Conference noted::bicycle

    Mauro Gorrino has found a bike for me to ride -- an old aluminum ALAN
    tourer with a triple crank.  Like many bikes in the Piemonte region,
    this one has a venerable history.  Its owner took it to France years
    ago, with the goal of conquering all the important climbs of the Tour
    de France. It doesn't look like much, but this bike deserves respect. 

    We start on a ride that includes a 4km climb from Mauro's village of
    Crescentino up to my soon-to-be project leader's house in the hills.
    The Alan spins easily up through the tight switchbacks, while Mauro,
    climbing out of the saddle, has to fight the Campy derailleur on his
    Sannino race bike to make it stay in 42-26. 

    When cars pass us in the drizzle of the afternoon, they're amazingly
    polite. Italian drivers are often agressive towards one another --
    running red lights, crossing the double line to pass one another at 60
    mph in the middle of the city, nosing out of side streets into the
    middle of oncoming traffic, blasting horns at anyone going too slow --
    but they're patient and disciplined when they encounter us.  Bikes have
    a great reputation in Northern Italy, and it shows. 

    We arrive at Amedeo's house as the rain starts to fall harder.  We stow
    the bikes away, and Amedeo shows me his own "legendary" bike -- a nice
    racer with the letters GZETA running down the seat tube.  I mention
    that I've never heard of the brand, and Amedeo explains that the bike
    was once owned by a teenager who has now gone on to be a member of the
    Italian National Team. The kid's father, G. Zeta, was a famous mechanic
    who had tried his hand at frame making, but who had no business sense.
    He made several good bikes, but soon decided that it was too much work.
    He started hanging out at the local bar, playing darts, and leaving the
    workshop in charge of one or another of his very young sons.  Customers
    became frustrated, and the enterprise went belly-up. 

    With the rain pouring down in sheets, we have to give up any idea of
    going out as a threesome.  We settle instead for a snack of wild
    strawberries with lemon and sugar, make plans.  Tomorrow is annual
    citizen's race in Mauro's town; I'm to be an unofficial entrant. 

    Race day is sunnier, and windy.  The Carabinieri (State Police) are at
    all the major intersections.  A carnival is going on in an adjacent
    field.  Bikers are everywhere.  The whole town is out in the streets. 

    I arrive during the Veteran's race.  Here are all of these guys over
    fifty, BLAZING around a 5-km course full of tight corners. They're
    incredibly smooth -- more like pros than citizen racers. 

    We finish prepping our bikes in time to see the final sprint -- the
    victor raising his hands triumphantly ten meters before the finish
    line, cruising past it with them still outstretched. 

    Now it's our turn.  Mauro tells me that I'll have to stay at the back
    of the pack, since I don't have a number.  I line up at the back up the
    staging area.  There are lots of teams gathering, and many have exotic
    bikes.  Some of the equipment I've never seen before -- Colnago Master
    frames (whose tubes have a star-shaped cross section) Croce D'aune
    components, wild paint jobs. 

    I feel a little self-conscious on the Alan. Then I notice a tremendous
    irony: everybody's wearing a helmet except me!  Even though they're
    only recommended (Mauro explained to me later), almost all amateur
    racers in Italy use helmets.  Here I am, an American, the guy from the
    land of the helmet, with only a bike cap between me and the road. 

    We make a rolling start.  Everybody is mellow, even half-asleep, as we
    take the first couple of corners and head out of town.  Soon I become
    frustrated; the pack of about 100 slows to walking speed on the first
    hill. "When are we going to race?" I wonder.  I begin to think these
    guys are lightweights as we saunter up the second hill and finish the
    loop back into town. 

    All the sudden, the pack drops me.  It's like the rest of the cyclists
    have gone into warp drive.  I sprint frantically to catch up, only to
    find myself locked in the "yo-yo" effect.  The front riders barely have
    to slow down for the tight corners, but by the time the back of the
    pack reaches them, it's crawling. This leaves the people at the back
    with a murderous sprint to keep up. 

    Two laps of this, and I'm nearly spent.  The pack drops me and a few
    others decisively.  Still, I'm determined to work my way back. I try
    teaming up with the other slow riders to break the wind, but they are
    either too tired or unwilling to pull. I end up alone between the main
    pack and the stragglers, knowing I have little chance of catching up. 

    I throw the Alan into the corners with all my might, letting the soft
    aluminum frame soak up the understeer of the touring geometry.  I see
    that I'm picking up five to ten meters on each one, but it isn't
    enough: the pack's still pulling away. My rear derailleur also jumps
    out of gear whenever I sprint. The poor bike just isn't built for this
    treatment. 

    After a couple of more laps, I hear an official at the finish line say
    "(mumble) terminee" and think he meant I had been terminated from the
    race.  I'm about half a lap back from the pack, after all, so I pull
    aside and became a spectator.  Soon I realize that he was announcing
    how many laps there were to go (until the "terminee" of the race). 

    It isn't so bad being a spectator.  The leaders have formed a breakaway
    pack, and they carve the corners like downhill skiers.  The crowd is
    really into the race; they scream encouragement for a rider who's
    broken the main pack and is slowly catching the leaders on his own.
    Mauro hangs on in the main pack, but he's inevitably slipping from the
    front to the back.  His legs were tight this morning from yesterday's
    ride, and now they're fading. Two laps later, he pulls out. 

    "Take a few laps on my bike," he says.  I adjust the seat, and head
    back out on the course. 

    Though only 58 or 59 cm, Mauro's frame is made entirely of Colombus SPX
    tubing.  It is by far the stiffest bike I've ever ridden, as different
    from the Alan as a bike can get.  Instead of throwing it into the
    corners, I now find myself diving through them like hoops of fire. When
    I stand up, I feel like I'm on a concrete platform -- the bottom
    bracket doesn't sway a millimeter.   Instantly, I know that my beloved
    Olmo back in the states is doomed. It will always feel mushy to me now. 

    Two laps are enough.  I'm really getting tired.  I decide to pull aside
    to watch the finish. 

    The coach of Mauro's bike team is there.  I ask him (through Mauro) if
    I can join his team in the fall.  He looks me over and says something.
    "He'd be happy if you would," Mauro tells me. 

    "He kind of looks like Hampsten," says another guy.  I'm really
    embarrassed, considering my performance on the course.  (Hampsten took
    the lead in the Giro that day.)  "Don't worry.  You just need the right
    kind of training," Mauro reassures me, "When you work with the team
    you'll do better." 

    We're going to try another race on Saturday ("an easier one," Mauro
    says), so we go on a training ride after work.  A careless driver
    nearly kills Mauro; he catches the guy at the next traffic light and
    chews him out. "Forget those Italian words I used," he tells me.  We
    laugh it off and go on our way. 

    The hills to the West of Turin are low and rolling, similar to the
    Massachusetts ones where Mauro and I first rode together.  The Alan is
    at home here, as I am, and I fare much better.  On the longer hills, I
    pull away from the other riders we meet on the road. 

    When one guy discovers I'm American, he tells me (through Mauro) about
    how Hampsten has extended his lead in the Giro by winning a time trial
    stage.  As if in celebration, I lead the group of three down the road
    at a much faster pace. 

    We form a pace line, and merge with the main road back to town.  It's
    about 10km long, straight, and on a slight incline downwards.  This
    kind of road, called pave ("pav-�") by Italian cyclists, is my fort�.
    Taking a few long pulls, I help get us really moving.  Eventually, we
    drop the third cyclist, and blitz by several others cruising on the
    shoulder. 

    Slowing down as we get into town, the third guy catches up to us. He
    reports that we were doing 55 km/hr. (He had a cateye.)  "These
    Americans want to come here and win everything," he says to Mauro. The
    conversation then turns to the BIG event, the Bruce Springsteen concert
    this weekend.  Anybody who's anybody is going.  American is "in" this
    season, it seems.  I recall the boutiques I had seen in Milan on
    Wednesday; they had been stuffed with Timberland shoes and Ralph Lauren
    jackets instead of Ferragamo ties and Armani suits. 

    "Do you want to go to a bike exposition?"  Mauro asks.  I jump at the
    chance.  All the Piemonte producers are there: Gios, Galli, Olmo,
    Sannino, Benotto, Columbus....  At the Sannino stand, I spot a gorgeous
    frame, like nothing I've seen before.  Its tubes each have a different
    cross-section -- an inverted teardrop for the downtube, triangles for
    the chainstays, the outline of an eye for the top tube.  Each has been
    optimised to its function.  The seat tube meets the downtube IN FRONT
    of the bottom bracket, to allow a tighter rear triangle.  The whole
    thing is very exotic.  It's Columbus's MultiShape tubing ("MS" for
    short), introduced last year, and still in limited production.  I'm
    immediately very interested in this frame, and ask about the cost.
    "Lire 930,000," ($750) he says. 

    Campagnolo components are on nearly every bike.  There's a new group,
    "Athena" that's just been introduced, which is at the low end.  The
    Croce D'aune components look nice up close. C-Record is everywhere. 

    We decide to go on another ride instead of racing, but 5 km into it, I
    discover that the lug at the seatpost has split apart.  The legendary
    Alan has bitten the dust, having died of old age and stress. Mauro
    tells me not to worry about it, and suggests that we go to the Sannino
    factory to have a look around instead. 

    It's a little place tucked in the middle of a residential area.  Only
    seven people work there.  As we walk in, we find ourselves surrounded
    by commemorative photos of winners on Sannino bikes -- the Polish
    national team, one of the top Soviet riders, the veteran champion of
    Italy. There are about ten gleaming bikes in the front hall, from track
    bikes to team TT to women's models.  Guiseppe Sannino himself is there,
    adjusting an older bike in for service. 

    He takes us into the production area, a 5 by 10 meter room. Frames at
    different stages of a assembly hang from the ceiling.  I grin when I
    see all the pinups on the walls, like in any mechanic's shop. 

    Guiseppe takes us through each stage of the process, from tube
    preparation to painting.  He notes with pride the special care that
    Sannino takes. "I'm not interested in quantity, only quality," he says. 

    When I ask questions, he is quick and definite in his answers.  Why
    does he use smaller fork blades than his competitors?  He pulls down a
    few examples of the other kind, and says that he's found that the one
    he uses is stiffer, even though it looks less impressive.  He's happy
    to stick on whatever kind a customer specifies, but he'd recommend the
    type he uses.  Why doesn't he use much chrome?  It weakens the tubes
    over time, comes the response.  Columbus won't guarantee tubes that
    have chrome applied to them. He'll do what the customer wants, but he
    recommends against chrome.  What angles do you use?  He has defaults,
    but he'll do anything a customer likes, within reason. Can I get a
    custom paint job? No. That's one thing that's not negotiable. Sannino
    bikes are always red. 

    There are a few MS frames in the shop.  Since I'm obviously lusting
    over them, Guiseppe asks me through Mauro if I'd like to take a ride on
    one.  "Would I?" I gasp.  "Sure!" 

    I race outside to get my cleats.  They set me up on one of the original
    prototypes. Since all the lugs weren't available when the frame was
    produced, it's lugless (except at the bottom bracket). Though it's not
    as strong as a production model, it's even more beautiful.  The seat
    tube flutes up along the seatpost, the seat stays melt into the top
    tube, the front tubes arc into the steering tube without a crease. 

    I'm surprised at how comfortable the bike is, even with 74.5 degree
    angles.  The steering is perfectly neutral; the turns are crisp. It's
    not frightening at all on the downhills, like my Olmo can be.  At one
    point I take my hands off the bars, and raise them like the Veteran
    citizen racer I saw at the moment of victory. 

    I return to the States.  Out of curiosity's sake, I take the Olmo out
    along Memorial Drive.  I can't believe how huge it feels -- like a
    truck.  The frame's too big for me.  My weight's too far back, making
    the bike unstable in fast corners.  And, inevitably, it feels a little
    mushy.  It'd be a great bike for a taller, lighter rider, but I no
    longer feel like it belongs to me. 

    I'm ordering a Sannino MS frame in September.  The Olmo's up for sale.
    Anybody interested? 

    Thanks for an enjoyable note.    Rod

    Great reading! I hope you continue to add to this when you're situated
    and keep us posted on your racing career. We'll be looking for you in
    next years Giro.

    Jonathan
    

    You lucky dog!  Wonderful reading, good luck in Italy.
    
    How about some details on the Olmo for sale i.e. size, components,
    price, mileage, etc?
    
    Dave
    
    

    I overlooked one important fact: I need a bike to ride this summer!
    I'm looking for alternatives, but this might not be available until
    mid-August.  (Sorry!)  I'll keep you posted....
    
    
    Size:   61cm center-to-top, or 24" center-to-center

    Color:  Metallic red, with a yellow highlights on the lugs, yellow
            tape, and yellow cables.

    Tubing: Columbus SL (possibly SP on the downtube, considering the
    	    frame size)  
    
    Condition: 3 years old, never crashed.  Some paint scratches from
            travelling in the back of my car, but the paint quality
            is much better than most Italian bikes (this is one of Olmo's
            hallmarks).  I don't know what the mileage is, but since
            I only ride only two to three times a week during the season
            (running on the rest of the days), it's lower than you'd
            expect.

    Crank:  Dura Ace, 175mm, 53/42
            (BB, Chain, and Cogs are also Dura Ace)    
    
    Bars:   Cinelli Model 66 (deep drop), 44cm

    Stem:   Cinelli
    
    Brakes: Modolo Speedy, Shimano pads (I think they're better than
    	    the Modolo pads)

    Seat:   Selle Super Turbo
    
    Headset, Shift levers, and rear derailleur: Campy
    
    Front Derailleur: Suntour Cyclone (I know...tacky, tacky, tacky.
            I'll replace it if you're insulted by it.)

    Wheels:
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
             hub                wheel         spoke	        tire
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(training) 
   front: 36h Suntour Superbe  Mavic GP4,    14 g 3x         Wolber Neo-Pro
   rear:  36h Suntour Superbe  Mavic SSC,    14 g 4x      (270gr mixed, 100psi)
(racing)   
   front: 32h Campy Record     Ambr Montreal 15 g 3x        Avocet Criterium
   rear:  36h Campy Victory    Mavic SSC     14/15/14 3x  (240gr slick, 130psi)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    Yesterday was beautiful in Torino, so I threw the bike in the back
    of the car and headed into the Val di Susa (the valley between
    here and France).  After driving 25 minutes, I parked in an
    appropriately picturesque village, and pointed my bike uphill.  45
    minutes later, I was still in 42X22 (my lowest gear until my
    shipment arrives), and was only halfway up the side of the valley. 

    Freshly fallen chestnuts were all all over the road; families were
    out collecting them by the bagful. By now, the views were
    stupendous: the little switchbacked road climbed past stone houses
    with overgrown grape arbors and flowerbeds, while on the opposite
    side of the valley a crumbling Napoleonic fortress came closer and
    closer to being at eye level.  
    
    After a small mishap (a flat), I got back on the road and
    continued my climb, passing several tiny villages.  I was getting
    pretty hungry at this point, and started looking for a snack bar
    where I could get a sandwich.  (This isn't as bizarre an idea as
    it sounds -- these bars are everywhere in Italy.)  After a
    kilometer or so, I found one, but it didn't have sandwiches. ("Due
    kilometri sou [up] ou due kilometri jou [down]," the lady said
    with a wink.  So "sou" it was; I reached a ridge where there was
    an even better view, and a dirt road that lead back down to the
    valley floor. 
    
    I decided to save the mountain biking action for next time^, and
    instead, followed the pavement up another kilometer or so. Near a
    shrine at the top of the hill, I finally found the bar the lady
    had spoken of. I was covered with sweat at this point, and shaking
    a little. The guy who ran the bar didn't seem to mind.  He spoke
    some English, and was able to tell me I had reached 1400 meters.
    That meant I had climbed about 1100 meters since I had started
    earlier in the afternoon.  I devoured a couple of sandwiches, and
    headed out to start my descent. 

    Up until now, I've taken all of the descents I've made in Europe
    very slowly. But after a few hours on my own bike (instead of on a
    borrowed one), I had my confidence back.  Coming down this time, I
    was passing cars. It was a blast to be in 53X13 for 45 minutes,
    steering with the inside of my thighs as I crouched on the drops
    and pedals.  I felt perfectly secure -- the crushed chestnuts on
    the road were the only hazard. 

    3/4 of the way down, though, I pulled to a stop.  There was a
    farmer selling cheese by the side of the road, and I figured I'd
    buy some.  I tried samples from the two large rounds he had with
    him, and asked for 1/2 kilo of one of them. As the farmer grinned,
    I stuffed the hunk of cheese into one of the pockets on the back
    of my jersey, and rolled off. 

    As I drove home later, there were dozens of fruit stands along the
    side of the road.  Thinking I would pick up some apples, I pulled
    over and checked one out.  A lady there was selling bags of
    chestnuts. She offered me a sample. "Dolce!" she exclaimed, as I
    took a bite. She was right -- the nut was sweet, and tasty.
    "Due Milla," she said, as she thrust a bag in my face.

    So now, what do I do with all these chestnuts I bought? 

    
 ------------
 ^My new mountain bike will be ready in November.
    

	Shall I grace your note with my two weekends out of Torino
	in September?  Or would a separate note be better?

	-j

	PS: What *have* you done with those chestnuts?

PART I: FAME
------------

I put in a fairly lackluster performance in my first Italian
criterium. Out of shape to begin with, I spent the little energy I had
stupidly chasing two breakaways.  I should have realized that on the
wide, flat course, nobody would succeed in getting away. When it came
time for the final sprint, my legs were putty. My only consolation was
that I avoided a nasty crash at the finish line.

My mediocre debut didn't stop the publication of the following 
article in the local sports paper: 

[Piemonte Sportivo, March 8, 1989] (Translation follows)

    C'� ANCHE L'AMERICANO                                                     

    Ha fatto il suo esordio tra gli amatori un americano della
    Virginia, Matt Johnson, con la maglia della "Lanterna".  Johnson �
    stato messo in contatto con Zambardi e Cillerai da Mauro Sannino,
    che, avendo sponsorizzato squadre dilettantistiche statunitensi,
    lo conosce bene e giura sul suo rendimento. Ha quasi ventinove
    anni e risiede in Piemonte per motivi di lavoro.  Si distingue nel
    gruppo per un avvenirstico casco nero e le sue credenziali
    fisico-atletiche sono senz'altro buone. 

                                                          
    THERE'S ALSO THE AMERICAN                                             

    An American from Virginia has made his entry among the amateurs:
    Matt Johnson, wearing the jersey of "Lanterna".  Johnson was put
    in contact with Zambardi and Cillerai [organizers of the squad] by
    Mauro Sannino [a bike shop owner], who, having sponsored beginning
    race squads in the U.S., knows him well, and swears by his
    potential.  He is about 29 years old, and has come to the Piedmont
    region to work.  He's distinquished in the group by a futuristic
    black helmet, and his physical-athletic characteristics, which are
    without a doubt good.


Accompanying the article is a photo of me, grimacing away from the 
camera.  In the picture I look big, mean, and ugly: the kind of guy
who'd stick a bike pump through your spokes.

I had no idea any of this was taking place.  Most of the facts in the
article came from my racing license -- the rest is pure fantasy. [The
"futuristic helmet" is a Bell Stratos.  I forgot my sunglasses the day
of the race, so I had to use the visor/face shield.]
                                                    
When I saw the article [last Tuesday], my immediate reaction was
laughter, followed by fear.  I'd just spent the last two weeks with my
vacationing parents, eating and drinking too much, and not working out
at all.  Now that I was being made out to be another Andy Hempsten,
I'd probably be the laughing stock of Italy at the next race.  I
imagined myself getting dropped on the first lap....

Wednesday morning, I was out on the bike at 6:15 A.M.  



PART II: FATE
-------------

I've been reading the "Share Your Worst Crash" note with certain
dread. In my adult life, I've rarely fallen; mercifully, I've also
forgotten the many smash-ups I survived as a kid.  I regard the note
as an omen -- the laws of probability working to catch up with me.

My next race, scheduled for next Sunday, is 68km on the open road. For
the first time, I'll be competing on a mountain pass.  In my new-found
urgency of preparation, I decide to hit some of the bigger hills in 
Alba.  In particular, I want to build my confidence on the descents.

It's a gorgeous day; I find a smooth, twisty road, nearly abandoned by
the hoards of travelers (who've headed to the beach for Easter). 
After a sluggish climb, I have about a 15km descent ahead of me.  I
start cautiously, trying to find the point where my bike dives instead
of drifts through the corners.  
                            
As I pick up the pace, I see a walled village looming on a promontory
ahead.  A road sign announces its name: Borgomale.  

It's like some kind of joke, I think.  The name translates to
"Evilborough", or "Illborough".  The place certainly looks the part,
with its crumbling medieval castle.  Straight out of a horror film.

To make matters worse, there's a blind, reduced radius switchback
right in front of the village.  For the first time, I hit the brakes
hard enough to lock the rear.  Luckily, I don't panic, and manage to
bring things back under control.

I'm just congratulating myself for defeating the superstition of
Evilborough when disaster strikes:  my back tire blows out in the
middle of a sharp corner. In a second, my back wheel is leading the
front.  "I've had it now," I  think.

Miraculously, the bike stays upright for more than an instant, long
enough for me to think how amazing it is.  The rear wheel chatters all
over the place under the stress.  Finally, when I'm nearly stopped,
the bike flops me down tail-first on the road.  

The left side of my behind is pounding, but that seems like a trivial
problem compared with being caught in my toeclips in the middle of the
lane.  I quickly unbuckle myself and scramble to the shoulder.  I
discover that the damage to the bike is minimal -- the rear tire is in
shreds, and the back wheel is wobbly.  
                 
Rounding the first bend on my slow climb back up the hill, Borgomale
comes back into view.  "Fate's just teasing me this time," I decide.  
                                                                      

PART III: FORTUNE
-----------------

In spite of the warped wheel and aching behind, I'm actually beginning
to enjoy the ride back to the car.  I stop for a couple of sandwiches,
and head off on one of several detours.  

About an hour later, the wobble turns into a thump.  I look down to
see my replacement tire bulging off the rim, ready to blow.  I don't
have a second spare.  

I stop and pull out the map, only to find that I've drifted quite a
ways off course.  The car's still 20km away.  I can't remember why,
but the name of the town ahead sounds familiar -- maybe a famous wine
comes from there?

I figure I can buy a tubular off of a passing cyclist.  There are, 
fortunately, many out riding on this sunny Saturday.  A couple pass,
but no luck -- one group has the wrong type of tires; another fat kid
(who's decked out to the hilt) won't lend me his only spare.  

Finally, a guy and his girlfriend stop to help me.  When I explain in
my broken Italian that I'm an American, he says he knows who I am:
he's seen my  picture in the paper.  Then, looking at the name "Cicli
Giorgio" written on my shorts, he mentions that the shop that sponsors
my team is in the next  town, only 300 meters away!  He hands me a
spare tubular, and sends me on my way. 
                                                            
The new spare is hardly better off than the first.  I'm afraid it too
will blow fairly quickly.  So I decide to make my first visit to my
sponsor's bike shop.  

The owner (who I've never met before) greets me like an old friend. 
He  introduces me to one of my teammates, who's getting his bike tuned
up in the shop.  While the shop owner trues my wheel and glues on
another tubular, I talk with the other rider.  This guy has also heard
about me.  When I discover that we both live in Torino, I suggest that
we ride together sometime. He quickly makes excuses about not having
had time to train.  "Me too," I tell him, trying to defuse the absurd
time-bomb of my undeserved  celebrity.  I still can't convince him to
come out on a ride.

The shop owner tells me that all my future maintenance is free -- I'll
only have to pay the cost of materials.  He suggests that I replace
the wheel soon, since it'll no longer hold true; he promises one-day
turnaround on any work he does.  He then hands me another spare, and I
head off, dumbfounded.                             

The Cateye logs 100km as I reach the car.  It's only my first metric
century of the year....