27th May. Lugano.
Pink curls in the afternoon’s light. Coriandoli that go and come back in the air of a perfect day. The sun as in summer, the light wind that shakes the pink balloons hung on the ferry in the middle of the lake. This is the usual perfume that talks to the soul. Wild even in a day like this. Smell of lake, of algae, of the undertow that comes back. Cycling that is like the life itself and like this water.
It hides all the stories, some too nice even to be told. Someone wonders why. It’s not easy to answer. There is the arrival’s hustle, the thrill mixed to the tension. Adam Hansen on the final, nine seconds are only few. Nevertheless he keeps everybody with the bated breath. Then Paolini who wriggles out of the group. Full go. Maybe he can make it, maybe not. All together again, last turn. It’s sprint, for sure. Sacha and that second victory. Giacomo and that second place. Again. Victories that don’t came for a blow and a father who patient follows the contrail of his anger. This is a place where the white line tells few or nothing. The before and the after are everything: the preparation, the confidence. And then the tiredness, the disappointment, and one more time get up the day after, and be confident again. In themselves, in luck.
Lacustrine air, the usual smell of wine on the asphalt burnt of sun. White boats in the blue that becomes always more intense with the arrival of the night. Algae that brush the dock’s bottom. Words whispered on the undertow’s strand. On these banks Fogazzaro wrote his most famous novel. The lake is so: to the writer who listens to it, it whispers the plot, the dialogues, the perfumes, the noises. Shine the last sunrays and the water is already dark. Freshwater. Shady character, unpleasant. It is just a matter of heart. It comes into you slowly, like cycling. Stays forever. Among light and shadow, constant love.
Traduzione a cura di Martina Meroni
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