This is a story that comes from within the race, a story that emerges from the dust, one of those that you barely notice at first and then - looking at it more carefully - grow larger, complete us. And above all, move us.

The story is told by American photographer Jared Gruber, shared on social media as is normal in 2025, and we present it to you because it's a small story within the story of Strade Bianche, but a great story of humanity.

As we were leaving Lucignano d'Asso, I saw the beautiful colors of the Italian national champion's jersey on the side of the road, bent in the dust.

We were going really fast, I caught the scene in the blink of an eye, a scene I will never forget. It was Alberto Bettiol bent over his teammate, completely motionless (god, I hope he's just unconscious, I thought), Cristian Scaroni. He was gently slapping his face. That's it.

With my motorcyclist, we immediately left, in a whirlwind of dust and chaos. There was an ambulance behind us, so help was near but... this did not alleviate my deep sense of emptiness.

Later, I noticed I had a photo of the scene (because I really photograph everything, sometimes unconsciously) and a small detail caught my eye at the bottom, in the corner: it was Alberto's bike and it was many meters away from Scaroni. Bettiol had run back to his teammate.

I kept checking all day to see if there were any updates on Scaroni, nothing. I thought that was good news. Later, my wife Ashley found a standard medical report that spoke of minor injuries for Scaroni, if I remember correctly. He's fine. He's more than fine. He's alive.

Bike races are beautiful (this one in particular) but also quite scary (this one in particular). And they give us stories that stay with us: after all, we can't choose our memories, can we?