Time is a tyrant, but so is space. In fact, the two are accomplices: time saturates space. And with Covid or summer, comes the moment of reckoning. You start by aiming to clear the attic, you settle for liquidating a cardboard box. And among envelopes, folders and files, irresistible clippings emerge. Like this one about Luciano Succi: "La Gazzetta dello Sport", January 2006.

He knew those two by heart. In 1940 they were teammates at Legnano: Gino Bartali captain, Fausto Coppi newly professional, and him, Luciano Succi, domestique. Who now, at almost 91 years old, remembers. «Either football or cycling: as children, there was nothing else to do for fun. Football, I could manage. Cycling, when I tried it, nobody could keep up with me. It was my father's bike, half-sportive, without fenders, I put a racing saddle on it, low handlebars and toe clips. First race in San Marino: I beat them all. In Romagna I was the strongest, and Guerrino Farolfi, the eternal second behind me, had to resort to a trick to win. One day, before racing in San Leo, he told me: "I'll pick you up by car". Instead he didn't show up, left me on foot, he raced and won. As an amateur I conquered the Bologna-Raticosa over Mario Vicini. But to be someone you had to race in Tuscany, with Bartali, Bini, Secondo Magni, the Cinelli brothers. So, when I won with those guys, I thought I could become a professional cyclist».

Professional from 1938 to 1941 with Legnano. Rich agreement, unlimited confidence, but: «Milan-San Remo 1938, I arrive at the finish, but late, 50th. I see Ezio Corlaita, from the organization, I ask him: "Where is Legnano?". And he: "But who are you?". "Succi". And he: "Succi, get out of here". I find the hotel, I climb the stairs, I bump into a mirror, I ask myself "But who is that there?", and I get scared, then I recognize myself, I answer "Succi", I go to the bathroom, bathtub full of water and a bottle of milk, I enter the tub still dressed as a cyclist and with tubulars over my shoulder and meanwhile I drink the milk, someone knocks, it's the masseur, "Who's there?", "It's me", and he "Get out of here, it's Gino's", and I "Gino or no Gino, I'm not moving from here anymore". My roommate was Learco Guerra, who finished 58th: "Learco, a terrible pace, impossible to stay on his wheel". And he: "Don't worry, only San Remo is like that". It wasn't true. Giro d'Italia 1938: after three or four stages, Eberardo Pavesi, sports director of Legnano, says to me: "What's your name?". "Succi". And challenging him, I dared to ask him: "But what is it, are you drunk?". And Pavesi: "Succi, I've never taken such a beating in my life". He was right: I couldn't even keep up. And on top of that I was earning 650 lire a month, against the 250 of Glauco Servadei, who was winning stages at the Giro and the Tour».

Succi got used to those crazy rhythms, but: «Giro d'Italia 1939, Florence-Bologna, descent from Pratolino, Diego Marabelli gets a puncture and swerves, and I, to avoid falling into a ravine, crash against a kilometer marker pole, bounce into the middle of the road and get hit by the group. A massacre. We get back up. Whose arm is this?, whose leg is this?, I'm so broken that I don't even feel pain, I recover a collarbone, I ask to go to the Rizzoli in Bologna, instead they take me to Florence, I risk being paralyzed, then I go home, I set up a rope on a beam, and pulling up and down the pulley, for two or three months, I return to normal». It's 1940. «Training on the Riviera, I stop at a fountain, there's another cyclist. I ask him: "Who are you?". And he: "You are Succi". Finally someone who recognizes me. "If you say so. I'm from Legnano". And he: "Me too. My name is Coppi, Fausto Coppi". He had on a wool jersey and pedaled well: when the road climbed, I tried to stay on his wheel, but he dropped me. In the evening I see Servadei, who says to me: "Yesterday I trained with someone...". "Coppi". And he: "How do you know?". And I: "That guy's strong". I was wrong: not strong, very strong. Giro d'Italia, in Florence, Sabatini restaurant. Ugo Bianchi, the Legnano mechanic, asks everyone, even Bartali, what gears to use for the next day. And Coppi: "I'll tell you tomorrow". And Bianchi: "Here you're at Legnano". And Coppi: "Yes, but I decide". The next day there's the Florence-Modena stage, with the Abetone, where Coppi attacks, wins by 3'45" over Bartali and becomes... Coppi. Then Modena-Ferrara: Bartali gets a puncture, I stop to help him, I haven't even brought him in yet when Coppi tells me: "Go to Pavesi, the chainring isn't working for me". I go to Pavesi, Coppi stops, the mechanic fixes the bike, in front it's a war, us from Legnano, except Bartali, we stop and when we restart, I shout: "Come on, come on, come on". And Coppi: "Are you done complaining?". Barely time to answer, he drops us all, goes off alone and catches them all. Coppi dominates, Bartali seethes. In Fiume I get caught in the tram rails, I flip over and break my shoulder. I call Pavesi. And he: "But what shoulder, rather the wheel". Terrible pain, but Servadei doesn't believe me and Raffaele Di Paco sings "Succi is slacking". At the feed zone I stretch out an arm to grab the musette and my collarbone pops out. In Trieste I arrive with five or six others at 20' back and Pavesi explodes: "Never had a rider arrive so far behind". And he adds: "However, if it's true that you have a broken shoulder, I'll confirm you for another two years". "Wait a moment - I tell him - before confirming me, I'll think about it". I was fed up with stopping a moment for Bartali and another for Coppi. Then hospital, X-rays and diagnosis: fracture. Pavesi: "But how did you manage to finish the stage?". From that day on he held me up as an example». But Succi didn't forget: he left Legnano, Bartali and Coppi, sought his fortune and found it, winning. Then the war. «When it started again, I thought the money would be the same as before. Little. And I quit. It was a mistake. I had finally learned to play the rumba».