Giro d'Italia 1950. Sixteenth and penultimate stage, from L'Aquila to Campobasso, 203 km of Apennine, tormented and dusty roads, with the dreaded Macerone. It was June 11th. Indro Montanelli argued that "the Giro d'Italia has a strange power: that of turning every day of the week into a Sunday". But that day was indeed a Sunday. A holy Sunday, a most holy Sunday, a Sunday that couldn't be holier. Especially for Pasetta, from Barrea in Abruzzo.

If you called him Tommaso, Tommaso was his baptismal name, he wouldn't even turn around. If you called him Tommaso D'Amico, D'Amico was his family surname, he still wouldn't. For everyone, starting with himself, he was Pasetta, a definitive nickname after temporary ones like Pasuccio and Pasellino derived from Pasotti, Tommasuccio Pasotti, a local rider. And Pasetta was also in love with cycling. He was nine years old, the seventh of eight children - dad a butcher, mom a jack-of-all-trades -, after the war the first six children sleeping on the floor, the last two in two dresser drawers, Pasetta (below) would complain when his little brother (above) wet himself, first on himself then on him, so he begged his parents, either give him a bucket, or give me an umbrella.

That Sunday, Hugo Koblet was in the pink jersey, what a scandal, a Swiss. Then Gino Bartali more than five minutes behind, Alfredo Martini and Ferdy Kubler almost nine minutes back. Fausto Coppi, who had fallen on the Primolano Scales, had withdrawn with a fractured pelvis. The day before, Saturday, in L'Aquila, Giancarlo Astrua had imposed himself alone, with the first pursuer, Luciano Maggini, five minutes behind. But for Pasetta, only Bartali existed. "My hero". Perhaps even more than that.

"The Giro d'Italia was followed on the radio, there was one in the village, at the bar. But that day the Giro was passing near home, I gathered my courage and asked my father's permission to go see the riders, my Bartali. People from the village were leaving in truck convoys. My father said yes, but with one condition: 'First you must lay twelve lamb skins out in the sun'. I did it. But when I laid out the last skin, the trucks had already left. I didn't lose heart and went to Rionero Sannitico on foot. Without eating. Five, ten, fifteen, eighteen kilometers. Then I fainted. And I didn't see Bartali".

Pasetta would only see Bartali 37 years later. Giro d'Italia 1987. Seventh stage, Rieti-Roccaraso, 205 km of Apennine, nervous and paved roads, with the historic Piano delle Cinque Miglia, which was never really flat. It was May 28th, another Sunday for Montanelli, a Thursday on the calendar. "Bartali was following, or rather, anticipating the Giro by car. But for me, two or four wheels, it was the same. Bartali, this time I saw him, I climbed the stands, reached him and almost fainted. Bruno Raschi was there too, who would later write about me in the 'Gazzetta dello Sport'. I gathered my courage and invited Bartali to my restaurant, he accepted and came". The spark had become fire, blaze, inferno. Giro d'Italia 1993, it must have been the fourth stage, May 25th, another Sunday for Montanelli, a Tuesday on the calendar, from Lake Scanno to Marcianise, 179 km of complicated and wonderful Apennine roads, with Monte Godi, Rionero Sannitico and the now less feared Macerone, and the group was passing right through Barrea. "Bartali was in the car with his son Andrea. I blocked them in front of my La Genziana campground. Gino invited me to get in the car with them. Two kilometers together, eternal happiness".

Pasetta is 84 years old. He has told his life story in a book. It is simply titled, "Pasetta Tells". Three hundred and fifty pages between memories and poems, one also for Bartali, one also for Pantani. Pasetta and his five degrees ("Factology, spontaneology, seriology, sincerology and experienceology"), Pasetta and his seven and a half years in New York ("With a house in New Jersey") doing sixteen jobs ("From street vendor to carpenter, from an assembly line to a perfume shop, from errand boy to lawn mower..."), Pasetta and his billboards ("Pantani, you will be the dominator of Campo Imperatore") and his writings ("For Di Luca I traced it on the snow"), Pasetta and the Abruzzo riders ("I told Taccone that at the Tour, the Spanish Manzaneque hit with a pump, he shouldn't have done it", "Di Luca and doping, it had happened to him once, that was enough"), Pasetta and Adriano De Zan ("But the phenomenon was his assistant Guerrino Farolfi, he wrote everything by hand, took times and never made a mistake"), Pasetta and his 66 Giri d'Italia roadside, Pasetta and this Tour de France on TV ("Pogacar drives me crazy, but I'm so scared..."), Pasetta and his extraordinary resemblance to Giuseppe Garibaldi ("With the uniform, I'm surprised myself: we really look alike"). Pasetta and cycling: "In two words, no, three, my life".