The Weight of a Moniker

Coppino races on muddy roads in the Maglia Rossa.

Young riders rise through the ranks with such promise. We all know the story; the rider who borrows a bicycle and enters a local race and wins. He decides he might be good at going batshit fast on a bike. Mom and Dad buy him a klunker for his birthday and he takes out a license. He starts winning most races he enters locally and rises to the regional level, then the national.

He has learned to deal with pain in a way most people could never imagine, and has come to understand that this – not his ability to smoothly turn the pedals – is his true talent in Cycling. To reach the next level, it’s time for sacrifice. He first stops eating cakes, then stops eating most things as he comes to the conclusion that every Cyclist comes to at one point or another: being heavy makes this sport even harder than it already is.

Then it’s off to the international level where he gains the attention of a Pro team and lands a contract. He takes well to Pro life and rises through the demanding ranks quite quickly. At a young age, he learns to look into the cold, deadly eyes of Bernard Hinault and stare back. He learns to hold the wheel of the most ruthless competitors in the world; he learns to drop them. He suffers like he’s never suffered before and thrives on it.

Then, in a flash, he finds himself on the world stage, in the limelight of one of the biggest races in the world. The public adores him for it. Then they predict his future success, and as quickly as it came, his greatness is crushed under the weight of expectation and he disappears first into the bunch and then into retirement.

Such was the case for poor Franco Chioccioli, cursed the moment his adoring fans named him Coppino, Little Coppi, after winning the 1991 Giro d’Italia

frank

The founder of Velominati and curator of The Rules, Frank was born in the Dutch colonies of Minnesota. His boundless physical talents are carefully canceled out by his equally boundless enthusiasm for drinking. Coffee, beer, wine, if it’s in a container, he will enjoy it, a lot of it. He currently lives in Seattle. He loves riding in the rain and scheduling visits with the Man with the Hammer just to be reminded of the privilege it is to feel completely depleted. He holds down a technology job the description of which no-one really understands and his interests outside of Cycling and drinking are Cycling and drinking. As devoted aesthete, the only thing more important to him than riding a bike well is looking good doing it. Frank is co-author along with the other Keepers of the Cog of the popular book, The Rules, The Way of the Cycling Disciple and also writes a monthly column for the magazine, Cyclist. He is also currently working on the first follow-up to The Rules, tentatively entitled The Hardmen. Email him directly at rouleur@velominati.com.

View Comments

  • 'its time for sacrifice.'

    Just don't sacrifice that apostrophe for some weight savings.

  • @TBONE

    'its time for sacrifice.'

    Just don't sacrifice that apostrophe for some weight savings.

    Nice. And do, to indicate "ownership" That error is rampant. Rules are Rules!

  • @Sauterelle A Schleck was supposed to be who? The next Charley Gaul? I'd say he achieved that. I don't think anyone every said he'd be the next Merckx or anything. When he was young Contador was supposed to be the next Armstrong.

    Now, of course, he's riding like a crybaby.

  • Then and still today he seemed to me a rider of other times, not at ease in the years in which he competed.

    And this has nothing to do with its resemblance to Fausto Coppi.

  • When looking at the era in which he was competing, one can only wonder if he was less crushed under the weight of expectation, and more did not jump on the doping train.

  • @frank

    Ullrich the next great GT winner of his generation. That sort of thing.

    Side note, I've secured a short sleeved 1998 Telekom jersey to compliment my long sleeved one. In the late '90s when I turned up a local road races sporting said jersey I'd be asked if I was related to him, sometimes I played along.

    We don't need another Merckx or Coppi, we need another Anquetil. Sorely.

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