Each athlete has his own parallel universe. An indefinite and nuanced place where one takes refuge to caress an idea, to comb through a regret. Up to eternalize it. It is the dimension of what could have been and was not. Mostly due to external factors. More rarely for their own choices. He has lived in this dimension for a long time Eugenio Monti, the legend of national bob who has spent a lifetime convincing others that one can be a giant while having a small body. There have been many curves in his career (and in his existence). Indeed, too many. In the early 1950s the name of Monti was often repeated. By insiders. From the fans. Because at 23 that boy from Dobbiaco is the most interesting prospect of Italian skiing. Monti runs fast. It seems impregnable. Both for the opponents and for the troubles. Gianni Brera observes him with curiosity. AND he is struck by it. He nicknames it the Flying Red. For the color of her hair. And for the emotions it arouses in those who look at it.
A day like so many Eugenio slips during a workout. The pain bites into his knee and his mouth widens in a heartbreaking scream. The diagnosis is merciless: rupture of ligaments. It means undergoing an operation. And a strenuous rehabilitation. Monti grits his teeth and goes on. Go back to training. Everything seems to have worked out. But is not so. He has a new accident. The knee still falls apart. His competitive career ends there. At least in skiing. The call of speed is too strong. Need a plan b. In the literal sense. Monti takes off his skis and starts pushing his bob hard. A discipline that turns it into an icon.
At the Winter Olympics in Cortina in 1956 he won two silver medals. He converts them into gold shortly after: in 8 years he takes home as many world title medals between two-man and four-man bobsleighs. The Innsbruck Games of 1964 seem like a story with an ending already written. On January 31, Monti and Siorpaes fight against compatriots Zardini and Bonagura and against the crew formed by Nash and Dixon. Competition is fierce. After two descents Monti is third, the British first. Not the result he hoped for. But it is the result that he himself helped to create. Because Monti was not the blacksmith of his fortune that afternoon. But also that of others. D.uring the first heat the rear axle of the English sled broke. They could no longer continue. Monti realizes this immediately. Says nothing. Send opponents a spare board. The British thank and fly to first place.
“Thanks to Monti we are in the lead – says Nash at the end of the race – Monti’s loyal gesture is the greatest courtesy I have ever received as a sportsman in my life”. Hierarchies will never change. Monti closes third. Nash first. The Italian medal is the least valuable. At least in appearance. Because the Rosso Volante becomes the first athlete to win the De Coubertin medal for the True Sporting Spirit. Regret accompanies Eugenio up to Grenoble 1968. It is there that Monti closes his parable. Gold in the two-man bob. And in the four-man bob. A man who becomes a legend, a story that survives the decades. Even to a bitter ending. The last straight of Monti’s life is painful. Suffering and sickness mix together. On 1 December 2003 he decides that he has had enough. He writes a letter, takes a gun, aims for the head. The rush to the hospital is useless. The Rosso Volante goes out the next day. His legend no. That will live on for a long time.
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