Forza Paolo

I was flicking through the most recent copy of Rouleur the other day -- time passes slowly at Flandrian Towers and I've only just got round to reading it.  Is it just me, or is this copy heavy on arty photographs of fans but a bit light on, you know, words.  About cycling.  Not being picky, but I rather hoped for more for my nine quid.

Good article in there about iconic jerseys, though -- apparently the first of a two-part series.  I got to thinking about my favourite jerseys of all time and soon realised there's only one that works for me.

In the early eighties, Paolo Garbini, with his wife Mariela, ran a tiny, chaotic bike shop in the heart of London's Soho.  It's hard now to recall quite how different cycling was back then.  The mountain-bike boom was yet to happen, there were no indexed-gears, STI-levers or clipless pedals.  Jerseys were mainly wool or a gruesome knitted polyester and the chamois pads in shorts were real goat.

Local bike shops were core to the scene, their character usually set by the idiosyncrasies and eccentricities of their owners.  And there were few more idiosyncratic and eccentric than Paolo.

Short, skinny and red-haired, it was impossible to guess Paolo's age -- although he and Mariela had a teenage daughter who helped out in the shop.  His battle-worn but immaculate Alan-framed bike was prominently displayed by the door, and Paolo invariably wore cycling shorts and a jersey in the shop; but he was rarely spotted riding.  Most often he would be found sitting on the doorstep or in his tiny curtained office -- smoking his foul-smelling pipe.

From this shop, packed with exotic Italian jerseys, Campagnolo components in their beige cardboard packaging, walls lined with cuttings from the Gazetto Dello Sport, Paolo also ran the Soho Cycling Club, a loose collection of serious racers and weekend warriors -- popular with many of the expatriate Italians who worked in Soho's restaurant and catering trade.

On Sunday mornings, a ragbag of riders would meet outside the shop before setting off for a traditional 80-mile club run through the minor roads and hills of Kent or Surrey.  Often Paolo would join us, on the front of the group, swearing, telling long incomprehensible stories in English and engaging the Italian members in loud arguments.

It was my first proper club and I wore, and raced in, its jersey with pride.

The club, and Paolo's shop, are long gone but the jersey lives on.  In the Italian champion's colours, covered with the names of our local sponsors, including the iconic Bar Italia coffee house, it's still the most stylish and frequently admired item of bike clothing I own. 

And it's still in use at least once a week, although it fits a little more snugly than twenty years ago.