The Good Madonna sends help

After my 26 year hiatus from racing in Italia, and my season opener back in May in Robbeco d’ Oligi, I quietly put my tail between my legs and headed home to Crema.

Week after week I fronted up amongst the glamour boys of Northern Italian cycling desperately trying to carve out a name for myself. Each week they slapped me around the ears, kicked my ass and sent me home, my head hanging lower than a scolded dog.

Yep, it was going to be a long season, and with each start I was becoming more and more dejected.

Lodi, June 2008. It’s unbelievably hot, my fan club of Nicky and Felix has been boosted by the arrival of my Mother. Things are looking up, three supporters this week. I am in great form. I’m ripping the legs off everybody, that is, until I miss the break again. Man, I’ve never missed so many breaks in my life. Week after week, what is it with me. I even thought I was quite good at this bike racing, but now, I think I’ve lost it.

Lodi, June 2008. About 50KM away, in the hills behind Como, the Madonna Ghisallo, the patron saint of cycling, clearly heard my cries of anguish and decided to answer my calls. The good Madonna sent help, the good Madonna sent Giuseppe from Capergnanica.

Giuseppe, 78 years old, on the bike every day, more wires coming out of his chest than the Terminator, after his recent heart attack, strode into Lodi. Giuseppe from Capergnanica looked doubt in the eye and sent it packing.

Now given my spate of average performances, Giuseppe could see something that I was beginning to doubt, existed any longer.

So, now it’s the that guy from New Zealand that keeps missing the breaks, with his 78 year old Director Sportif. Yeah the circus is coming to town.

Our act is all set for centre stage in the big top after the August vacation, yeah they’re going to laugh us out of town again, alright.

Ombriano is my first race back, Giuseppe’s there waiting when I arrive. It was fine disappointing myself, but now I’m about to disappoint an old man as well, yep its getting better and better. Well bugger me, I’m in the break and we don’t get caught. I get 6th. Giuseppe’s ecstatic and I’m introduced to every old boy at the finish line. Yeah, I’m the new guy in town. I even get my post race Coke and espresso chaser paid for in the bar, this is more like it.

Pianengo; Now I’m the break again, this time with my new idol, Angelo Denti, a power house of Italian racing. Today I’m suffering like a dog. Angelo is putting me under so much pressure I crack like a plate at a Greek wedding. Back into the bunch, yep that scolded dog is back in town, head hung low.

But giving up is for sissies, so two laps later, I’m in another move and bugger me, we are catching the front group and smug old Angelo. 8th, good old Giuseppe’s as pleased as punch. Me, I’m just trashed.

Bertonico; Monday afternoon, I deserve a half day to go racing. Everbody deserves a half day to go racing when they live in Italy, or so it seems, as there are about 80 on the start line. I’m on fire, in the break again and we stay away. I can only manage 4th. I’m estatic, Giuseppe’s estatic. Not the podium, but I’m on a roll and with every race I’m more and more confident.

Saturday, Mullazzano. In the way home in the car, all Giuseppe has to say is Madonna, Madonna, over and over again, clearly my placing did not please him. Today you should have won he tells me. 5th I was quite happy, not my Director Sportif though. In order to placate him, I tell him I’ll race again, tomorrow. We’ll win tomorrow I tell him, Madonna, Madonna..

Forty Six years old, and I’m racing back to back days. After I drop Giuseppe off the whole idea is starting to sound incredibly stupid. Bike racers can’t just call in sick, it’s a hard mans sport, you crash you get up. A couple of quite hail mary’s to the good Madonna is what's needed here.

Sunday, Barbata. I pull into town and it’s seething bike racers, the circuits 7km in length, 10 laps. Great, just what tired legs need, is a short tight course, it’s going to hurt today.

Two laps into it, I jump across to a small group that’s just off the front. We really drive it, 7 of us, I’m feeling pretty good all in all.

The bunch aren’t letting up, and through the corners I look back to see them strung right out in the gutter…sure sign they’re chasing hard. I’d say we’ve got 15 seconds, you can almost feel their breath on the hairs on the back of your neck. Bastards, we aren’t going down without a fight.

Two to go and we’ve started to crack them, we’re out to 20 odd seconds.

Well bugger me, I’ve won the bastard.

Well it took a 78 year old man, before I managed to get it right, yes the good Madonna’s a powerful woman.

Slim.

Why Italia produces World Champions

My fascination with this subject began many years ago.

At 11 years of age, I would thumb through copies of International Cycle Sport, the glossy English magazine that had more attraction than a Playboy magazine in those days.

The centre fold would inevitably be of the current Italian superstar resplendent in his Rainbow jersey as Champion of the World.

In 1982 after crashing and then pulling out of the amateur road race at the World Championships in Goodwood, England, I watched Beppe Sarroni storm up the final climb that was my demise, to become World Champion and pull on the converted Rainbow jersey that he would wear all year. What’s worse, he made it look so easy and for the following season, he rode through the peloton looking like he was wearing Armani.

The Cricket, Paolo Bettini, back to back wins, back to back wins, can you imagine how difficult that must be. Sure Armstrong won 7 tours in a row, but he had a month of racing to get it right before crossing the finish line in Paris, Paulo had just 7 odd hours to perfect his trade and he has managed it twice.

Now I’m 45 and Felix is 11. He’s not so keen on Bettini, thinks that Tornado Tom Boonen looked better in the Rainbow jersey, but he now has his chance in the Italian sun.

His new Celeste Bianchi, and white Sidi shoes have pride of place in his bedroom, his racing licence is authentic, issued by the Italian Federation and the Cremasco Squadra have his training schedule mapped out.

Tuesday evening, we rode down to the industrial zone for his debut training session, arriving a little after starting time.

The perfect evening, 34 degrees, and not a breath of wind, the only noise was the buzz of a motor scooter coming down the road towards us, and sitting comfortably in its draft were 15 odd budding Bettini’s aged 9 to 13, all lapping it out behind the scooter, round and round the block. Unfortunately the scooter was too fast for the other 15, who were aged from 5 years up, and they sat behind an older rider, round and round the industrial estate each pedal revolution inching them closer to the rainbow jersey and the centre pages of International Cycle Sport.

The commitment to the development of young riders in Italy should be closely watched by many developing cycling nations. New Zealand’s national team often get a big slice of the sporting funds, come grants time, but what is being done to foster young talent.

Crema population 35,000 has a major youth development programme, and each weekend there is a race on with up to 100 starters in all grades in the greater region. The lyrca is all brand new and ablaze with sponsors names, as the club supplies the total package including helmet and shoes.

Should you want it, the bike is also available free of charge. My sponsor, back in the International Cycle Sport days were poor Antonio and Helen, and every punctured tubular bought tears to their eyes I’m sure, not mention the smashed wheels and frames.

I got Felix settled in behind the scooter and a lap later he had that grin so big that he should have been standing in the top step of the podium, arms held high wearing the Rainbow jersey.

After 15 years of marriage, Nicky thought her days of hearing about, dropping him, attacking him, big ring this, Bora wheels that, were coming to an end, but now Felix rides through the door Tuesday and Thursday nights with a new vocabulary derived from the language of a generation of future World Champions.

Its little wonder Paolo managed the double.

Slim.

26 years later

Well 26 years after last racing in the fabled land of Italia, I was back…

26 years ago, 26 years ago, yep the older I get, the better I was, that’s for sure.

Robbeco d’ Oligio, is in the vast expanse of flat in northern Italy, known as the Po valley. Today was an early season race of around 60km, my grade, Veteran and the grade above called Gentlemen.

I arrived to register at midday in the local bar, and while drinking espresso, I noted that they mostly looked like a bunch of punters and perhaps this was going to be a complete waste of an afternoon, and the local trattoria, a plate of Gnocchi and mezzo litro of vino rosso was starting to look like a much better bet.

The rain began to clear as I left the sanctuary of the bar and the espresso machine, and through the rising gloom the team cars were starting to pull into town.

As a bunch of mature riders in New Zealand, I thought we looked pretty good, flash bikes, nice kit, a little definition through the legs, all the prerequisites to say that we were ok in our day, and now we were old and flash, but still not too shabby all the same.

Well, veteran racing in Lombardia makes the Protour scene look like a PNP race on the coast road of Wainuiomata. These boys are flash, bikes, team kit, and tans that were not to be had in Lombardia in the last 3 months that’s for sure.

Nic and Felix kept reassuring me that I also was looking pretty dam sharp in my R+R / Immigrants Son kit, but it was starting to get daunting with the arrival of every new team car.

With a brave face I lined up for our 4 lap race amongst the motor cycle cavalcade, the team cars, ambulances, horns and sirens.

The roads were starting to dry as the flag dropped, and sitting in the bunch we quickly moved out of town and into the 4 metre, wide winding country road at a comfortable 45 to 48kph.

Now the field was about 80 strong, and on these narrow roads, I was trying to move up through the bunch to no avail. The first complete lap I fought to hold my position of about 69th in the bunch, cursing and swearing under my breath, that now I was performing like the punter, as the real racing was going on about 60 riders ahead of me. 

Finally I managed to fight my way to the front, and settled the lone team rider of Robertson & Robertson Consultants in with the flashest of team jerseys. For two laps we hammered it out, and with each move off the front, I realised how pointless it was to try and go up the road, but never the less I kept trying.

After what seemed like only minutes, the lead out trains were getting formed and poor old Slim, without a team was getting bashed around like a third former on the college bus.

With about 1500 to go, my lead out wheel faded and I sat up, just as the barging and pushing was reaching Pakistani rioting proportions.

The inevitable was going to happen and it did, 10 or so of the big boys came down and there were bikes going everywhere. I had almost managed to sneak through, when a big sprinter type, lay across the road trying to slow my approach to the line….

Well, I climbed back on, got back off, put my chain back on and rode back into the finish, yep, 26 years later it hadn’t got any easier.

Next Sunday can’t come soon enough, cause I’m feeling like after the last 26 years my craft ain’t as sharp as it used to be and if you think I’m going out without getting close to sniffing the win, you must have been riding with Slim for the last 26 years with your eyes closed.

Slim.