Time in Italy (but no training)

Whilst Jamesy was riding from Tunbridge Wells to the Isle of Wight in the pouring rain (and then back again) as part of a family 'holiday', I was in central Italy at just about the worst time you could have been there in the last 30 years. And not with the bike, either. Yep, about 60km from l'Aquila and the earthquakes last week. Sixty kilometres sounds a long way, but in geological terms it's nothing. I was awoken at 01:30 by the room shaking (actually, more like pulsating), which I'd put down to a local tremor, sleeping directly on the floor and a bit to much vino rossa alla spina - draught red wine - with dinner. Next day showed me otherwise.

Regardless of this excitement (which I really could have done without), driving around between Sant'Angelo and Penna I saw this gem scrawled on a 25% section of road near Saline, clearly a remnant from the recent stage through here and over Sasso Tetto of the Tirreno-Adriatico. Marco still holds a special place in everyone's heart here, and in mine too, no matter what he may have done that's considered 'wrong'. An emotionally fragile young man, in reality only a boy given the sheltered nature of top-level sport in general and Italy in particular, hounded into depression and ultimately death for political ends by officious zealots with not a scintilla of his dedication and talent. That's my view, and I'm sticking to it. Forza Marco, wherever you are!