Conference noted::bicycle

    Mauro Gorrino has found a bike for me to ride -- an old aluminum ALAN
    tourer with a triple crank.  Like many bikes in the Piemonte region,
    this one has a venerable history.  Its owner took it to France years
    ago, with the goal of conquering all the important climbs of the Tour
    de France. It doesn't look like much, but this bike deserves respect. 

    We start on a ride that includes a 4km climb from Mauro's village of
    Crescentino up to my soon-to-be project leader's house in the hills.
    The Alan spins easily up through the tight switchbacks, while Mauro,
    climbing out of the saddle, has to fight the Campy derailleur on his
    Sannino race bike to make it stay in 42-26. 

    When cars pass us in the drizzle of the afternoon, they're amazingly
    polite. Italian drivers are often agressive towards one another --
    running red lights, crossing the double line to pass one another at 60
    mph in the middle of the city, nosing out of side streets into the
    middle of oncoming traffic, blasting horns at anyone going too slow --
    but they're patient and disciplined when they encounter us.  Bikes have
    a great reputation in Northern Italy, and it shows. 

    We arrive at Amedeo's house as the rain starts to fall harder.  We stow
    the bikes away, and Amedeo shows me his own "legendary" bike -- a nice
    racer with the letters GZETA running down the seat tube.  I mention
    that I've never heard of the brand, and Amedeo explains that the bike
    was once owned by a teenager who has now gone on to be a member of the
    Italian National Team. The kid's father, G. Zeta, was a famous mechanic
    who had tried his hand at frame making, but who had no business sense.
    He made several good bikes, but soon decided that it was too much work.
    He started hanging out at the local bar, playing darts, and leaving the
    workshop in charge of one or another of his very young sons.  Customers
    became frustrated, and the enterprise went belly-up. 

    With the rain pouring down in sheets, we have to give up any idea of
    going out as a threesome.  We settle instead for a snack of wild
    strawberries with lemon and sugar, make plans.  Tomorrow is annual
    citizen's race in Mauro's town; I'm to be an unofficial entrant. 

    Race day is sunnier, and windy.  The Carabinieri (State Police) are at
    all the major intersections.  A carnival is going on in an adjacent
    field.  Bikers are everywhere.  The whole town is out in the streets. 

    I arrive during the Veteran's race.  Here are all of these guys over
    fifty, BLAZING around a 5-km course full of tight corners. They're
    incredibly smooth -- more like pros than citizen racers. 

    We finish prepping our bikes in time to see the final sprint -- the
    victor raising his hands triumphantly ten meters before the finish
    line, cruising past it with them still outstretched. 

    Now it's our turn.  Mauro tells me that I'll have to stay at the back
    of the pack, since I don't have a number.  I line up at the back up the
    staging area.  There are lots of teams gathering, and many have exotic
    bikes.  Some of the equipment I've never seen before -- Colnago Master
    frames (whose tubes have a star-shaped cross section) Croce D'aune
    components, wild paint jobs. 

    I feel a little self-conscious on the Alan. Then I notice a tremendous
    irony: everybody's wearing a helmet except me!  Even though they're
    only recommended (Mauro explained to me later), almost all amateur
    racers in Italy use helmets.  Here I am, an American, the guy from the
    land of the helmet, with only a bike cap between me and the road. 

    We make a rolling start.  Everybody is mellow, even half-asleep, as we
    take the first couple of corners and head out of town.  Soon I become
    frustrated; the pack of about 100 slows to walking speed on the first
    hill. "When are we going to race?" I wonder.  I begin to think these
    guys are lightweights as we saunter up the second hill and finish the
    loop back into town. 

    All the sudden, the pack drops me.  It's like the rest of the cyclists
    have gone into warp drive.  I sprint frantically to catch up, only to
    find myself locked in the "yo-yo" effect.  The front riders barely have
    to slow down for the tight corners, but by the time the back of the
    pack reaches them, it's crawling. This leaves the people at the back
    with a murderous sprint to keep up. 

    Two laps of this, and I'm nearly spent.  The pack drops me and a few
    others decisively.  Still, I'm determined to work my way back. I try
    teaming up with the other slow riders to break the wind, but they are
    either too tired or unwilling to pull. I end up alone between the main
    pack and the stragglers, knowing I have little chance of catching up. 

    I throw the Alan into the corners with all my might, letting the soft
    aluminum frame soak up the understeer of the touring geometry.  I see
    that I'm picking up five to ten meters on each one, but it isn't
    enough: the pack's still pulling away. My rear derailleur also jumps
    out of gear whenever I sprint. The poor bike just isn't built for this
    treatment. 

    After a couple of more laps, I hear an official at the finish line say
    "(mumble) terminee" and think he meant I had been terminated from the
    race.  I'm about half a lap back from the pack, after all, so I pull
    aside and became a spectator.  Soon I realize that he was announcing
    how many laps there were to go (until the "terminee" of the race). 

    It isn't so bad being a spectator.  The leaders have formed a breakaway
    pack, and they carve the corners like downhill skiers.  The crowd is
    really into the race; they scream encouragement for a rider who's
    broken the main pack and is slowly catching the leaders on his own.
    Mauro hangs on in the main pack, but he's inevitably slipping from the
    front to the back.  His legs were tight this morning from yesterday's
    ride, and now they're fading. Two laps later, he pulls out. 

    "Take a few laps on my bike," he says.  I adjust the seat, and head
    back out on the course. 

    Though only 58 or 59 cm, Mauro's frame is made entirely of Colombus SPX
    tubing.  It is by far the stiffest bike I've ever ridden, as different
    from the Alan as a bike can get.  Instead of throwing it into the
    corners, I now find myself diving through them like hoops of fire. When
    I stand up, I feel like I'm on a concrete platform -- the bottom
    bracket doesn't sway a millimeter.   Instantly, I know that my beloved
    Olmo back in the states is doomed. It will always feel mushy to me now. 

    Two laps are enough.  I'm really getting tired.  I decide to pull aside
    to watch the finish. 

    The coach of Mauro's bike team is there.  I ask him (through Mauro) if
    I can join his team in the fall.  He looks me over and says something.
    "He'd be happy if you would," Mauro tells me. 

    "He kind of looks like Hampsten," says another guy.  I'm really
    embarrassed, considering my performance on the course.  (Hampsten took
    the lead in the Giro that day.)  "Don't worry.  You just need the right
    kind of training," Mauro reassures me, "When you work with the team
    you'll do better." 

    "Do you want to go to a bike exposition?"  Mauro asks.  I jump at the
    chance.  All the Piemonte producers are there: Gios, Galli, Olmo,
    Sannino, Benotto, Columbus....  At the Sannino stand, I spot a gorgeous
    frame, like nothing I've seen before.  Its tubes each have a different
    cross-section -- an inverted teardrop for the downtube, triangles for
    the chainstays, the outline of an eye for the top tube.  Each has been
    optimised to its function.  The seat tube meets the downtube IN FRONT
    of the bottom bracket, to allow a tighter rear triangle.  The whole
    thing is very exotic.  It's Columbus's MultiShape tubing ("MS" for
    short), introduced last year, and still in limited production.  I'm
    immediately very interested in this frame, and ask about the cost.
    "Lire 930,000," ($750) he says. 

    Campagnolo components are on nearly every bike.  There's a new group,
    "Athena" that's just been introduced, which is at the low end.  The
    Croce D'aune components look nice up close. C-Record is everywhere. 

    We decide to go on another ride instead of racing, but 5 km into it, I
    discover that the lug at the seatpost has split apart.  The legendary
    Alan has bitten the dust, having died of old age and stress. Mauro
    tells me not to worry about it, and suggests that we go to the Sannino
    factory to have a look around instead. 

    It's a little place tucked in the middle of a residential area.  Only
    seven people work there.  As we walk in, we find ourselves surrounded
    by commemorative photos of winners on Sannino bikes -- the Polish
    national team, one of the top Soviet riders, the veteran champion of
    Italy. There are about ten gleaming bikes in the front hall, from track
    bikes to team TT to women's models.  Guiseppe Sannino himself is there,
    adjusting an older bike in for service. 

    He takes us into the production area, a 5 by 10 meter room. Frames at
    different stages of a assembly hang from the ceiling.  I grin when I
    see all the pinups on the walls, like in any mechanic's shop. 

    Guiseppe takes us through each stage of the process, from tube
    preparation to painting.  He notes with pride the special care that
    Sannino takes. "I'm not interested in quantity, only quality," he says. 

    When I ask questions, he is quick and definite in his answers.  Why
    does he use smaller fork blades than his competitors?  He pulls down a
    few examples of the other kind, and says that he's found that the one
    he uses is stiffer, even though it looks less impressive.  He's happy
    to stick on whatever kind a customer specifies, but he'd recommend the
    type he uses.  Why doesn't he use much chrome?  It weakens the tubes
    over time, comes the response.  Columbus won't guarantee tubes that
    have chrome applied to them. He'll do what the customer wants, but he
    recommends against chrome.  What angles do you use?  He has defaults,
    but he'll do anything a customer likes, within reason. Can I get a
    custom paint job? No. That's one thing that's not negotiable. Sannino
    bikes are always red. 

    There are a few MS frames in the shop.  Since I'm obviously lusting
    over them, Guiseppe asks me through Mauro if I'd like to take a ride on
    one.  "Would I?" I gasp.  "Sure!" 

    I race outside to get my cleats.  They set me up on one of the original
    prototypes. Since all the lugs weren't available when the frame was
    produced, it's lugless (except at the bottom bracket). Though it's not
    as strong as a production model, it's even more beautiful.  The seat
    tube flutes up along the seatpost, the seat stays melt into the top
    tube, the front tubes arc into the steering tube without a crease. 

    I'm surprised at how comfortable the bike is, even with 74.5 degree
    angles.  The steering is perfectly neutral; the turns are crisp. It's
    not frightening at all on the downhills, like my Olmo can be.  At one
    point I take my hands off the bars, and raise them like the Veteran
    citizen racer I saw at the moment of victory. 

    I return to the States.  Out of curiosity's sake, I take the Olmo out
    along Memorial Drive.  I can't believe how huge it feels -- like a
    truck.  The frame's too big for me.  My weight's too far back, making
    the bike unstable in fast corners.  And, inevitably, it feels a little
    mushy.  It'd be a great bike for a taller, lighter rider, but I no
    longer feel like it belongs to me. 

    I'm ordering a Sannino MS frame in September.  The Olmo's up for sale.
    Anybody interested? 

    Thanks for an enjoyable note.    Rod

    Great reading! I hope you continue to add to this when you're situated
    and keep us posted on your racing career. We'll be looking for you in
    next years Giro.

    Jonathan
    

    You lucky dog!  Wonderful reading, good luck in Italy.
    
    How about some details on the Olmo for sale i.e. size, components,
    price, mileage, etc?
    
    Dave
    
    

    I overlooked one important fact: I need a bike to ride this summer!
    I'm looking for alternatives, but this might not be available until
    mid-August.  (Sorry!)  I'll keep you posted....
    
    
    Size:   61cm center-to-top, or 24" center-to-center

    Color:  Metallic red, with a yellow highlights on the lugs, yellow
            tape, and yellow cables.

    Tubing: Columbus SL (possibly SP on the downtube, considering the
    	    frame size)  
    
    Condition: 3 years old, never crashed.  Some paint scratches from
            travelling in the back of my car, but the paint quality
            is much better than most Italian bikes (this is one of Olmo's
            hallmarks).  I don't know what the mileage is, but since
            I only ride only two to three times a week during the season
            (running on the rest of the days), it's lower than you'd
            expect.

    Crank:  Dura Ace, 175mm, 53/42
            (BB, Chain, and Cogs are also Dura Ace)    
    
    Bars:   Cinelli Model 66 (deep drop), 44cm

    Stem:   Cinelli
    
    Brakes: Modolo Speedy, Shimano pads (I think they're better than
    	    the Modolo pads)

    Seat:   Selle Super Turbo
    
    Headset, Shift levers, and rear derailleur: Campy
    
    Front Derailleur: Suntour Cyclone (I know...tacky, tacky, tacky.
            I'll replace it if you're insulted by it.)

    Wheels:
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
             hub                wheel         spoke	        tire
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(training) 
   front: 36h Suntour Superbe  Mavic GP4,    14 g 3x         Wolber Neo-Pro
   rear:  36h Suntour Superbe  Mavic SSC,    14 g 4x      (270gr mixed, 100psi)
(racing)   
   front: 32h Campy Record     Ambr Montreal 15 g 3x        Avocet Criterium
   rear:  36h Campy Victory    Mavic SSC     14/15/14 3x  (240gr slick, 130psi)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    Yesterday was beautiful in Torino, so I threw the bike in the back
    of the car and headed into the Val di Susa (the valley between
    here and France).  After driving 25 minutes, I parked in an
    appropriately picturesque village, and pointed my bike uphill.  45
    minutes later, I was still in 42X22 (my lowest gear until my
    shipment arrives), and was only halfway up the side of the valley. 

    Freshly fallen chestnuts were all all over the road; families were
    out collecting them by the bagful. By now, the views were
    stupendous: the little switchbacked road climbed past stone houses
    with overgrown grape arbors and flowerbeds, while on the opposite
    side of the valley a crumbling Napoleonic fortress came closer and
    closer to being at eye level.  
    
    After a small mishap (a flat), I got back on the road and
    continued my climb, passing several tiny villages.  I was getting
    pretty hungry at this point, and started looking for a snack bar
    where I could get a sandwich.  (This isn't as bizarre an idea as
    it sounds -- these bars are everywhere in Italy.)  After a
    kilometer or so, I found one, but it didn't have sandwiches. ("Due
    kilometri sou [up] ou due kilometri jou [down]," the lady said
    with a wink.  So "sou" it was; I reached a ridge where there was
    an even better view, and a dirt road that lead back down to the
    valley floor. 
    
    I decided to save the mountain biking action for next time^, and
    instead, followed the pavement up another kilometer or so. Near a
    shrine at the top of the hill, I finally found the bar the lady
    had spoken of. I was covered with sweat at this point, and shaking
    a little. The guy who ran the bar didn't seem to mind.  He spoke
    some English, and was able to tell me I had reached 1400 meters.
    That meant I had climbed about 1100 meters since I had started
    earlier in the afternoon.  I devoured a couple of sandwiches, and
    headed out to start my descent. 

    Up until now, I've taken all of the descents I've made in Europe
    very slowly. But after a few hours on my own bike (instead of on a
    borrowed one), I had my confidence back.  Coming down this time, I
    was passing cars. It was a blast to be in 53X13 for 45 minutes,
    steering with the inside of my thighs as I crouched on the drops
    and pedals.  I felt perfectly secure -- the crushed chestnuts on
    the road were the only hazard. 

    3/4 of the way down, though, I pulled to a stop.  There was a
    farmer selling cheese by the side of the road, and I figured I'd
    buy some.  I tried samples from the two large rounds he had with
    him, and asked for 1/2 kilo of one of them. As the farmer grinned,
    I stuffed the hunk of cheese into one of the pockets on the back
    of my jersey, and rolled off. 

    As I drove home later, there were dozens of fruit stands along the
    side of the road.  Thinking I would pick up some apples, I pulled
    over and checked one out.  A lady there was selling bags of
    chestnuts. She offered me a sample. "Dolce!" she exclaimed, as I
    took a bite. She was right -- the nut was sweet, and tasty.
    "Due Milla," she said, as she thrust a bag in my face.

    So now, what do I do with all these chestnuts I bought? 

    
 ------------
 ^My new mountain bike will be ready in November.
    

	Shall I grace your note with my two weekends out of Torino
	in September?  Or would a separate note be better?

	-j

	PS: What *have* you done with those chestnuts?