They changed countries. They left behind a two-headed eagle and returned to where it all began. To the homeland of the Giro. To a land that knows every kind of suffering on a bike. To the asphalt that remembers the wheels of Coppi and Bartali. They returned home – although this home was never warm. But they returned like eagles that always, regardless of where they flew, circle over their own nest. Because the Giro is also a return – not only physical, but emotional, primal.
In the south, everything tastes different. The air is more oily. Shadows have sharper edges. In Alberobello, the trulli stick out like enchanted cones from childhood dreams, but no one admires them. Because no one came here for a fairy tale. Here came the attesa – the waiting that gives no relief. They ride through olive groves, through stone and figs. The scent of wild rosemary and fallen fruit rises from the bushes. They ride because they have to. Because the Giro doesn’t ask if you feel like it. Only if you can still ride. The groves offer no shade, only a taste of bitterness. Figs hang from the trees like unanswered questions. Baroque awaits in Lecce. Facades like lace. But too heavy, too full of history to be able to relax by them.
And then Matera. A stone city that doesn’t need history, because it is history itself. Everything is silent here. Silence hangs like dust. Silenzio – silence. Here you don’t speak – here you breathe, carefully, so as not to disturb this seriousness. They ride through land as dry as a throat after fifty kilometres. Sassi – houses carved in rocks – look at them without sympathy. In the bakery on Piazza Vittorio Veneto, someone is taking out Pane di Matera – dark, heavy bread. The smell passes between the cyclists like a memory: that even in silence someone is baking bread. Here you don’t shout. Here you survive.
Among the riders – maybe Richard Carapaz, tough as basalt, who knows the value of silence and uncertainty. Or maybe it’s a small cyclist with a big heart – Lorenzo Fortunato – who doesn’t shine, but endures. Like silence. Like Sassi.
From Potenza down, towards the fire. A day when the air doesn’t cool, but only angers. Fuoco – fire. In the legs, in the lungs, in the gazes. In the sun that doesn’t illuminate, only burns. Someone will fade today. Someone else will burn brighter. Naples doesn’t wait. Naples roars – but not to them. For them, there are exhaust fumes, the smell of pizza they won’t try, and a road that doesn’t forgive mistakes.
Maybe today the fire will burn something new. Maybe the cyclist from Negrar – Davide Formolo – will try to revive the spirit of the old heroes, even if only on one climb. But the Giro knows no mercy. There’s no sentiment for the local guys here.
The Apennines are different from the Alps. Less visible. Less proud. But more personal. It is not a mountain – it is a challenge. Sfida – a challenge that comes without warning. First a climb as if nothing had happened. Then a second one. A third one. The road does not end. It only tests. In Tagliacozzo, maybe someone will pass you a bottle. Maybe not. But there will be no music. No one plays here. Here you fight – without fanfare.
Where Bartali once fought, today Tom Pidcock struggles. Short, springy, more from the mountains than from the road, but with the same spark: “a little more”. When it is steep, he does not ask for a plan. He simply gets up from the saddle.
In Marche, everything is in motion. The hills ripple, the wind changes direction. The earth seems to be unable to make up its mind. What is needed is tenacia – perseverance. Not power, not a flash of genius. Only persistence. Each turn of the crank like a shadow that does not disappear. In Castelraimondo you arrive with clenched teeth. Without gestures. Without smiles. But with something more important – with the conviction that if you succeeded today, you will succeed tomorrow.
The smell of the meadows here is different than in the south. Here the air carries the scent of sweet thyme and fresh sage. But no one talks about aromas. They only talk about distance, about waiting, about pain.
Then dust. Not the romantic kind, but the real kind. In your mouth. In your eyes. In your thoughts. Gubbio to Siena. Polvere – dust. Strade bianche do not forgive. They do not give you time to reflect. They are like memory: uneven, ruthless. Where the asphalt ends, comfort ends. All that is left is a fight for the line, for balance, for meaning. Siena looms in the distance like a mirage. But the dust stays with them. It stays in your teeth. In your gloves. In your memory. Because polvere is a sign that you were there. That you survived. That you left something – even a trace in the dust.
Michele Bartoli used to race in Siena. Instead of victories – wounds. Instead of glory – memory. And maybe that’s worth more.
And tomorrow is a day of rest. That’s what the calendar says. But can you really rest when your body remembers the sand and your head keeps going? Maybe it’s not a break. Maybe it’s just the silence between sounds. Or maybe that’s when it hurts the most.
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