Alberobello, Giro and Velo

Start: Pogliano a Mare, where the coffee is strong and the wind is fickle. The coastline flutters by on the left, and to the right, fields smelling of oregano and old men silently condemning you for not riding a Campagnolo.

Monopoly. No, not the board game. A place that sounds like capitalism, but looks like a pastel watercolor and is ignored.

Then: Alberobello. Today the starting point of the Giro. Crowds, flags, pink plastic, and genuine emotion. Trulli and bustle. Racing religion on cobblestones. A chorus of horns, helicopters, and heroes. Racing fever in its purest form. Muscles tensed, faces focused – no room for doubt, only for energy.

The return journey along the track: deserted, dusty, marked by the storm of the pros. Heat haze over the fields, the chirping of cicadas the only remaining sound. Curves that still yearn for speed.

Pogliano again. No more spectators, but the legs know it counts. Sweet salt, bittersweet drinks, great cycling – experienced in small doses.

Conclusion: 72 kilometers of drama, pasta, and pedaling. Southern Italy: tough, hot, wonderful.