world champions in Florence

    It was Bob's idea, some time ago. He said, "I'm coming back to Italy and we'll go to the 'Worlds' in September." Great idea, Bob. To us, 'The Worlds' means only one thing: The Rainbow Jersey. It's something a bike racer is entitled to wear all year long indicating that she, or he, is the world champion by virtue of winning one race on one glorious day every year. If you manage to win the Yellow Jersey at the Tour de France, it hangs on your wall all year. You win the Rainbow Jersey; it hangs on your back. The 'Worlds' date back to track events in 1892, and the first road race world championship was awarded in 1921. Italy has won more medals, historically, than any other country.
    This year Italy hosted the 'Worlds' and, in fact, held them in Tuscany for the first time. Bob did show up, and we went to watch the 'Worlds.' Rain and shine.
     The guy who actually made it possible was Max, my best Italian friend from Rome. He's a clever, cheerful Tuscan transplanted to Rome working in TV news production and a very distant employee of Silvio Berlusoni. Who he hates. And so should you. Max's family lives in Pistoia, birthplace of the pistol and a short distance west of Firenze. I visited here once before with Max and the reception was so warm and homey, I was eager to return and equally eager for Bob to experience Italian hospitality at its best. We arrived on Saturday in time to see the women's race.

Max dodging the sun at Montecatini Terme

    The race route passed just south of Pistoia over a daunting climb before heading for 10 circuits between Fiesole and Firenze. Absolutely beautiful weather. We watched the race on TV from behind a feast supplied by Max's aunt after visiting the start in Montecantini Terme. This is an old (seriously) resort town in the grand, over-the-top, Roman style. Colonnaded palaces, huge gardens, fountains, statues, the whole fiasco. Through the spacious wooded grounds, the team vans set up shop with mechanics, trainers, sponsors, racers, and gwakers all milling about in decorative lycra and festive chaos. We studiously noticed surprising gear ratios indicating a much more difficult course than was advertised, and sure enough, the race was wildly exciting with numerous heroics on every hilly circuit. Marianne Vos of Holland is currently the best cycling athlete in the world, seemingly able to win on any kind of bike in any kind of event yet still maintain remarkable popularity 'in the bunch.' She won, predictably, but it is was a good race with tough rides from English, American, and Italian riders.
    We took the train to a crowded downtown Firenze for the men's event on Sunday and spent the day walking up the

Max wringing out in Fiesole

mountain to Fiesole in seriously deteriorating weather. By the time we got to our picnic spot halfway up, we were all completely soaked along with our sandwiches. Despite the misery, I'll never forget the enthusiasm of the crowd. The sound: the vibrating power of the most deafening, sustained boom from the hundreds of tifosi crammed onto the sides of the road. These weren't screams or shouts, but a deep, inhuman, baritone roar so uncharacteristic on what is normally an eerily silent passage of a pack of bike racers up a sustained climb. The climb finished in the town of Fiesole where a huge digital movie screen displayed the video feed from the various helicopter and motorcycle cameras. A good vantage point except for the fact that the torrential rain allowed very little camera action and we were frozen stiff, shivering and soaking wet. Standing in the cold wind in front of a fuzzy tv screen didn't make a whole lot of sense. My hands had become frighteningly uncontrollable. We ducked out of the wind into a crowded, steamy bar to thaw out over a hot chocolate, but the effect didn't last long. Unable to stand still for fear of exposure, we retreated down the hill, more or less ignoring the race, until we reached the 'pit lane.' In each cabana was a closed circuit tv displaying the race which we could see from across the street.
   The sport is famous for awful conditions and it's rare that an event is shortened or postponed due to weather. This race was no different, the race must go on; but many described it as 'epic.' A few tough favorites survived till the end and they must have been angrily determined to see this through. In particular a rough, tough Colombian, Rigoberto Uran, who finished second in the last Olympic road race, looked in perfect position, romping strongly up to Fiesole and recklessly careening down the mountain in true Colombian form. The roads were no longer awash in deep, running water and Rigorberto put his mountain skills to the limit. Until he lost it on the descent and cartwheeled dramatically into the mountainside, raising screams from us frightened tv watchers. The Italian favorite ran out of gas chasing two Spainards. They looked like sure winners, but botched their tactics and allowed a Portugese to win, bringing tears to all eyes.
   Great idea, Bob! He drove us back home that night with the car heater going full blast.