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Silent fury
Silent fury: how else can Velocity03 di Rome be described?
Like any fixed-gear affictionado I apreciate minimalism and simplicity, and so in normal circumstances I would have stopped here having said all there is to say. But this time it is different, and something more must be said. The need to share is too strong.
It all started a long time ago. More or less at the dawn of cycling, before the freewheel was invented. In those days cycling meant using a bicycle with a single sprocket skrewed onto the rear hub. Then everything changed: freewheels displaced fixed-gears, which soon became distant memories surviving in everyday usage - quite unusually - only in Jamaica.
Fast-forward to the 7th of November 2004 in Rome, Italy. A few years earlier a group of cyclists - aghast with the excessive bureaucracy straight-jacketing bicycle races and exasperated with Italian society's inertia with regards to reinventing our cities - imported the alley-cat race. The Italian variant of these fast and unregulated races is called "Velocity", word which refers not only to the speed of the race itself, but also to the bicycle (vélo in French) and to the city, both essential ingredients of the formula. Velocity started in Milan, but is now also being held regularly in Rome too.
On the 7th of November 2004 Rome staged the third edition of the race in that city, and - for the first time in over 100 years in Italy - saw a number of fixies on the starting grid. Bikes so long forgotten that they now appear to be something almost completely new. I am one of the riders that chose to compete on a fixie, and am often looked upon as an extraterrestrial. Somehow, people can't seem to wrap their minds around the notion that I have simply chosen to ride the most elegant and efficient cycling machine possibile: I may have only one sprocket and no freewhell on my rear hub, but this doesn't automatically mean I have gills and green antennae on my body too.
I am not alone. There is a growing number of riders that like me can now no longer do without the simplicity. elegance and efficiency of fixed-gear bicycles. At this race we are still a minority group - 5 out of 36 participants, 2 of which are racing in orthodox track trim with no brakes - but judging by the genuine interest our unique cycling machines garner on the starting line, the next time round we will be many more.
It is dawn on a Sunday morning, the ideal time to reclaim the city and make it ours for a few hours. The warm and sunny weather of the day before has been transformed into a dark and damp morning. The 06:00 kickoff has been delayed: one of the girls who came down from Milan to compete has fallen on the slippery tram tracks on her way to the start, and we await the ambulance that will take her to the hospital and to the 4 stitches on her injured leg that await her there.
06:15: everything is ready. Suddenly, the pubic illumination blacks out and it starts raining. Surreal. Lights off and rain on as the urban warriors bolt off into the darkness, oblivious to the magic of the moment as the adrenaline starts flowing in the rush up to the first checkpoint of the race, the Olympic Stadium.
I get off to a fast start. Somebody wipes out in Via Marmorata, I can hear the noise of metal scraping on the asphalt. The fixed-gear riders spontaneously band together and fly up along the banks of the Tiber, shaking off multi-geared pursuers in the process and liberating a long pent up competitive fury. The only thing I remember clearly is the mechanical silence of our bicycles, broken only by the hiss of tires on the wet asphalt and cobbles. There are very few words spoken between us to coordinate our effort and maximize our speed, a few shrill warnings at the intersections slowly starting to get populated with fast-moving cars.
Silence. The hiss of tires on wet asphalt. Hands firmly paned on the drop-bars. There is no trace of goodwill and courtesy in me, just a competitive fire burning white hot. It seems like only a few minutes have passed before we reach a point well up along the bank of the Tiber where the road is blocked. We must turn here and head down Via Flaminia. Three of us do exactly that, jumping up onto the pavement and later accelerating down a narrow road that soon becomes a one-way. It is starting to rain hard now, large pools start forming in the road. Damn. We have a tram right in front of us and no space to ride past it. We must dismount, loosing precious seconds in the transition. It is still pouring, but I am too concentrated to notice.
One of the riders with me starts shouting with joy. Out of the blue, just like that. I understand how he feels: there is something unbelievably magical abut the moment, and as much as I would like to start shouting too I prefer to keep mum, saving my breath for the rapidly approaching climb up to the top of thehill behind the Olympic Stadium. Flashes of lightening: not the thunderstorm, but us. I see one of the participants who has sought refuge from the pelting rain in the entrance of a bar, and he looks at us dumbfounded. His incredulous look seems to say "What? Are you guys nuts? Still racing?".
There it is, the stadium. Damn. We have been beaten to it, and by some of the slower riders at that. Obviously, riding up along the Tiber wasn't the fastest way to get here. We pass them at full speed, the road slowly starts to climb. I don't know what happened at this point: I lose contact with the other fixie riders in my group and start breathing heavily as I climb up to the checkpoint on top of the hill. I am pedaling fast, but to my detriment: I feel like my lungs and legs will soon burst.
Having reached the checkpoint I head back down to the base of the hill taking a shortcut through the grounds of the stadium. I am on my own now, and I don't like the feeling. I much preferred it when I was barreling along the Tiber with my fixed-gear comrades. I am slowly starting to understand the allure of racing in the velodrome, flying over the smooth surface at high speed in the slipstreams of others - or slicing the air at the front of the group - with no noise other than an aerodynamic hiss. I grind my way up to the Parioli checkpoint, and after about a kilometre a pass a fixed-gear rider that has flatted out and is slowly making his way to the finish line. A true urban warrior, he would have finished the race even if this meant dragging himself along the road on his elbows
I continue, soon realizing I have fallen back in the field. My legs are on fire. I reach the Via Appia, passing two of the riders who were the favourites for winning the race. A sudden surge of hope: perhaps I am amongst the leaders? Unfortunately this is not the case as they too have made mistakes in choosing the shortest and fastest route, and after having chased them for 3 kilometres I confront the final stretch of slippery cobbles that leads up to a small crowd of riders that has already finished the race.
After having crossed the line I inquire who won. The victor is Giacomo, one of the few fixed-gear riders in the race, and fixies also took 4th and 6th place overall. In a difficult race free of any constraints fixed-gears riders managed to place consistently well in a field of participants that cut them no slack, and one of them finish up on top. I am overjoyed, but am already thinking about the next Velocity up in Milan.
That one is going to be mine.