She is one of us, and will remain so forever, like everyone who has invested time, efforts, and passions in the cycling world. She stayed there for many years, essentially entering as a young girl and leaving as a grandmother, speaking metaphorically about life stages, since I'm not aware she has any descendants. Her roles have changed with age, to the point that no one could ever accuse her of reaching the top by skipping many steps and cutting many corners, she truly conquered the sidewalk (in a good sense, come on, let's allow ourselves a bit of self-irony without immediately falling into sexist traps) and subsequently climbed all the ranks and degrees of television journalism. I'm clearly talking about Alessandra De Stefano, whom I call The Aunt.

For some time now, she has completely left bicycles behind and moved to Paris to manage correspondence from France. Coincidentally, she also touched on sports, starting with the Olympics, but this is no longer her primary field. Now she does everything: politics, crime, culture, color. I follow her on the news and she pops up everywhere. To cut a long story short: I'm here as a simple Italian, as an average viewer, to tell her a public, heartfelt, sincere "Well done, Aunt". If only Rai had more correspondents like her.

When she was a cycling journalist, I personally never liked her rhetorical-sugary approach (hence, The Aunt), that idyllic and enchanted vision where all cyclists and cycling enthusiasts are by definition saints, martyrs, heroes (maybe I'm less fortunate than her, but in many years I've met exceptional people and immeasurable jerks in the environment, as in all areas of life). None of that now. In her new life, The Aunt is a professional journalist. In just a few months, she has already overshadowed Botteri, who is sold as a second Fallaci just for having gone to some war front (which is courage, or recklessness, or vanity: it doesn't mean great journalism). While Botteri made faces and gestured to emphasize the few poor things she was capable of, The Aunt is essential, sober, concrete. She has the gift of synthesis, precision, substance. She doesn't perform, she informs. In short, she does her job magnificently, without conceding anything to fluff and personal narcissism, in stark contrast to the typical news anchor, more concerned with how they appear than how they inform. Of course, if I must be critical, I would point out to The Aunt a couple of things, such as her voice being too low for us latest-generation deaf people, and a certain excess of seriousness, bordering on funereal (come on, Aunt, a smile occasionally, I know you can do it - we weren't graced with Neapolitan charm for nothing). But as you can see, these are small, trivial, marginal observations. The substance remains, and speaks of a correspondent and journalist of the highest caliber.

It's the beginning of the new year, racing hasn't started or is minimal, I couldn't resist taking a moment away from current events to dedicate a thought to a side issue and character. But be careful: the compliments to The Aunt are not entirely unrelated to the theme. It's a way of saying that cycling, once again, confirms itself as a formidable training ground not just for those who pedal, but also for those who write and narrate. I won't list the journalists who have dipped their biscuit in this sector, it's now history and culture of our country. It's just to say that a sport of true humanity, a sport made of history, architecture, geography, politics, food and wine, art, etc., inevitably becomes an ideal master for growing and forming excellent journalists. At least those who have eyes to see and ears to hear, perhaps lifting their gaze from the sprocket and watts. The Aunt is the latest result of this magnificent social and professional laboratory. Bravo to her for not wasting her time, for having exploited the opportunity. I'm inclined to say that there, in Paris, she has truly found her place in the world. And we Italians, for once, don't need to be ashamed of the correspondents we usually send around. At our expense, by the way.