For a handful of drifts, life when it wants can be very simple. Valentino Rossi he filled twenty-five years of his and our life with pure speed. And if speed is a natural inclination to the future, here it is, Dr. Rossi has always made us get on the saddle and has led us into the future every time.
Talent, the divine gift of talent, anger, ambition, hunger, craftsmanship, daily work, lots and lots, sacrifices, falls, courage, that vertigo that only the track gives, “torpedo fuse / phosphorus and fantasy” to put it in the words of De Gregori , irony, wisdom, dexterity, and more talent, infinite talent that becomes art.
This was Valentino Rossi. One of the greatest pilots of all time, a Peter Pan, then a mature man, finally an old lion pulling out his claws. Eternal, Valentino. And one has to borrow the title of that film: yes, I am a legend.
Putting the years in line is a trick for illusionists. You get distracted for a moment and you’re screwed. Forty-two, the Valentino years. Nine titles in twenty-five years of career in the MotoGP, from the 125 class to the MotoGP, passing through the 250 and 500. The only rider to have won in the three classes. Monstrous, in this habit of boredom of being the best. It has always been ambition to perfection: no better than the others, better than what you were a minute ago.
He was one of the few Italian rock stars. Each curve a guitar. A life of rustic duels, the stuff of Figth Club. The rivalries have set the history of Moto GP on fire: from Biaggi to Marquez, from Stoner to Lorenzo. Mr. Rossi never had any messages to deliver to his people. Only escapes for the victory, smiles at the finish line, jokes from “patacca”. Indeed, the only message was: Brum, bruuum, bruuuuum. A transversal and exportable myth, for at least ten years the only “Made in Italy” in circulation, a happy anomaly with chewing gum in the mouth and the inflatable doll under the arm.
Great Communicator, for that innate ability to impose his personality and image, for that extraordinary skill in creating empathy. For years it has woken up Italy, happy dawns waiting for its races. From the start, it was a game. He celebrated his first world title with a huge number 1 backpack size and with the writing Rossifumi Vord Ciampion, the second carrying a fan dressed as a guardian angel. Unmatched.
It was revolutionary, probably unwittingly. He just wanted to have fun and have fun, him. Instead, he changed the Moto Gp circus, made it televised, “cool”, fresh. He left Tavullia to conquer the world. It was and will still be a source of inspiration for all those guys who get on a motorcycle, each in the Ranch of their dreams. The air of an eternal student out of course and out of course, loved across the board, by all, as happens to very few.
The pacts were clear: we in the armchair, he had the effort of getting on the bike every time, the thrill of the buttocks that tighten when you take the curve badly, and the duty to give us a pulse to guess a different finish every time. He has won a lot, he has lost something. His was a wonderful adventure. He was the greatest Italian driver. Different from all robots made with the stencil. He wasn’t just a rider, he was Moto Gp for years. They weren’t rooting for Honda or Yamaha, they were rooting for Valentino Rossi.
Giving gas to his racing cars, Valentino wrote the novel of this sport. His Iliad smells of gasoline. Today the old Valentino is Achilles with the helmet who caresses his knees and looks at the battlefield: in the distance, the sun sets.
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