It was the first of June 1950 when the Giro arrived in Bassano, Wilier Triestina’s city. The racers had been on the move for one hour. The race had started in Vicenza with arrival set in Bolzano. A race in the Dolomites that would give you the chills, with the Rolle, Pordoi and Gardena passes to climb one after the other, like merciless judges ready to measure each athlete’s strength. First in the rank was a 24 year old Swiss of gentle manners called Hugo Koblet. He was far too aristocratic for the group. From good stock, polite and good mannered, he lives in Zurich. Before starting cycling professionally he had been a silversmith. Every morning before leaving the hotel he has the habit of putting a small comb protected in a leather case in one of his top’s pockets. It is a sweet habit of his. Immediately after the finish line he is known to use the water left in the bottle to wash his face and get rid of any dust and sweat. He then combs his thick hair with that bone object, while his mates chuckle. No one is willing to bet on his stamina. ”Coppi, Bartali and Magni can beat him anytime” they claim. But the Swiss is tough and does not give up easily. They will soon realize it! He won in Vicenza, also thanks to Ginettaccio’s puncture and Fausto’s fall, after gaining momentum on the Pian delle Fugazze. The pink jersey is his but the Dolomites are full of pitfalls. “He’s going to burn out by the time he reaches Bolzano” the usual wise guys would say.
The group pedals calmly for the first hour. The celebrations in Bassano have no equals. Wilier Triestina red halberd jerseys are in the first line. The other teams let them, trusting to receive the same treatment when cycling in their area. The time has not come yet to open hostilities. The champions stare at each other. Eyes are the window to the soul. Be wary of those who hide them behind dark lenses. They may be a sign of a crisis to come. Fausto is at the centre of the peloton, surrounded by his trusted squires who never lose sight of him. After the Ca’ Sette crossroads, the state highway 47 enters Valsugana. The road runs through dozens of small villages, playing hide and seek with the Brenta. Pove, Solagna, S. Nazario, Carpanè, San Marino, Cismon. Guido De Santi takes off in search for some glory. His advantage increases to no one’s concerns. He’s from Trieste, like Giordano Cottur, who trained with him on the steep Carso roads. Coppi falls at the entrance to Primolano.
The wheel slides and the handlebar slips away: he finds himself on the ground. A fall without consequences. He promptly gets back on his bike without losing any valuable seconds. The race is still unpredictable; it will become heated later, on the hairpin turns that from S. Martino reach Rolle, in the shadow of the imposing Cimon de la Pala.