Chapter III – Andrea’s breakaway

Chapter III

Andrea’s breakaway

When I was a child I was afraid of the darkness, of night and of sleep. I didn’t understand why we spend so many hours inside a parallel world, different from the one we know. I had weird dreams which I couldn’t remember as soon as I woke up. Often I dreamt of flying but this is very common. But the other times I dreamt of mysterious people, distressing situations that I had to face alone. In my dreams, loneliness was a constant. That’s why when I had to go to bed, I would try to pass time by reading until late at night. I wanted to sleep with the open door and my mother by my side - this gave me peace. Sometimes I tried to draw her attention: “Mom I’m thirsty”, “Mom I’m cold”. And the poor woman would go to get me a glass of water or a blanket. And then I would hear her going toward her bed where she would rest. On Sundays In Spring I would wake up earlier. I would leave the shutters half-open so the first light of the day would filter in to my room. I would shower very fast, drink a cup of milk, run to play with my friends, run to buy bread when my mom would ask me to do so, I would run to the tobacco shop or the newsagent. Maybe it was just a childish way to run away. Running was always so fascinating for me, even when I played football with my friends. I wasn’t a good player but I liked running, even with the ball. “Pass!!! Andrea pass!!!” But I wouldn’t pass the ball, I would just keep running until I reached the end of the field while my teammates would tell me to go to hell. “This is team play! You must pass the ball, bonehead!!”. The grass was still soaked with dew, but it dried quickly with the sun. I would run down the street that from the town went up to the hills, taking tight curves and sitting on the grass waiting for the first competitors. It was a race of little importance, to a regional level, but I would still get excited at the sight of cyclists’ jerseys. The elders of the town, with the Gazzetta inside the coat pocket, would comment aloud the passing cyclists: they knew the name of every cyclist, they would encourage cyclists, talk about the lead. “This time Pinin can make it”, “No, he can’t take it anymore, instead it will be Attilio…during the downhill he will catch him, you’ll see”, “What are you talking about, Gregorio is there, with the pack, he’s just waiting

for the right moment to break away from them”. I didn’t know Pinin, Attilio or Gregorio, but it was on those streets, during those Spring days, that I started to love cycling. Even today I can’t explain why, while my friends on Sunday would go to the playground, I would stay there looking those cyclists. And I would stay there until the last cyclist, and then I would start running after him, for a few meters, until I couldn’t see him anymore. The day of my First Communion, on the first Sunday in May, the church was crowded. The priest had a pair of glasses with a golden eyeglass frame and dandruff on his hair. It was a quick ceremony. The girls were dressed like little nuns and the boys wore suits and ties, all bought thanks to many sacrifices of our parents. We spent a lot of time prepping for that day, two years of catechism, but finally we were ready to enter the world of good Christian people. Don Luciano had a speech that probably tried and tried, so many times, but we were distracted: a lot of people, too much going on. A lot of emotions. A lot of doubts, too many, in fact. My father, Giuliano, was sitting in the front row holding hands with my mother, Cristina. He is a simple man, he lives for his work, he sells spare parts for tractors, he has no vices, or strange ideas in his head. And just like all the simple people, he is of few words. Those who talk a lot with complicated vocabulary, like lawyers or politicians, are considered important people. Those who speak little and speak simply, are considered mediocre. But dignity and values are not measured with words, they are measured with facts. After the ceremony, we got in the car and went to Rustega, a little town 5 km form Camposampiero, where every year, during the first Sunday in May, there is the Zootechnic Fair. It’s an exhibition with 40 years of history you cannot miss: there are agricultural machinery but especially working animals and pets. Horses, cows, donkeys, sheeps. It is really fun for children: they can run freely, something which was very important for me, and pause to listen the birdsong of any kinds. There is even a singing competition dedicated to them. We ate something in the shed, together with other thousands of people, who arrived from the whole Veneto region, and then we stopped to watch fireworks. I was standing still, watching fireworks, when my father approached. “Tomorrow in the afternoon you must come with me” he told me, putting his hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t a request, otherwise he would have said “Do you have plans for tomorrow in the afternoon?”. My father in the afternoon always been respectful toward me, my needs, even when I was a child. And so I nodded while I kept watching the fireworks. The day after we took the road to Castelfranco Veneto and stopped in front of a store on a country road, in a town called Salvatronda. A little town, of just over two thousand people, but a very important town for Italian cycling history.

Inside the store, behind the counter, a short man was moving, but with a face I cannot forget: two vivid, small, Asian eyes which were the reflection of his character. He came toward us holding in his hand a wrench and welcomed us with kindness. “So is this the guy?” - he said while squeezing my hand – “my name is Ciano, and yours?” “My name is Andrea” I answered while I was entranced by the shop. Bikes everywhere, frames, seats, handlebars, rims and then something that I will always remember: the perfume of the grease. For some it’s a stink, for some just a smell, but for me it was the finest perfume. Once I heard an interview with Giulio Borsari, Ferrari’s master mechanic from the ’64 to the ’73, who claimed that the perfume of grease had directed his professional choices. “Whenever I could, I would go to the mechanic who worked downstairs and I would watch him while he was working. In that way I understood how a carburetor or a distributor worked. But especially the perfume of grease inebriated me, even today I get excited when I smell it”. For me it was the same. I looked around, stunned, while a guy older than me, tall and strong, was talking with a mechanic about the adjustment of the brakes. “Yesterday, during the downhill, the back of the bike was slipping. I didn’t feel safe and I couldn’t follow those who broke away”. He was talking about the race of the day before. “Now we can take a look, but I think the problem is tire pressure” answered the mechanic, a short, fat guy, with a dirty jumpsuit and two big moustaches which may be the envy of Birra Moretti’s testimonial. “You told me that you have something for him” the voice of my father brought me back to reality. Probably he was feeling out of place. He was an expert of tractors, not of bikes. In addition, this entire scene took place in surreal silence. One could enter Luciano Rebellato’s shop just like in a vestry and the customers often would gather in small group to quietly talk about their amateur cycling experiences. “Come with me” answered Luciano and so my father took my hand and we went to the back of the store. “There it is, it is like a new one” Luciano pointed to a yellow bike suited for a guy of my age. I couldn’t believe my eyes, I was in awe. We got closer to the bike, and I started stroking the frame, where you could see the brand Rebellato, the seat, the handlebars. “With this bike you can have a lot of fun” - Luciano said – “now it’s up to you” My father put a hand in his pocket and pulled out quite a lot of money. Nowadays I think about his great sacrifice to afford that bike, but in that moment I could just think about that yellow bike. I don’t know why, but such thoughts come to my mind just today, at the start of the Milan-Sanremo. I

have in front of me 290 kilometers of race, a single path, very hard, legendary. Along with me 174 other cyclists, people who would be ready to any sacrifice to win this race. The cyclists are all crazy. And this is the only feature that we have in common. For the rest we are quite different. There are dreamers, the guys who are happy just to be here: they are mostly young, ambitious, gascon. They know they do not have the required experience for a Super classic, but this doesn’t stop them from fantasizing because they know that among them, there is a future champion, predestined, someone who will inflame the crowd. For all the others there is only a dream, which is no small matter. Then there are hunters. Yeah, because the race is full of traps. They lure you, they fool you, they tempt you. You must watch out because actually, in the end, you may be fooled by their traps or fall into their net. The pros’ teams are full of hunters, their contribution is very important for the victory of the team. And finally there are champions. You can recognize them because they are surrounded by journalists, photographers and kids asking for their autograph. At the Milan-Sanremo they are all there, glaring at each other. They don’t talk to each other although they are friends. Because here friendship doesn’t matter. There can only be one winner and the runner-up will be just the first of the last. We, of Team Novo Nordisk, have another feature: the diabetes, an extra enemy, a sneaky enemy who is able to take away your strength, ideas, strategies and even your dreams. Today my glycaemia is perfect, I won’t have trouble. Actually the diabetes, for me, has never been a problem. We move all together from Piazza Castello toward Chiesa Rossa street. There are 7 kilometers in which you have the time for final checks and some knowing looks with your teammates. Everyone knows what to do, we have been preparing for this, discussing it among ourselves and with the team manager. Now it’s time to put into effect our good resolutions and show the world that with diabetes you can do everything, even take part, as pros, in a very hard race like the Milan-Sanremo. In addition, each of us must prove to everyone that the opportunity that we have been offered and the trust which we have been granted, are the right recognition of our passion. We don’t have big cards to play for the final victory. One of the many things that cycling taught me is humility and that we must recognize that there are more experienced and stronger teams with more tricks up their sleeves. To win a Milan-Sanremo it takes talent, brain and heart and if you want to be a champion you must have these three skills, you're free to choose the order. But it is our intention to show ourselves, to show the whole world what the professionals of Team Novo Nordisk are made of, the cyclists with diabetes. We only have one chance: breakaway. Today is a wonderful day, the ideal day for a nice breakaway. I wake up early, at 5:30, and make a hearty breakfast rich in carbohydrates: bread, butter, jam, cereals. Some people have a plate of pasta but, honestly,

at that hour in the morning I get nauseous just thinking about it. I go up to my room for the final preparations, take my backpack and go down to the lobby of the hotel to get on the team bus. On the way to the starting point we don’t talk. The air can be cut with a knife and we know it will be very difficult race. We are tense, focused, determined to give our best. Words are useless - we need to take action. Cycling is not like politics where everyone wins and no one ever loses. It’s not like soccer, where you can lose for a denied penalty. Here there are no tricks or mistakes, here one person crosses the finish line with his arms to the sky and the others arrive with their heads bowed. I look out the window to see a sleepy city: there’s an old man walking with his dachshund, there’s an early runner and also someone who’s coming home on wobbly legs after a night of revelry. We arrive in Piazza Castello more or less together with the other teams. Everyone approaches their bikes in silence - we are all at the peak of our concentration. Around the big names there is the usual group of people: I see Sagan, the first Slovak cyclist to graduate world champion. He laughs and jokes, but it’s just a way to fight the tension. Then there’s Gaviria, a Colombian nicknamed El misil, even if he doesn’t like it. He’s the kind of guy who can say his piece in a sprint. And then I see Ewan, a tiny little Australian guy, light as a feather: if in the sprint he passes you by a meter then it is quite hard to reach. We hop on the saddle, one makes the sign of the cross, another touches his testicles. In front of us there are 290 kilometers of asphalt. Some are wondering if they will succeed in winning while others wonder if they will succeed in arriving. The first stretch in the city is spent practically walking and then, finally, the departure. We know what we have to do and so, a few miles from the start, we sprint. There are ten of us, but the most important is that there are four of us from Novo. With me there is Umberto, the other Italian of the team; and then there are Joonas and Charles. As we push the pace I think of the beginning of this adventure. The day I came into the world, October 28, 1988, was a Friday and it was pouring rain. Of course I don’t remember anything about that day because I was busy learning to cry and breathe. My birth was not a great event for the country and all in all passed into general indifference, apart from the joy and emotion of my parents. In reality, in the bars and in the streets of Camposampiero there was talk of other things: Senna and Prost were a few hours from beating each other. On Sunday, in fact, the last grand prix of the Formula 1 season would have been held in Japan with the two McLaren drivers engaged in the record. There was bad blood between the two and only a few weeks before, in Portugal, Senna had pushed Prost against a wall risking compromising the race and both of their seasons. At the end there were accusations and big words and, in short, they swore that they would've fought at the next and last race.

The country was divided, as is often the case in sport: dualisms allow to sell more “ombre" in bars and more copies of newspapers that naturally wallow in these controversies. Mazzola or Rivera, Coppi or Bartali, Benvenuti or Mazzinghi are names of athletes that I have never known but, even today, inflame the memories of fans. Just for the record, immediately after the start the engine of Senna went off and the Brazilian managed to reactivate it by taking advantage of a slight slope of the starting grid. Prost took advantage, taking the lead in the race. Indeed, to enter into the merits of my story, he ran ahead. But Senna was strong, strong indeed; he began to run again, to overcome adversaries, one after the other, inexorably. Spectators shouted at every passing and shouted thirteen times that day. They screamed from the side of the racetrack and screamed in bars all over the world, from Rio de Janeiro to Camposampiero. Until when during the 28th lap, taking advantage of a dubbing, Senna took the lead of the race and became unreachable. He earned that title to the delight of his fans, of those who had bet on his triumph and, let’s face it frankly, of his bank account. The first years of my life passed in serenity. A very united family, two present and responsible parents. At school I was doing well, nothing sensational, but I never had big problems. You could say my life changed that day, in Luciano’s shop, when we loaded the yellow Rebellato into my father’s car. On the way home, every now and then I turned to check on her, as if she was sick in an ambulance. “Is everything all right?” I wanted to ask her, “Oh. Are you cold? Are you thirsty?”. In fact, I was practically delirious with joy and I couldn’t wait to try it. Until that moment the only racing bike I had approached was my father's. I remember it was big. big and untouchable. I was content with my mountain bike with which I threw myself down the fields, especially downhill because the high speed makes me crazy. But with the Rebellato it was different. With that I felt like another person, unbeatable, ready for the big challenges. My mother, to tell the truth, was a bit worried. I heard her at night, in the kitchen, complaining to my father. “What were you thinking? A racing bike. He’s a little boy, he’s on the street all day, in the town I was told that he goes downhill like a madman.”. “Don't worry about it, Cristina, come on, he’s got his head on his shoulders," said my dad while he was setting up the table. “Not for long. Still, force him to wear a helmet.” “He already has one. Don’t worry about it.” “I do worry about it, you’re both reckless, the only difference is that he’s a child and you’re a man. Now

go wash your hands because dinner is ready.” Within a few weeks another problem arose. I felt that with that bike I had no rivals: climbs, descents, sprints, there was no one there. I wanted to participate in the races. So, when I saw the poster of a race for very young cyclists, I made my decision. I took advantage of a good grade I took in mathematics, I took a breath and while my mother put pasta in the dish I promptly said: “Today I took seven and a half in mathematics” "Written or oral?" my mother took off her apron “Oral, but I already had a good grade in the written part. “Good job, you’re making progress.” said my father as he scraped parmesan cheese into his plate. “Next year, you promised me, I can start racing with my bike.” “Sure thing, as long as you are promoted.” “And what’s the problem? I’ve got good grades. Yeah.” - I took a breath - “But, in the meantime, on Sunday there will be a race. A race for young cyclists. It’s right near here, in Fiumicello, a couple of kilometers from home” I took a long break grating the parmesan in the plate. “Dad, can I go?” My mother looked at my father with an air of reproach “I would have sworn. You gave him that toy, and now we’re reaping what we saw.” It was her only comment. “Come on, Mom, it’s a race for kids, there’s no risk.” The only thing my father said was “We'll see" but for me, it was a yes. My mother rolled her eyes and this confirmed my hypothesis. I had done it. The night before the race I could not sleep. I forced my father to accompany me long before the beginning. I was given a number, my first bib, I wore a helmet. As the other competitors arrived, I realized that some of them were twice my size, someone even with some beard hair on their cheeks, and me, I was just a child, perhaps even smaller than the average for my age. It was the beginning of September, a typical Autumn day with fog in the early morning hours slowly rising towards the hills. The race included a path of about 5 kilometers, more or less flat. After the start I tried to stay in the first group of the race. “I will sprint past them later” I said to myself while the spectators along the way cheered us loudly. I was mainly watching a couple of kids who had been shown to me as the strongest. And, in fact, they were the ones who made the pace. “The important thing is to stay here, close to them, and then when we're a hundred meters from the finish line, I stick them like thrushes in the spit.” I kept repeating to myself. But then, when we arrived at a hundred meters from the finish line they were the ones who sprinted, I

tried to react but… there was nothing I could do, they were stronger. I ranked sixth or maybe seventh, finishing a few meters from the winner. But I was not satisfied because I really wanted to win that race. “Great job” said my father on the way back. “Not enough. It would have been great if I won." “Come on, Andrea, those kids were twice your size. At your age a year or two makes the difference, believe me.” Yes, those were nice words, but they could not soothe my disappointment. I was heartbroken, disappointed, I was going to start crying and my father told me something that I still remember with great affection. “In sport, you never lose” - he whispered closing the door of the car – “you either win or learn" Back home I unloaded the bike, I cleaned it thinking that my debut was not what I had imagined, that I was not as strong as I thought and, especially, that the others were way too much older than me. That evening, at dinner, I was silent: my mother had prepared polenta but I was not very hungry “Andrea, it’s so good. I even put mushrooms in it.” “I know, Mom, but I’m not hungry.” “You’re being too hard on yourself,” my father said, “you’ll see that next year it will go better. This year the season is practically over, you made this race because it was behind close to our house. Now think about training yourself. So eat this polenta, first.” Next year. It seemed to me that a century had to go by, months and months without racing. I didn’t know if I could do it. “OK guys, 4 minutes. You have a 4-minute head start. Come on, come on, keep pushing.” someone from the team car gives us directions on our breakaway. We’re fine. We alternate at the head of the group so we don’t get too tired. We at Novo are collaborating well with the other Italian boys Fausto, Luca, Mirco and Alessandro. But even with foreigners, it only took a look to understand each other. "What are they doing in the back?" I ask the technicians “For the moment nothing, it seems like they are on a trip – Massimo Podenzana answers me from the window of the team car - But do not worry about what they are doing behind, think about what you are doing. It’s a big thing". Massimo Podenzana, the “Pode”, a Ligurian always with a smile on his face, a real rarity. As a cyclist he is a legend: 30 years of experience, two times national road champion, leader of the Giro d'Italia for nine days in 1988. But above all the stage victory in the Tour de France in 1996 after going on a solitary breakaway at 4 kilometers from the finish line. I mean, he’s an expert about breakaways. “How’s your blood sugar coming along?” - the doctor asks me – “Are you all right?

“I do not care about blood sugar. Anyway, yeah, no problem at all!” “What about you, Umberto?” “Yeah, it’s all right” “Well then, get on with it” We are on the plain, towards Ovada. We pick up the pace. Cameras all over the world are watching and I imagine that in my town they will all be glued to their televisions. My father and mother at home, sitting in the living room, excited. My wife Alessia holding my little Filippo, one eye fixed on him and one fixed on the screen. I wonder if he will have the same passion for cycling as I do, or maybe he will become a doctor, a judge, maybe an architect. I also attended university, after graduating as an IT expert. For a couple of years, I was enrolled in statistics - a difficult faculty. Then I made my choice: the bike. That means that the academic world will learn to deal with it. Certainly I will not force him. If he has will, ability and spirit of sacrifice, that's good. Otherwise it is better to look for other ways. In short, I will not be one of those fathers who, on Sunday mornings, sit on the side-lines, or along the pools and begin to scream at their children bumpy phrases of incitement, with the only result of terrorizing them. With the result that they, one fine day decide to stop doing everything. Not to mention mothers who can be even worse than husbands. Once I happened to see a kids’ football match, the kids were at most 10 years old, and there was a 'lady" covered in fur that was shouting unrepeatable phrases to a teammate of her son guilty of not having passed him the ball at the right time. Of course, the mother of the other kid was upset: in short, a struggle has broken out that involved husbands, friends, other parents. Really an unworthy spectacle: the children stopped in the middle of the field and looked at the stands where the parents were screaming and hitting each other with no real reason. My parents, fortunately, have always remained on the side-lines of my cycling career, even the year after my debut, when I joined the youngest team of GS Fiumicello. There were older kids and others my age. Among the older ones there was Marco Marcato, a boy from San Donà di Piave, who was really strong. He had a roller skating background because in the province of Venice skating was very popular. His mother had enrolled him in a course and he had obtained good results before the love for cycling convinced him to change sports. Today he is a wingman of Fabio Aru and runs for the UAE Team in the most important races of the season. I dreamed of going home with a cup to show off, to put on the cupboard, to show friends, relatives. So I wanted a trophy. But it was a long wait, I classified in many places, but that damn first place on the podium was late to arrive. Today is the ideal day for a Milan-Sanremo. There is a nice sun and calm wind when we go down the Passo del Turchino and we jump downhill towards Genoa. We have a six-minute lead after three hours of com-

petition. I feel good and the descent has always given me a particular thrill. I like speed, 70-80 kilometers per hour, with peaks over 100. I curl around the bike, I become one with a frame, wheels and pedals as if we were one. I have always had a very physical relationship with my bike, I like to take care of the details, of course together with the mechanics. But when you're going downhill, the main difference is made by your sensitivity: if you touch too much the brake levers, maybe while you are speeding on the wet asphalt, you will find yourself with your legs in the air and you can also get hurt quite badly. Arenzano, Varazze, Albisola, Spotorno. Some say that the Riviera di Ponente is less beautiful than the Riviera di Levante. Well, of course, the charm of the Cinque Terre is not disputed. Those villages overlooking the sea, the way of love, the low vineyards where to you have to get on your knees and break your back be able to harvest. And then, as a result, the Sciacchetrà, a fantastic wine, if you can still find a genuine bottle, which is not easy. With my wife, we went there on a summer holiday and I have some very beautiful memories. You take the train from the station of La Spezia and then you just have to walk around the “carrugi” of Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola with the scent of pesto that keeps you company. The most beautiful memory is that of the marinas with the boats of the fishermen pulled in on dry land. They were there, standing still, seemed to rest after so many miles of effort, but ready to leave. But the Ponente is just as impressive. I notice it as we pass through Spotorno, in front of the islet of Bergeggi, immediately after Savona: a natural oasis that you can only approach by swimming or by canoeing. An incredible sea that in summer becomes the favourite destination of tourists from all over the world. Even though, in the middle of August it becomes difficult to park not only a car, but even a bicycle. August 15, a historic day, at least for me. Many years ago, on that day, there was a race for the Minors category. We were all 13, 14 years old and I still was a bit 'little' compared to other guys, but I never gave up and I could count on my speed in the sprint. In those years I ran with a pearly white Fondriest, a bike that I loved very much: my father kept the frame in the garage, along with that of my other bicycles. Sometimes, when I’m at home, I like to get into that garage, see my bikes again, caress them. Each one of them represents an indelible part of my career and the pearly white Fondriest, well, that’s really special. That August day we ran in the province of Padua, 30 kilometres, the right distance to stay in the group and play the best cards in the last few meters. Only a few days before I was glued to the television to see Fiona May win the gold in the long jump to the World Championships in Edmonton, in Canada. Fiona May, she's a great athlete. Well, if I had not had this love for cycling, maybe I could have devoted myself

to athletics: I like individual sports, those where you are responsible for your mistakes, but also the author of your successes. In which specialty? There's no need to think about it, the 100 meters flat. Here there are no tactics, you just have to be quick, keep your head down in the first strides, do not look at your rivals, concentrate only on the yarn because it is your only opponent. You must be a little crazy, maybe a little neurotic to run the 100 meters. Ten seconds, even less, and in those ten seconds you play for everything: years of sacrifices, exhausting training, diets, weights, lengthening, renunciation. I wonder if in those 10 seconds you have time to think, to remember your life, your beginnings, your first victories. In 10 seconds, you don’t have time to think, breathe or die like Galeazzi screamed in his news reports. But I’m sure that even if you only have 10 seconds at your disposal, life passes you by like a movie: one day I’d like to ask Bolt! Yeah, maybe I will. So on that day of August 2001, a few days before the tragedy that would forever change the world, I felt that my time had come. I got so many good results, so many sprints, but never the victory. I could never bring that damn cup. But that’s enough, I was telling myself along the way, today it is my turn. I just need to stay here in the lead group, no, WE need to stay here, me and my pearly white Fondriest. I feel good, I’m not struggling to keep the pace even if there are bigger and bigger guys near me, at least I remember them like that. There’s a guy from Padua with a white and blue shirt, he’s a strong one, I was told so, one who’s already won. At 300 meters from the arrival “Rambo" gets up on the pedals and starts pedaling as fast as he can. The others were surprised, but I was not. I had seen a flash in his eyes a few moments before the sprint. I am the first to react, I pick up his pacing. This “Rambo” pushes like an obsessed, but I am right next to him, the others are at around 10 meters from us. He doesn’t turn around, he knows I’m glued to his wheel; he knows that it is me and him that are fighting for the first place. At the right time, there were around 70-80 meters from the finish line, I move to the right, he sees me with the tail of his eye and tries to block me: but it’s too late, I’m not there anymore. I have passed to the left and I am flying towards the finish line. I am too fast, he cannot reach me anymore, bye bye “Rambo”. It is done… it is done… it is don… what the… It happens the unthinkable: my foot slips up from the pedal, I risk to lose balance and fall on the finish line, I can no longer push, I see the finish line coming closer and closer but I cannot do anything to accelerate. I can only make use of the momentum, wait and pray, pray and wait. Ten meters, five, two, I raise my arms to the sky. These are just a few seconds, fractions of a second, but for me, it seems like a lifetime. I won, it is just a matter of a few centimeters, but I won.

My father is the first one to meet me and he embraces me in silence, with a few tears on his face. He’s happy because he knows well how important this victory was for me, for my morale, for my team. I walk into the house holding my cup to my chest while my dad dumps my bike out of the car. My mother can’t believe her gleaming eyes as she wipes her hands on her apron. She caresses me, kisses me on my sweaty head. I put the trophy on the cupboard, then I go take a shower. I stay for a long time under the jet of boiling water, even if the weather is extremely hot. I relive the highlights of the race. I feel unbeatable now and I cannot wait to return to compete. Then I go down to the garage, I go to greet my Fondriest, I caress her as one would do with a dear thing or a loved one. I turn around, my father is there, he smiles - I think he’s proud of me today. We have a lead of less than 6 minutes when we face the Capi: Capo Mele, Capo Cervo, Capo Berta. These may seem like a lot, but in reality they inform us that they started to close on us. I already know that soon we will find them right behind us. I never thought I could escape diabetes. In September 2004 I ran for UC Giorgione, the strongest team in Veneto, a company with over 100 years of history. It began to be serious: retreats, 2/3 training per week, the ambition to win in the categories of both beginners and juniors. I was going strong. From the first races of the season I was noticed because of some placements and some victories. Then, towards the end of the season, I began to feel always tired and, the worst thing is, I started having some cramps after just an hour of training. Until that moment I didn’t even know what they were. I felt extremely disappointed, the night had become a nightmare. I drank three liters of water, I kept going to the bathroom. The doctor’s office was modest: plastic seats in the waiting room, a few wrinkled magazines, a one-week old copy of the Tribuna. "Hello” A child of eight, maybe ten years had approached. “Hello,” I answered him while his mother was watching and making sure that he was not bothering me. She was a sloppy, tired woman, probably took a couple of hours off from her employer. She looked like she got up early and couldn’t wait to go back to sleep. But still had to prepare dinner, bathe the child, wash dishes… “Do you have to see Dr. Ferraris?” “Yes, I think so” “Do you have diabetes, too?” “No, I don’t think so.” he seemed disappointed by my answer or maybe he was wondering something like

"What are you doing here, then?” He kept staring at me in silence, maybe he would have wanted to ask me more questions when suddenly his mom told him “Giacomo, don’t bother him, come and sit down.” “Don't worry ma'am, he's not bothering me” “Sorry, you know, he’s actually very shy, but here, in Ferraris's studio, he’s always looking for someone to talk to. On the other hand, it is comprehensible since, there's always a little bit of anxiety…” I still could not understand why I was there because my father was clearly worried, he was trying to distract me, but in reality I read in his eyes the tension accumulated in those weeks. Maybe he had intuited something by reading the blood tests I had done a few days before: he certainly didn’t understand much about glycaemic values, but he had probably talked about it to some friends at the bar more experienced than him, maybe with some doctor. “You don’t have to worry about it. - He kept telling me. - It’s nothing, maybe it has to do with the age.” But it was the very fact that he kept telling me these words, like a litany, that made me worry. And then for a few days my mother did not smile at all and this, because I was accustomed to her perennial joy, sounded like a alarm bell. One night, when I got home, I caught them arguing in the living room, but they stopped as soon as they heard my footsteps in the hallway. “Well, what’s going on?” “No… nothing…" but they were clearly embarrassed. A skinny nurse introduced us to Dr Ferraris's room. It was an old doctor, with the lab coat stretched on his belly, the result of a few too many beers with friends. He made us sit down and studied the results of the blood analysis in silence, touching occasionally the tip of his nose. On the wall behind him the diploma of degree, several certificates of participation in congresses, seminars, conferences in Italy and abroad. And, at the centre of the wall, an image of Padre Pio almost to say that where science cannot reach, it is faith that must give us the right answers. Then he took off his glasses and looked me right in the eyes. “I have news, both good and bad” At that moment my legs were trembling and my father kept his eyes turned towards the tip of his shoes. “Andrea, unfortunately, I have to tell you that you have diabetes” I didn’t even know what diabetes was. So I looked at the doctor and looked at my father waiting for explanations. “No problem, you can keep it under control. At the moment there is no definitive cure, but with proper nutrition and some injections you will be able to live your everyday life without any problem” I was speechless. I had diabetes. And what is diabetes? And why me? “It's just that I, every day, ride a

bike and with cramps I assure you that… “And here comes the good news. You can continue cycling and, with proper care, the cramps will remain only a bad memory.” Those words, to me, sounded like beautiful music, a poem to my ears. I never had any problems with diabetes, even now that I’m running the Milan-Sanremo, diabetes is the last of my concerns, just as the doctor said. Capo Mele, Capo Cervo, Capo Berta: hard but not impossible routes. It used to be the Turchino Pass that made the selection, but today with modern workouts and the technology of our bikes, the Turchino is not scary anymore. When I was still an amateur the Milan-Sanremo kept me glued in front of the television; those were the years of Felice Pozzato, a Vicentino who won the 2006 edition with a sprint at the end while being very well protected by his teammates, Bettini and world champion Tom Boonen, who sacrificed themselves for his victory. And the work of the Belgian giant, who actually was over a meter and ninety centimeters high, that emphasizes the value of team play in a tough and selective race like this one. In just that year I passed as an amateur with a very strong team. The most promising boys were selected between Tuscany and Veneto and I was called to be part of them. I was 18 years old, I really wanted to arrive at the finish line and this first engagement meant a lot to me. First of all, it was concrete recognition after so many sacrifices; and it also meant that even with diabetes I could compete at high levels. And finally, pecunia non olet, I was starting to earn something, to be independent. The team was called Veloce Club Breganze and I was its captain. And it’s no small thing: you feel the weight of responsibility as the guys look up to you. They expect answers and they know that your victory will be their victory. When I arrived at Breganze I was welcomed by the sports director Carlo Finco, a former Bugno wingman of whom I remained very fond. His first words were: “Now it’s the others who have to be careful of you”. And he was right. Carlo is a great character, a man of few words as we Venetians often are, but with a heart as big as a house. Even today he dedicates himself passionately to cycling for children, amateurs and he does so with a love that serves as an example for all those who have known him. On September 8, 2010 the Astico-Brenta race was held, a classic race with almost 100 years of history. That year the edition was particularly interesting because of the presence of the national amateur team from Russia and the technician of the national amateur, Marino Amadori. 182 kilometres with torrential water and a cold that froze your muscles. It is a race that attracts cyclists from all over the world, it is a

classic for amateurs, that runs on an impervious territory, between the two rivers Astico and Brenta, with one steep climb after another. My teammates promised me: “Today we take you to the finish line. Then, in the last meters, you are on your own. But rest assured that we do not make anyone run away. You can rest assured about that. They were of their word and repelled every attack: there was always one with the shirt of Breganze ready to jump in pursuit of who was sprinting. We ran over the hill in 20 or maybe 30, everybody was ready to go downhill at crazy speeds. The guys from the team did a valuable job and allowed me to stay in the lead group. But, aside from the adversaries, the cold and the rain were my enemies. I was freezing and I asked the team car to hand me a windbreaker to take care of myself. “What do you want to wear?" Carlo shouted at me from the window “Think about pedaling, it’s your chance, don't worry about the rain, damn…!!" Yeah, it’s easy to say, but I was on that saddle, thrown on wet asphalt with other crazy people who knew they’d be willing to get their most expensive ones cut to get to the finish line first. 70/80 kilometers per hour, if you touch the brakes you risk finding yourself in a cliff, the audience flows by next to you, they don't have faces, they are just shadows. All your focus is on those two wheels, your entire goal is to stick to the first ones and then sprint past them in the last few meters. Your dream is to ensure a place in eternal glory, to write your name alongside those of the great champions of the past. I was particularly concerned about the Brazilian Rafael Andriato, who won the Giro del Veneto the previous year and who could count on his teammate Filippo Fortin. And then there’s Davide, Alberto and Sonny from Zalf Desiree Fior. But even I can count on my partner Alex Simoni. I feel that I may have a chance. The arrival at Rossano Veneto is a sprint, just as I expected. During the breakaway I manage to slip in, to gain that meter that is as precious as a bank account. I’m not giving up that meter anymore, you have to shoot me if you want that meter because, of course, now that I took it, I won’t give it back. I raise my arms to the sky and I scream, I raise my arms to the sky and I scream, I raise my arms to the sky and I scream. A long, excruciating scream mixed with crying: a scream against diabetes, fatigue, the cold. But it’s also a shout of joy for myself, for my parents, for Carlo, for my teammates. That day, September 8, 2010, with that scream, I realized that my life had changed: I would become a professional. And now here I am, in the Milan-Sanremo, with this group of reckless people while behind they started

sprinting again and soon we will have them on our tail. Masnada goes forward about ten meters and starts the climb of the Cipressa. I start to hear a metal noise. It’s an almost imperceptible noise, at the beginning, then closer and closer. They are the reels of change of one hundred, one hundred and fifty cyclists who for almost seven hours ran after you. Some voice, some whispered blasphemy in a dialect you don’t know. Some call for help from a teammate, some encouragement from a team car. And then there they are, they pass you by, they don’t say anything to you while the crowd along the way cheers them. And you can't do it anymore. They leave a trail, a sour smell of sweat that tastes like a dream for those who, at this point in the race, start a new adventure, that of a possible victory. You step aside, you know you’ve accomplished your part, and you’re ready to receive the compliments of those who believed in you. For almost seven hours we were at the top of the race, a breakaway that started just after the start. Seven hours is a long time, it is a lot of time to think, to remember. Even if we are a small group, in reality each of us is left alone with his thoughts. During such a long breakaway you have plenty of time to relive the stages of your life, the beautiful ones and the ugly ones. It’s the memories that give you the strength to pedal, the faces of those who have always been close to you. These are confused memories that overlap as you push on the pedals, as fatigue bites your calves. While you know that now you have only one goal: crossing the finish line. From this moment another race begins, their race, that for victory. The group remained there, waiting, without hurry. Because the group is never wrong. As they pass by I recognize some faces, that of some favourite champions even if at Milan-Sanremo there are never any favourites. It’s the beauty of this classic: everyone can take home the victory. Certainly not us that made that breakaway because we spent every crumb of energy. These are the last kilometers of a race where you have nothing more to ask, you just have time to savour the meaning of your breakaway, of what that meant to your team, the Team Novo Nordisk, the team of cyclists with diabetes. It was my first professional engagement, although after my victory in the Astico Brenta there were opportunities. “They’ve been looking for you” - Carlo told me - “they’d like to hire you. But your diabetes didn’t help you. They are not sure about it, it’s too big a responsibility” “That's not a new thing". I answered. But I did not give up, I knew that sooner or later the good opportunity would come. Also because that year I was going really strong, seven, eight victories. In short, I was ready for the big jump. The occasion arrived in 2013. Carlo called me on the phone.

“Hello Andrea, are you all right? Listen up, Vassili Davidenko called me". “Sorry, I didn’t understand. Who called you?” “Vassili Davidenko. He is a Russian champion, he participated in the Olympics in '96, at the Giro d'Italia… in short, he knows his stuff ” “Yes, I think I understand” “In short, Vassili has retired from racing and is putting together a team of professionals. Young people, with the will to step forward. He wants to meet you.” “Yeah, sure, and after so many nice words, the problem of diabetes comes out and nothing is done” “That's the nice thing. Diabetes will not be a problem, in fact it is the reason why Vassili wants to know you. The team will be composed only of athletes with diabetes” “Everyone with diabetes?” “Exactly. Guys from all over the world to show that with diabetes you can do anything, maybe even win a Milan-Sanremo. The team will be called Novo Nordisk, a pharmaceutical company that produces insulin.” “Yes, I know it. Carlo, my legs are shaking, this is wonderful news” “Come on, I'll come and get you, Vassili is waiting for us in Verona” “When?” “What do you mean when? Today.” On the road I kept asking Carlo questions, I couldn’t keep quiet, but he couldn’t answer. “Are you sure they are going to choose me?” “I just told you he wants to meet you” “And how many of us will be there?” "I don't know, ten, fifteen” “What races are we going to participate in?” “Andrea, I... don't.... know” he answered impatiently by chanting the words. We reached the hotel where Vassili was waiting for us. It was a quick meeting, in English, and I had a little trouble expressing myself, but I understood what I had to understand “The team is practically done” Vassili told me while vigorously shaking my hand - “but we will surely find a place for you. I’ll see you in Alicante for the meeting.” Carlo looked at me without understanding a word we were saying, he was just trying to read my eyes. And my 32-tooth smile was the clearest answer. We signed the contract in a few minutes and I went home with my first professional engagement in my pocket. It was a unique emotion, I wanted to half-jump with joy. But now I was a professional and I had to be careful not to overdo it. Once I left Vassili’s hotel, away from prying eyes, I jumped on Carlo and embraced him with such strength that he was about to suffocate. “Stop

it, Andrea, what are you doing? You are going to strangle me” he shouted happily at me. After all it was a great victory also for him and he deserved it. A few weeks later, in Alicante, my experience among the pros began. I met the other guys on the team, the doctors, the coaches, the mechanics, the physiotherapists, the staff. I wasn’t used to this, my first feeling was to feel protected, 24 hours a day. And not only with regard to diabetes, which was certainly being monitored carefully, but also my needs, my weaknesses, my rituals. The team is like a big shield under which we athletes shelter from opponents and the outside world, from distrust, from the cliché. If you have a physical, psychological or personal problems there is always someone on the team ready to help you and protect you. And this, especially for the younger kids who are living away from home, is very important. The work of these years has given great results: I got excellent placements, but I miss the victory. Certainly it is more difficult among the pros, but I’m sure it will happen sooner or later… I also had many disappointments, one in particular, in 2017. I had participated in the Tirreno-Adriatico in preparation for the Milan-Sanremo. I fell and my leg swelled up. On Wednesday night I received a visit from the anti-doping team and I realized that my leg hurt more and more and had become bruised. So I went to the E.R., thinking a couple of anti-inflammatory drugs would solve the problem. The doctor on duty was very young, but already experienced in trauma of this type “Did you happen to fall?” “Yes, a few days ago, with the bicycle” “Even I, when I can, hop on my bicycle” “Yeah... Well... Actually it is my job” “Woah, a professional” “Yeah. I have to be in Milan on Sunday. It’s the day of the Milan-Sanremo” “Well... Mr. Peron… I don't know how to tell you this… you have a bad infection here” “Well, give me some pills, maybe some ointment.” “See Peron, it’s not a problem of pills or ointments, it’s a slightly more serious matter. Actually I don’t think you’re able to run.” “You are joking, aren't you? Maybe you don’t realize what you're saying, the Milan-Sanremo is one of the most important races of the season. What is the problem with a swollen leg?!” “The problem isn’t the swelling, it’s what the swelling means. In the next few days, before the therapy starts to kick in, you're going to be in pain, you won't be able to move that leg, let alone pedal for two hundred and more miles”

The whole world collapsed on my head, months of training wasted, the disappointment of my teammates, the suffering of having to stay at home, in front of the television. And anyway that young doctor was not wrong: I stood still for two months before returning to training and certainly the medical committee would not allow me to take part of that edition of the race.” I’m a few meters away, I’m exhausted, but happy. I can’t get up on the saddle, but I can spin on the pedals. I cross the finish line while everyone celebrates the winner, but also we of Team Novo Nordisk, we have a reason to celebrate: the world has heard of us, of our sacrifices, of our diabetes. Of course I look towards the podium and I have a bit of envy for those who will climb the highest step. Alaphilippe is a champion, he deserves success even if he will never know how important this breakaway has been for me, to put in order my memories, my emotions, my hopes. As so many people hug me, and someone supports me to help me get off my bike, I think about how much I would have liked to take part in that sprint for victory, my specialty. Maybe get to the Sanremo at the top of the form, as I was in the summer. But the human body is not a machine. I am left with the enormous satisfaction for a result that all of us in the team wanted with strength and determination. I am left with the emotion of a breakaway, a solitary race towards an imaginary goal, a race that ends where the race begins. I’m in a hurry to go home to hug Alessia and Filippo. And then I have the dream. But this, perhaps, will be another story.

For me cycling means competition. I was born with the desire to win. I’ve never hidden from anyone that I have diabetes and I’ve never been ashamed of my sad moments “ because I have always been able to count on the support of those who are close to me my team, my family and my partner. My best memory is the Most Courageous Rider jersey worn on the Tour of California:

It was a great honour for me to wear that jersey for two days and pedal alongside the world’s strongest cyclists. “

Charles Planet Cyclist of Team Novo Nordisk

Umberto Poli Professional cyclist Team Novo Nordisk