Among envelopes, folders and files, this piece of mine on Aldo Ronconi also emerged, written in January 2003, kept first in the "freezer" (an archive) of the "Gazzetta dello Sport", then on printed paper (with corrections in pen by Ronconi himself) and ended up in a cardboard box. I would have liked to publish it in the book "I diavoli di Bartali" (Ediciclo, 2016), but I shamefully forgot about it. The piece is written in first person: it is Ronconi who tells the story. This is the first installment.

(To my friend Aldo Ronconi, loyal rival of the good years of cycling. Gino Bartali 3.10.1987)

The good years of cycling were those, before and after the Second World War. Good, so to speak, because they were hard, dirty and sometimes even mean. But if Bartali said so, it must have been true.

I was born in Santa Lucia delle Spianate, five kilometers from Faenza. Son of a road worker, that is, a laborer, for the Municipality of Brisighella: he considered himself a fortunate man, earning 350 lire a month and workers would ask him to do the weekly payments, the weekly wages, because you were paid by the week. And son of a housewife, which was already a stroke of luck, because it meant having a home. Third of three children: my sister Lucia from '13, my brother Silvio from '15, later military chaplain of the Julia, then missionary priest, then died in Venezuela, and me from '18.

We lived at Casa Ponte di Santa Lucia, a group of tenants, a kind of community, there was also a mechanic, his son was roughly my age and I envied him. Because I had always had a passion for cycling: I was a fan of Learco Guerra, I dreamed of a racing bike, how happy I would have been to inherit the used one from the mechanic's son, and I pressed my nose against the shop window. After fifth grade I went to work as an apprentice, another apprentice, that of a carpenter: furniture, not bikes.

But let's get back to us. There was a gentleman who represented Prima from Asti. The Prima racing bike cost 450 lire. "If we buy it," my father told me, "we won't eat for a month and a half". A month and nine days, to be precise: anyway too long. Even though I kept thinking about the racing bike, always. I was 14 or 15 years old. Until one day my father ordered a bike that looked like racing bikes. Montanari, the mechanic, forged it, with the inclined tube, like a women's model, but for men, all chromed and branded.

Cycling was a family passion. My uncles claimed to have been cyclists. Cyclists, so to speak, empirical, by storm. They kept a black jersey of Girardengo, with a buttoned collar, and they gave it to me. And with that bike, and perhaps with that jersey, in '34, in Faenza, the mechanic Montanari's son and I covered more than 100 kilometers to reach the top of Mandrioli, at 1100 meters altitude, to cheer for Learco Guerra in the pink jersey. For the rest they were just rides, where I prevailed over my friends, or circuits as amateurs in Santa Lucia, laps of five-six kilometers to repeat a few times, we started from the House of Fascism, and often it was the priest who gave the start, we did the little climb called La Balsetta, a kilometer or so, and there was a lanky friend of mine, must have been 1.90 tall, who was seven years older than me, and always beat me in the sprint. In winter we did cross races on the canal banks, with terrible cold. Or early in the morning, either there was frost or snow, walking or running or thrashing about to catch our breath. The first and only real race as a youth I did in Reda, a hamlet between Faenza and Forlì, and I didn't finish. The good years of cycling.

But let's get back to us. In '34 my mother died: three years spent in bed, from a tumor, even though at that time people didn't even know what a tumor was. On her deathbed she asked me not to ride bikes anymore, because she was afraid I would get hurt. I obeyed: no racing for a year, because I had sworn to it, but I didn't stop training.

I raced with Guerino Farolfi, from '16, and Vladimiro Lazzarini, from '14, and they always beat me. Because I went pretty well everywhere, except in the sprint: second out of two, third out of three, fourth out of four... that's how it was.

I left the apprenticeship and went into business for myself: I made small items, crosses to hang clothes in wardrobes, with a small cart behind my bike I carried 100 to Forlì, there was a furniture emporium, I sold the crosses and bought the boards to remake them, and then I locked myself in the workshop every evening until midnight to work.

I made my amateur debut in '36 with the Velo sport Reno from Bologna: there had been Marino called Mario Bonvicini, road racer, and Francesco Verri, track cyclist, they patched up a Bonvicini frame and handed it to me along with a gray and white jersey. The first victory in Forlì, in the Grand Prize gelateria De Zordo: a two-man breakaway with a certain Fantozzi, my fans were curious to see if I could lose in the sprint against him too, but instead it went well for me. Then I aimed for certain races in the Marches, partly because there were fairs, partly because there were hills. I remember a race in San Marino, we arrived almost at night, I had gained many minutes, I won by a large margin. In '37, in L'Aquila, I was fourth in the Italian Youth Championship fascists. In '38 I won the Giro orobico, in Bergamo, and there were the best: Domenico Pedevilla, Gino Fondi, Fiorenzo Magni, Toni Bevilacqua. And I also won the Gil championship, Italian Youth of the Littorio, in Montecatini: we started 250, I dropped everyone and arrived alone, on the horse track. In the summer of '38 I won by a large margin the Perugina chocolate Cup, in Perugia, 2000 lire in prize money divided with my companions Farolfi and Lazzarini. After the race I did another race, this time with my father: "Dad, look here," I said waving the banknotes. "If you win another one," he replied, "I'll come watch you". He came, he became passionate about cycling, he also became passionate about that couple of glasses of wine that were drunk while waiting for the race. The good years of cycling.

(end of first installment – to be continued)