They have (musical) surnames from real runners: like Balmamion. They have (twentieth century) faces like real runners: how From Prà. They have (fabulous) stories from real runners: how They ate. They have (talking) eyes like real runners: how Gibi Baronchelli. They have (big) hearts like real runners: how Boifava. They have (long) memories of real runners: how Vigna. They have nicknames (Bomba) from real runners: like Bombini. And in short, they have lives (literary if not cinematic) not only as real runners but as great men: like Colnago.
They are runners. Real runners. And, the vast majority, also old runners, a very broad category which includes all those who have broken their backbone. Captains and team members, sprinters and climbers, long distance runners and regular riders (their favorite joke is: regularist, meaning flat everywhere), champions and not. And they are runners even if they don’t run anymore. Because they are old, many of them, and as for running, they have run enough, perhaps too much. But once a year they hear the call of the wild, the scent of the street, the attraction of the group, preferably compact, and here it certainly is. Here in Cambiago, between Bergamo and Milan, in the territorial kingdom of Ernesto Colnago, at the La Torrazza farmhouse, Saturday 11 May: we eat and drink, we chat and joke, we meet again and again, we hug and we meet up next year.
Alberto Morellini is in charge of this extraordinary meeting place for exes, who for half a century have come together as if they were brothers. Italian champion among amateurs, two years among professionals, Morellini – if desired – he is a great storyteller. He might remember when, at 15, with a friend, he did the Milan-Sori-Milan, 340 kilometres, and on the way back to Conca Fallata he beat his friend in the sprint. And when the father, having discovered the adventure, threatened: “I think you got the bike in Rundei”, I’ll tear this bike to pieces for you. Or he could remember when, in the last stage of the Giro del Piemonte, while preparing for the final sprint he saw the tubular tire collapse, and then he got off the bike, exchanged it for a boy’s women’s bike, and crossed the finish line with it.
This time, however, Morellini limits himself, and multiplies himself, in inviting, convening and reminding us of the appointment, which then it turns into a celebration of cycling, but also of humanity. There are those who see each other again after a year, and those for forty. There are those who still have something to ask and complain about, and those who swear they no longer remember anything. There are those who have money left over, those who have excuses, those who have wine. The beauty of the group lies in the variety, diversity and, indeed, humanity. They look like Alpine soldiers, they look like veterans, they look like veterans, they look like children, they look happy: and runners are a bit of all this.
The appointment is at noon. The rest is in Morellini’s hands. If you want to join the group, look for him. He will find a place at the table.