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Faces of the Giro
Written by: Nolan Woodbury
Moto-Euro Magazine   http://www.moto-euro.com/
Charlotte, NC
 
The Motogiro begins! Starting in Palermo, riders and machines brace for a brutal 1200 + kilometer tour of Northern Sicily. (Photos: Larry Williams) ยป More Photos

Downshifting and pinning the throttle, I crawl under the paint of the wailing red and white ‘57 MV Agusta, my knee just inches away from the craggy stone wall dividing us from the deep blue Mediterranean 300 feet below. Climbing through the clouds towards Castello Di Venere outside of Erice, the steep uphill grade and my right hand are asking more of the seven-horsepower "power egg" than it can deliver. Just behind my left elbow is a Guzzi pilot riding a vintage Lodola, following so closely I can hear his front brake dragging. His 235cc "Taglioni-class" engine is beating my brains in on the straights, but the esses are mine. Our game of tag has been going on for over 20 minutes and I can't shake him. Wondering aloud if I'm on course, I haven't seen another bike (or a red directional arrow) since we began dueling, and that's not good. But this is the Motogiro, and it isn't easy; 1,274 kilometers on 175cc or less is.

The seeds for this adventure were planted five months earlier when I ran into Motogiro ace Vicki Smith at the IMS show in Long Beach. Would we be interested in attending? Stating the affirmative, Ducati and co-organizer Dream Engine stepped
up… and the rest would soon be history. I'm not exactly the world's best navigator, more Gilligan than Columbus, I get dizzy on local freeways, and the asphalt maze known as LA leaves me a thumb-sucking wreck. So I was feeling a bit pensive. Add a traumatic experience in north Italy three years ago and I'm truly wondering what the hell I'm doing here. Would Sicily bring me to my leather-clad American knees?

In Europe, motor sports represent performance and style, but in Italy, it's a passion clothed in national pride. While many Americans duly note the wide chasm in how things are done, the Italian's admit not knowing any other way. Size, for example, is not an indicator of appeal or desirability, and that opens many doors. Perhaps we are a byproduct of our landscape? You'll not find the vast, open range of west Texas anywhere in Italy, whose vertical borders could fit comfortably between Houston and El Paso, with Sicily and Sardegna thrown in for free. In an industry where specification is ever increasing, it's easy to forget that motorcycling's elder generation stood on much skinnier legs. Gone perhaps, but definitely not forgotten.

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