My name is Pertusi, I was a rider. He would introduce himself like this, simply, modestly, perhaps also a bit ironically, knowing that time erases footprints and traces, especially those of cyclocross. His: three-time Italian champion, twice second, once third, and a fourth place at the World Championships (held in Belgium) that, what disappointment, what sorrow, what perhaps also anger, a fall had deprived him of the podium.

Graziano Pertusi died on Wednesday, October 22, he was 92 and a half years old, until a few years ago he would pedal, alone or in a group, even in gatherings of cycling's old glories. From Pieve Albignola, then Garlasco, finally Gropello, he was considered the heir of Luigi Malabrocca: very much for the specialty, cyclocross, indeed, very much also for the accent, for the skills, for the successes, which at least in muddy and cross-country, winter and popular routes, surpassed those of the Black Jersey.

Fifteen victories as a junior, twenty-six as an amateur, but on the road. Teams, from Nilux to Ignis (the same as for "il Mala"). Then cyclocross, as an authority. But that was a familiar, poor, earthly and territorial cycling, dirty outside and clean inside, where satisfaction - necessarily - was worth more than the engagement or salary, where rivalry was celebrated on church steps or in puddles of paths, where recognition was in a small article in the "Gazzetta dello Sport" or in the cheers of the mud people, mud-splattered (the most experienced wore galoche), cold (the toughest warmed up with mulled wine), indestructible (just like him). Never hanging up the bike, he founded and directed the Garlaschese, infecting generations of young riders with his passion, those who survived the kidnappings of other sports or the physical and climatic hardships of a discipline of suffering. Then hunting: not that of six-day races or American-style, not that of talents and hopes, but the hunting kind, managing two reserves, in Sannazzaro and Gropello. Quick retort, easy smile, pocket memories: he needed little to fill a room.

My name is Pertusi, I was a rider. With him, a small ancient world disappears.