Alitalia
Flight 625 from San Francisco to
Milano's Malpensa airport got off the ground only an hour
late and with little drama. Alitalia
had been the first flight to land when SFO reopened, and
had been operating successfully for two days. At the security
gate my nail clippers and disposable razor were confiscated
and thrown in a bin with literally hundreds more. I hadn't
realized I'd packed the clippers and I hadn't given a second
thought to a lady's disposable razor, but clearly it's a
lethal weapon. I skulked guiltily past a heavily armed U.S.
Marshall dressed in fatigues. We locked eyes for an uncomfortably
long moment and, with no visible expression, he dismissed
me as harmless. I don't care what anybody says, telepathy
is real.
| I
was put in touch with Marcello by Sheldon Abut of NARMA.
A mechanical designer for a company that designs X-Ray
equipment for dentists, Marcello fell in love Guzzi's
about eight years ago and is now a proud guzzistini,
owner
of a 1973 V7 California 850 that he restored with the
help of Bruno Scola and his mechanic Tiziano. He also
owns "a very aggressive" modified Moto Guzzi
V10 Centauro. |
Marcello
Marcello Molteni met me at Milan's
Malpensa airport but because whole of Italy shuts down between
noon and 3:30, including motorcycle shops expecting foreign
visitors, we stopped in a cafe in Marcello's home town of
Monza, to while away some time. To get to the cafe we walked
through Monza's center, quaint and elegant, with narrow,
cobblestoned streets, boutiques full of chic women's clothing,
and food shops with goods appetizingly displayed. The cafe
was on the banks of a river, and I happily sipped an iced
coffee laced with sugar and cream from a delicately stemmed
sorbet glass while Marcello drank a beer. We marvelled at
the power of the Internet to bring people together and to
get things done.
The
Moto Guzzi California EV
Tiziano, Bruno Scola's main mechanic, rolled the California
EV out to the parking lot when Marcello and I
arrived. It was Burgundy and chrome and very, very (very)
large. Tiziano and Marcello showed me the controls, and
went over how to start it, stop it, put it on the side kick
and the center stand. I had a feeling they didn't trust
me, but finally they had to give it up for a test ride.
It felt heavy, but with its low center of gravity it's
well-balanced. It was a long way between first and second
and I'm not used to a heel-kicker so it took a kilometer
or so plus one impatient beep from a Fiat behind me to get
the hang of it. It responded quickly unless I was in too
high a gear, and it took the curves like a sport bike. Well,
okay, as much like a sport bike as a bike with size 12 footrests
can take.
I liked it.
A lot.
Bruno
Scola
Bruno arrived and showed me around his shop full of eye-candy.
There was the very first street-legal Moto Guzzi ever made
and the 1000 that he had offered to let me ride, a classic
that he had lovingly restored. I couldn't imagine taking
such a treasure on one of my wild rides, but when I met
Bruno I understood his offer within seconds. Here was a
man who loved contact: racing, motorcycles, crowds, and
people. Fluent in French, we were able to communicate (I
had already tested the limits of my Italian on the Alitalia
flight.) He showed me around while customers waited impatiently
for this famous mechanic to touch their engine. Marcello
said it was time to pack up, anyway. His friend Antonella
Dessolis arrived, and we were due at dinner to a friend's
house. I barely got my gear stuffed into the two panniers
and rear case. It was so heavy we had to make an adjustment
to the front wheel damper so it wouldn't come up with take-off.
Most people don't ride with as much hardware
as I have.
Family
Night
Fully loaded, I followed Bruno and Antonella on narrow
streets to the home of Davide and Alessandra, a beautiful
townhouse in a gated complex with a large, grassy central
park. Their daughter Sofia, two years old, held the complete
adoration and devotion of her mother and father, as well
as the guests. "Sofia... principessa!" her father
would call. Every desire was hers, if it could be provided.
Marcello had brought a special wine, a Brunello from Montalcino,
and we savored it as Principessa sat on her miniature chair
at her miniature table, Alessandra sitting with her to encourage
her to finish her dinner. The principessa from America sat
on the couch and sipped the Brunello, quite content to be
as spoiled as an Italian daughter. Sofia and I got on immediately
for I showed her pictures of herself on my digital camera.
The elegant house was full of books, toys, and photos of
motorcycles. Davide jumped to show me his collection of
four in the garage. He lamented one missing, in for a tune-up
at Scola's. On all the walls were more motorcycle photos,
flags, and other motorcycle stuff.
"I never go there," laughed Allesandra, when
we emerged.
Back upstairs we finished the Brunello, delicious, very
very dry, a wonderful celebration wine, along with an antipasti
of salted lardon (which is just what it sounds like
it is and tastier than it sounds) on crusty bread, and prosciutto
ham. Then Davide started apologizing that he hadn't had
more time to make a "real" special dinner. I had
to roll my eyes. Our "simple family dinner" was
fusselli with mussels and shrimp, accompanied by roasted
marinated sweet peppers and another wine, a Amarone from
Piedmonte. It was over the top, in my estimation. I was
stuffed silly by the time I went to sleep, and the next
morning after a quick Italian espresso and some bread and
figs, I was ready for my first ride, albeit a short one,
only two or three hours to Damanhur, where (I can say now,
filing this three days later) my mind would be blown at
least half a dozen times.
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