 
“One man is in command of the race, his Jersey is white-light blue, his name is Fausto Coppi”
So Farney opens commentary of the third stage of the tour of Italy of 1949, The Wedge – Pinerolo. That day Fausto Coppi will travel solo 192 km climbing five Alpine passes: the Colle della Maddalena, the Col de Vars, the Col D'izoard, the Montgenèvre and Sestriere. That day the cyclist Piedmont wins the tour of Italy,to enter the legend. From that day will be the great Fausto, the champion. When a person enters into the history of the myth the boundaries of space and time will fade, then no longer count the titles, the pink jersey, Yellow magic, counts only the image of a man who only, in the mist, scale its mountains. That runner, in the mist, Fausto was you could perceive that breath unlike any other runners, produced by the distorted ribcage that guaranteed him greater oxygenation and then from that nose so grim during maximum effort that comics were better than reality. Only, Coppi climbing a mountain after another in memory of the struggle of the young champion raised by Biagio Cavanna, from that coach to whom nature had taken away the gift of sight, but given a feel great and thanks to those hands, touching the legs of Coppi, discovered the sample. Coppi is today an emotion, the same emotion that postwar Italy that, At last, Thanks to cycling could return to dream big, to win, Thanks to them. Coppi e Bartali, Fausto & Gino. Getting their, always before, always first, always friends, forever rivals, getting together to the mountains that count. Bartali, now elderly, He said that God allowed him to go on living just to keep reminding the world who was Fausto Coppi. Gino tells us how a shy man, reserved, No lover of fashionable life, Spotlight, a man from whose hands he could recognize his past and his family from peasant, a man who has always fought, each meter of each stage of every round. Only, Coppi climbing a mountain over hand, in another memory, the end of the war, when riding an old bike he sailed up the Italy home, When a truck the bike wheels are deformed and he straightened up with shots of stone, We went up in the saddle and came home. Only, Coppi climbing a mountain over hand, in memory of the shame of those laws that have punished his adultery and love “White Lady”. Only, Coppi climbing a mountain over hand, in our memory that we can only get up from that Heavenly white sweater-in see get the Curbstone” and scream “Go Fausto”.
Roberto Rossetti