The black jerseys: the last riders in the general classification, the first in the sentimental standings. Because the black jerseys belong to the domestiques, in perpetual struggle with the time limit and minimal energy reserves. The most human and the most humble. The most like us. This is the sixth installment, dedicated to Franco Ongarato, last at the 1973 Giro.

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Blame it on a salad. "1973 Giro d'Italia, the twelfth stage, the Lanciano-Benevento leg of 230 km, seven hours, Roger De Vlaeminck first, me in the group more than half an hour back. That evening, in a hotel hosting multiple teams, the salad was spoiled. It was an intestinal massacre. Some abandoned the race, others, like me, continued despite everything. It was my first Giro and I would never have quit." Franco Ongarato, Dreher Forte jersey, number 39, had turned 24 the day before.

What happened?

"I had to grit my teeth, and not just those. Drained, dehydrated from diarrhea, I had to drink constantly and stop occasionally. And certainly the group wasn't waiting for me. It took five or six stages before I recovered. That's how I slipped into last place. Last, second-to-last, third-to-last, it made no difference, I didn't care at all, the important thing was managing to reach the final finish line in Trieste. And there were still all the mountains to climb. And mountains weren't my strong suit."

A fast road rider?

"More so as an amateur. In the Italian national jersey I won two stages at the Tour of Bulgaria, it was the year the Tour de l'Avenir wasn't held and that had become the most important, then I won two stages at the Peace Race, the Warsaw-Berlin-Prague, I was third at the pre-Olympic race in Munich, won a stage at the Tour de l'Avenir and one at the Giro d'Italia, seventh overall. Different story as a professional. I didn't win, but I placed well. Third at Sassari-Cagliari, three times third at Tirreno-Adriatico, eighth at Milan-Sanremo, fifth at Milan-Vignola. I was placing well in that Giro too: four times in the top 10, with a third place at Alba Adriatica. The diarrhea knocked me out."

Then?

"I recovered. Fifth in Verona. But at that point, last place suited me. In the Dolomite stage, with Valles, Santa Lucia, Giau and Tre Croci, I was in the small group with Dancelli and Bitossi, when the Dreher Forte masseur ordered me to go slower, to ease up, to wait. 'You must finish last at all costs.' I obeyed. The Dreher Forte manager had promised us that for every second of television appearance, as long as we were wearing the cap or jersey, we would receive 10,000 lire. When I finished stages in the group, I'd drop the bike, go back to the awards podium, built with Innocenti tubes, and climb up to be the first rider interviewed. Plus, last place was a golden opportunity: I knew that sooner or later Adriano De Zan would come to me."

Did he?

"The last day. He interviewed me during the race, from the motorcycle. He said he would ask me two questions, the first 'how do you feel four and a half hours behind Eddy Merckx?', the second 'what do you think of your first Giro?', and he wanted to know the answers in advance—it was the period of the Red Brigades and RAI feared revolutionary statements."

Your answers?

"To the first question, I said I wasn't in a hurry and that anyway I would win in Trieste. To the second, I explained that the Giro d'Italia was a bit like military service, at first it seems like something crazy and you're afraid you'll go crazy too and you can't wait to get home, but in the end you're sorry it's over and you can't wait to see your fellow soldiers again. By dragging it out a bit, the interview lasted 47 seconds and earned me 470,000 lire. A nice chunk of money, especially considering that Italo Zilioli, our team captain for the general classification, earned barely more than me in that Giro."

One hundred and thirteenth, and last, with 13'17" on Walter Avogadri.

"A good safety margin. Avogadri was another one who struggled on climbs like me, actually, more than me."

Is it true the Giro was a bit like military service?

"I did my military service in the Athletes Company, my bunkmate—I was born in 1949, he in 1951—was Francesco Moser. We ran into each other in Milan on the track at the Palazzetto dello sport. And he knew nothing about track cycling. I told him to raise the saddle, lower the handlebars, adjust the cleats. I taught him how to ride high in the curves. He learned quickly. They asked us to participate in an americana, a two-person relay race where you hand off by throwing. Him, clumsy and terrified, continued for an hour alone, at 60 kilometers per hour. This is a champion, I said to myself. I wasn't wrong."