It is often asserted that cycling is not an individual sport, it is a team sport. Indeed, the sport of cycling or road racing at least, is a team sport. Teams that are made up of leaders and domestiques, stars and water carriers, winners and losers. It’s true that many a legendary team have helped make up the fabric of the sport’s history. The likes of Peugeot, Bianchi, Mapei, and Quickstep have all played their part in this epic poem. However, it’s the individuals who have provided the mythology to the legend. It’s probable that since the inception of the sport in the late 1800s, hundreds of thousands of riders have taken the start line of the spectacular and beautiful races that have and still adorn the year’s calendar. So many faces have been ravaged by Flandrian winds. Twice as many eyes have been dazzled by the glaring French sun in mid July. While just as many knees have creaked and grated as their masters hauled themselves up the snow-covered Stelvio. More than a century’s worth of individuals, these demi-gods of yesteryear, are what have made this sport more than a competition of athletic ability, but a heroic tale of human endeavour. Many of these individuals have tried to succeed and failed before evaporating into obscurity, whilst some have achieved greatness and defined themselves as legends. More interestingly perhaps, are those who fought gallantly to deliberately come last, and in doing so wrote themselves into history.
The Maglia Nera was historically the jersey donned by the last rider on general classification in the Giro d’Italia. It was awarded only between 1946 and 1951, the last custodian being a certain Giovanni Pinarello who apparently went on to build frames, or something like that. It was perhaps conceived in the spirit of humiliation and as an incentive to not be last. The organisers however, did not account for the cyclist’s natural disposition to resort to self-deprecative humour after hopes of victory have long vanished over the horizon. Nor did they factor in the Italian public’s insatiable appetite for romance. The most famous of Maglia Nera winners, however, is certainly one Luigi Malabrocca who won the coveted black jersey twice consecutively. As the pursuit of the Maglia Nera grew in the public consciousness, esteemed members of the grupetto were embellished with even warmer hospitality. Cash, wine, a meal, a bed, whatever the humble Tifosi could provide for the old soldiers at the back riding their own race. Malabrocca would relish any opportunity to waste time. If a sweet nona invited him in for something to eat, how could he not oblige? It would be rude not to rest an hour in the shade of her dark, cool kitchen, dipping bread and slurping minestrone with a glass of something cheerful. Every cool fountain warranted a dip of his capellino. Every statue of the Madonna deserved a pause and crossing of his chest. Luigi once found himself enjoying a cold draught beer when the bar’s proprietor brought out his prized collection of fishing tackle for his distinguished guest to inspect. Il Campione hung his nose over the colourful myriad of handmade flies while the owner beamed with pride and used his handkerchief to wipe his glistening brow. Later came allegations that Malabrocca had been spotted wasting more time fishing in the nearby Ticino river, but this is just unsubstantiated salacious rumour…
At times the race for the Maglia Nera demanded a more serious and calculated approach. Sante Carollo was Malabrocca’s main rival for the jersey. While Coppi and Bartali did battle up the road with muscle and grit, Carollo and Malabrocca deployed resourceful ingenuity at the rear. The two would go to absurd lengths in their pursuit of the anti-glory, hiding behind trees, fences and in bars. When asked by a half disgruntled and completely bemused farmer what he was doing hiding shoulder-deep in his water tank, Malabrocca replied ‘riding the giro’, of course. By the end it became a true competition and roadside fans would hold up banners in support of whoever currenlty held the Maglia Nera followed by banners asking ‘who’s winning?’.
Ultimately the Maglia Nera was removed from the race in 1951 as the organisers and more serious riders felt that it made a mockery of the race and the more honourable endeavours of those trying to win or at least not deliberately come last. However, honouring last place in the Giro is not the same as glorifying a goalkeeper who never makes a save. The likes of Malabrocca and Carollo made a joke out of nothing but themselves. In fact both were top cyclists in their own right and the race for the Maglia Nera was always secondary to their professional responsibilities to support the team. Here are two examples of the dozens of domestiques that make up the majority of the field in any race. Cycling is the sport of humility. Only one rider can cross the line first, yet many will cross the line having turned themselves inside out for the glory of someone else. In stark contrast with the glamour of the Maglia Rosa, the Maglia Nera presented an opportunity for the selfless majority, devoid of ego or braggadocio, to claim a prize for themselves. Don’t get this confused with the finishers’ medals and incessant high fiving of a charity run or a school sports day. The Maglia Nera still symbolises the completion of a Grand Tour, which alone demands the abilities of our species’ fittest specimens. It is a symbol of the human endeavour in cycling and the personalities that have cultivated the adoration of the public, without which the sport would be nothing.
A certain American, famous for not winning a certain race around France seven times remarked on his lack of popularity in 2002. He said ‘I don’t want to be the popular guy who puts a flower on his head, poses for a picture or does a song and dance. I just want to be a sportsman and win the biggest bike race in the world’. I’m afraid to say that in my book, that Texan triathlete had it all wrong. The fact is that cycling runs on personality, drama and romance because frankly, there’s nothing particularly interesting about watching other people ride bikes. This fact has produced a necessary distinction between sporting spectacle and everything else that the peloton drags down the road with it. Without the latter, the former would be unsustainable as a source of public entertainment.
The Maglia Nera embodies the notion that in cycling the fastest is not always the fan favourite. That power does not always come with panache. Achievement does not equal adoration. That is not to say that there haven’t been riders who achieved glory and also won the hearts of the public. Indeed, there are too many to list. However, it’s personality, exquisite style, and the code of conduct that rules the peloton that makes the sport so appealing. It could be argued that it is these elements that make cycling, for some, the only palatable organised sport. Legends like the race for the Maglia Nera are more suited to cinema or literature than they are to the sports column in the paper. This black jersey symbolises all that is enigmatic and initially hard to understand about cycling but also that which makes it so rewarding once you’re in the know. Nothing comes close once you begin to appreciate the heritage, occasional cynicism, humour, and perpetually nonchalant style that enriches these riders’ endeavours. For me cycling isn’t a sport, it’s a legend, conceived in greatness and made mythical by time. This is what I hope to convey over the coming posts.
Benvenuti alla Maglia Nera.
Maglia Nera 