Thank god for the immaculate maintenance of Italy’s roads: My
trusty little Motobi is deficient in the suspension department, and every bump
and nick in the road telegraphs through the frame and into the bars. Several
hundred kilometers may not sound like much on a new bike, but with the Motobi’s
cramped riding position and the sparse padding of its narrow seat, I learn, both
to appreciate modern technology, and to respect the pilots of old.
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The route
is marked by arrows at the course’s many roundabouts and forks. Though getting
lost is difficult, people manage to do it. Suddenly I find myself conspicuously
out of place, a lone relic from the past riding in the modern world like a time
traveler, and I assume I’ve missed a marker and need to turn around. Getting
back on track is usually a simple affair. One episode of confusion is caused by
mischief: Local boys rearrange the posted arrows helter-skelter to send astray a
horde on vintage motorcycles. In typical Italian fashion, aggravation gives way
to humor as the responsible party finally points out the right direction and
correctly resets the arrows.
Checkpoints and scheduled rest stops at villages
are welcome sights. Giro participants, several hundred strong, arrive in a
steady stream and transform each town’s piazza into a vintage motorcycle show.
The bars, cafes, and restaurants await riders with water and pasta, bruschetta,
pizza, and cheeses. Hands buzzing from the vibration of the Motobi’s handlebars,
I break bread with fellow protagonisti. With bragging and light-hearted jabs, we
recount experiences on the road.
BR>
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Like the circus come to town, the Motogiro
sweeps into these small hamlets in brief bursts of excitement. The locals, young
and old, come together in a common spirit of joy. Grandfathers point out the
machines of their youth to grandsons perched on their knees. A friendly elder
regales you with stories of the original Giro that passed through the village
all those years ago: He remembers—he was here. Then, an espresso—and back aboard
the Motobi for another romp through Italy’s beauty.
Now and again I see a
meticulously restored machine parked in the driveway of a private home. Nearby,
its owner—old, leaning against a cane—stands proudly over this memento of his
youth, testament to his racing past and token of camaraderie with today’s
passing racers. And here I am, basking in this reflected glory of Italy’s
illustrious racing history, taking part in a legendary rally, now, creating a
story of my own. A friendly exchange of waves, and I push on.
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