Perhaps another point of view is needed. We are so accustomed to speed, to feats, to the finish line that falls, even the most ruinous, they shake us for the next few moments and then disperse when we see them leave againThey are riders we've known since they were kids, kids who dream of becoming riders. But above all else, Before being budding athletes and aspiring champions, they are someone's children.
This article is the fruit of the pen of Bianca Ronchelli, mother of a junior, who agreed to bring us that point of view. And then perhaps in commenting on the next falls and in denying justice to those who ask for it, having seen pain turns into anger, someone might reconsider their position. Because sometimes the thirst for truth must overcome the very human instinct to cover one's back.
There are moments in Junior racing that you will never see on television.
They happen before departure.
In the still damp parking lots of the morning, when The flagship cars arrive slowly and the boys unload their bikes almost without speakingSomeone adjusts their jersey number. Someone else checks their tire pressures one more time. A sports director tries to ease the tension with an unfinished joke.
I am the mother of a junior boy of almost 17 years old.
I am not a sports director.
I'm not a technician.
I am not a competition judge.
I watch them.
I look into their eyes during the team presentations.
Faces that suddenly become serious.
Their gazes fixed in front of them as the speaker reads the names.
At the starting line everything changes.
The hands grip the handlebars tighter.
Someone looks down at the front wheel.
Someone stands up on the pedals to release tension.
Someone continues joking for a few more seconds.
Some people, however, remain silent.
Only the sound of the wheels stopping on the asphalt remains.
And that's when you realize how quickly these kids learn to leave everything else out.
Almost no one really asks themselves what's going on in their heads in those seconds.
«In cycling you learn early not to show what fear is».
Speeds increase.
The preparations are increasingly professional.
The sprints are getting tighter and tighter.
The margins are getting smaller and smaller.
And within that very high level there are still kids who are looking for themselves.
Cycling doesn't just train your legs.
Train your character.
The way of being in the world.
The way of living with the pressure.
Even the way of remaining silent.
The line between courage and risk
Today in cycling everything is measured: watts, averages, frequencies, recovery.
But there are things that no data will ever be able to truly explain.
The tension before the start.
The fear hidden behind a smile.
The courage to stay in a group racing at sixty miles an hour.
Then the race starts.
And the group takes everything away.
Even the great champions have passed through there.
Even Filippo Ganna, before the World Time Trials, was a youth category boy who learned to suffer in silence.
Tadej Pogačar was also an Under-23 with eyes full of dreams before the world got to know him.
«Runners know the fine line between courage and risk.».
John Iannelli.
And it's impossible not to think about Giovanni Iannelli.
Giovanni was a rider.
He had been running since he was five years old.
Debutants.
Students.
Juniors.
Under 23.
Cycling had grown with him.
The trips.
The international competitions.
The Giro d'Italia.
A lifetime spent in the group, on the run, inside that world that for many kids becomes home.
Before everything that came after, there was a boy who had believed in cycling with his whole life.
Since then, his father Carlo has been carrying on a battle that now concerns the whole of cycling.
Because behind every race there are decisions made by adults while on the road there are kids who only think about pedaling.
There are stories that continue to make noise even when someone tries to cover them with silence.
Because when a family continues to search for answers after years, it means that time alone is not enough.
A mural.
A street named after Florence.
It is not enough.
Because cycling can't ask kids for courage and then lower its gaze when faced with the responsibilities of adults.
The rider remains.
Maybe cycling should stop right here.
In those seconds before the start.
When the boys check that their helmet is fastened properly.
They place the headphones in their ear.
They put on their glasses and within seconds the boy disappears.
The rider remains.
I watch them leave.
I watch them disappear around a bend along with the noise of the group.
And every time I think the same thing.
No victory, no podium, no applause will ever be worth as much as seeing that helmet return to the team car at the end of the race.
Because behind every helmet there's more than just an athlete. There's a son.
And the most important finish line will never be a white line on the asphalt.
It will be coming home.
