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Ti sbagli.

February 11, 12222

Smettila di comportarti come se fossi Eddy Merckx, non sei Merckx. Se vuoi essere come lui, corri come lui. Una cronometro di 25 chilometri e una gara su strada dove dovevo finirla di scherzare se volevo un futuro nel ciclismo. La gara su strada era un piattone con un arrivo in volata assicurato. Due giorni prima di volare a Kaliningrad Trumheller mi disse che aveva assemblato un paio di ruote per la cronometro per me.

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Aveva conservato del materiale dal suo viaggio in Italia. Sulla strada, con la mia bici tra le mani, mi attese fino a quando usci dalla macchina. Ho aggredito la corsa fin dal colpo di pistola e l'ho affrontata come se fosse una ripetuta di cinque chilometri. L'ho sopportato a testa bassa e ho continuato a pedalare. Ho perso per sei secondi da uno della nazionale.

Per uno che non faceva il primo foglio nelle occasioni che contano, un secondo posto era un trionfo. Era ancora preoccupato che non fosse abbastanza per un posto nella Kuybyshev. Translation from original English version below. The road to the top of the cycling pyramid turned out to be more rutted than I thought it would be. At first, nothing seemed too complicated about it. Win or finish on a podium at the Russian state championships to get selected into the Kuybyshev team.

Kuybyshev was the biggest, the most powerful cycling team in the USSR. Funded and tied to the Soviet Army, its chiefs ruled the Soviet road cycling landscape. They could pick and choose any talent from anywhere in the country. Survive and you can make it to the national team. A lot of national team riders came through the Kuybyshev machine.

Snatch any talent you can find anywhere in the country and throw him to the wolves.

Kuybyshev was the epitome of the Soviet road cycling system. A cut-throat world where winning by any means was the law. I knew what Kuybyshev was like from Piotr Trumheller and one of my older team-mates. They took the guy in as a state silver road race medallist.

He came back nine months later refusing to ride more than a couple of times a week before he quit cycling for good. His fall from the top of a talent ladder daunted me but there were no other routes. I blew two chances I had at the state championships to show Kuybyshev my worth. They used to print race results on paper sheets in those days with about thirty places on the first page. I failed to appear on the first sheet in every race that mattered. Trumheller scolded me after each flop.

Doubts if I was good enough sapped my drive to keep going. Oh, qual pallor! Is there anyone to care for me? Si volge e si accorge di Alfredo. Voi qui! Ha forse alcuno cura di me?

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I had forgotten this great love. Have you no heart? One day you passed before me, happy and light as air, and ever since that day, even without knowing it, I loved you - with that love which is the very breath of the universe itself - mysterious and noble, both cross and ecstasy of the heart. E in voi v'ha un core? Non potreste allora celiar. I am simple and frank. You must find another. It won't be hard, then, for you to forget me.

What the devil are you doing? Please stay. He withdraws. Do you accept the pact? I shall leave you. Io sono franca, ingenua; altra cercar dovete; non arduo troverete dimenticarmi allor. Che diavol fate? Sta ben - restate. Vi garba il patto? Take this flower. Prendete questo fiore. Alfredo goes out as the other guests return to the drawing room, flushed from dancing.

ALL Dawn is breaking in the sky and we must leave. Thank you, gentle lady, for this delightful evening. The city is filled with parties, the season of pleasure is at its height. We shall sleep now, to regain our strength for another night of joy. They go out. How strange! His words are burned upon my heart!

Would a real love be a tragedy for me? What decision are you taking, oh my soul? No man has ever made me fall in love. What joy, such as I have never known - loving, being loved! And can I scorn it for the arid nonsense of my present life? Alfredo esce mentre gli altri ospiti ritornano nel salotto accaldati dalle danze. Partono dalla destra. In core scolpiti ho quegli accenti! Saria per me sventura un serio amore?


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Che risolvi, o turbata anima mia? Null'uomo ancora t'accendeva - O gioia ch'io non conobbi, esser amata amando! E sdegnarla poss'io per l'aride follie del viver mio? Ah, perhaps he is the one whom my soul, lonely in the tumult, loved to imagine in secrecy! Watchful though I never knew it, he came here while I lay sick, awakening a new fever, the fever of love, of love which is the very breath of the universe itself - Mysterious and noble, both cross and ecstasy of the heart.

All is folly! This is mad delirium! A poor woman, alone, lost in this crowded desert which is known to men as Paris. What can I hope for?