose brilliance and ruthlessness, weakness and obsession, led to his early grave. And where else would a rider like Mario Cipollini enjoy such status? A boorish battering ram of a rider, with an ego matched only by his flamboyance. These are, despite the frills and spills, serious men.
Vincenzo Nibali is the slightly unwilling heir to the throne of national cycling deity. And, for that reason, whenever the main contenders drop him on a climb, Italian TV concentrates on filming him going backwards, often to the exclusion of showing the actual race develop. He suffers, and the nation falls to its knees.
Italy was once a powerhouse of world cycling. The names of Coppi and Bartali are the Doric pillars on which the temple of Ciclismo was built. But the well has begun to run dry. The next great, after Nibali, has yet to emerge. The number of other race winners has dwindled.
It’s a shame. For a country whose cycling landscape should be overrun with effervescent talent to match the vitality of the landscape and culture, it feels like it is edging towards the end of something, not the beginning. Once upon a time, it must have been very different. But that time, you feel, has passed, and the road back to the future might be long, winding and best travelled in solitary suffering while wearing something bright green, with lots of logos. Viva Italia!
Cycling is one of those things that Italians don’t seem to enjoy