The rest was not kind. The legs did not forget. The head did not quieten down. Only the landscape changed. Flat again, cities with gentle contours and names that say “it is easier here”. But it is not.
Lucca smells of coffee and silence. The walls still defend themselves against anything that could harm them. There is no peloton here, no conversations. One cyclist. One bike. One track. Equilibrio – the balance between what you want and what you fear. Between haste and calm. It is not force that rules today. It is delicacy. The ability to maintain a perfect track at fifty kilometers per hour. The road leads to Pisa, where the tower has taught for centuries that everything can be beautiful even when it tilts. Maybe that is why.
For Cattaneo, this day is a test. He is not afraid of loneliness, he is not afraid of time. He is like an eagle that does not need a flock – he flies alone, wide, even, confident. The shadow of his bicycle crosses the cobbled alleys, as if moving along a map of dreams.
They set off from Viareggio from the seaside. There, children eat creamy ice cream, and old women put plastic chairs in front of their doors. But they have no time for this life. They ride into the depths. Into hardship. Into speranza – hope that has nothing to do with joy. It is not a smile. It is a shadow that runs alongside. The forest is too dense, too quiet. Every kilometre is a question without an answer. Castelnovo ne’ Monti is waiting somewhere high up. Like a promise that maybe it was worth it after all.
On the way, there is the smell of mint and warm thyme, mixed with dust. Something damp rises from the bends – as if the leaves had tears in them. They ride, bent over, silent. Among them, perhaps Giulio Ciccone – stubborn, quiet, with that look of his, as if he knew every tree and every stone. He knows that speranza is not a dream. It is a decision.
From Modena to Viadana – a straight line that brings no relief. Noia – boredom. But one that bores the mind. When every landscape looks the same, and there is nothing new in turning the crank. There are those who can’t stand days like this. But this is where the soul is hardened. When nothing pushes you forward, and you go anyway. Because you can’t do otherwise. No one will remember this stage. But those who don’t give up today will survive the next ones.
The air is different in the north. Heavier, humid, full of memories. From Rovigo they set off towards Monte Berico. It seems like an ordinary stage. But the end is a ritorno – a return. It is not known to what. Maybe to an old bike without gears. Maybe to yourself, before the injury, before the ambition. In Vicenza, a church awaits, looking down and knowing that everything returns – fatigue, faith, loneliness.
In the shadow of these walls, Damiano Cunego once tried to win. They called him: the little prince. But princes also lose. Sometimes loudly, sometimes quietly. Just like today.
And then the border. Physical and not. From Treviso to Nova Gorica. Confine. Where everything mixes – languages, tastes, memories. The border does not need guards. It lives inside a person. Questions – where I come from, where I am going – have no answers. In the evening, someone in a trattoria will raise a glass of Teran. The tart wine will leave a mark like history in the soul. Maybe one of the cyclists will take a sip. For the border. For what is between.
In this zone of shadow and belonging, something familiar floats. Maybe the scent of wild lavender from the unploughed hills. Maybe the smell of smoke from home stoves. Or maybe just a memory of something from childhood – from the border. Like the memory of eagles from coats of arms and posters. Because the border is also a myth. And truth.
Finally – Asiago. But before – a long road from Fiume Veneto through the plains, through the whisper of the war land. Memoria – memory. This is not a story from a book. It is an echo in the morning mists, in the dampness of mosses, in trees that have seen more than people. Here, the cyclist rides not alone. He rides through something that was before him and will be after him. There is no fanfare at the top. There is silence. And the awareness that not everything can be understood. Not everything is necessary.
It is here, in the Asiago massif, that the soldiers of the Polish II Corps rest. None of the competitors know their names. But they are riding through a place where the white and red eagles were not flying in formation – they were just watching from the sky. Tomorrow is another day of rest. At least that’s what the organizer says. But the body is not listening to it anymore. The head is not listening either. Maybe only the spirit knows that it is not over yet. That the real climb is still ahead of them.
English (UK) 
Polski