There’s this beautiful moment on race days where the chaotic atmosphere of anticipation turns into an exalted silence exclusively reserved for places of worship. Who’s left? Is your idol still in the bunch?
At Il Lombardia, it happened as the motorcade came into sight, signaling the first coming of the peloton. Everybody held their breath as the riders ascended San Fermo Della Battaglia. Two laps later, an elderly drunk man sputtered TADEJ from the top of his lungs. The mountain exhaled, conversations began anew, and the leaves began their descent.
Here’s a collection of scuffed analog pictures from my day at San Fermo. Excuse me while I’m learning. + an AI-generated version of a spectacular memory. Or a dream.
