We start with a kicking the kickstarter this section that sets ambitious targets: entertain you with stories of the road, without taking itself too seriously. Grazie a Ferro magazine!
La Pagineetta è la mia rubrica su Ferro Magazine, ogni mese in edicola!
Let me start this space that Iron put me gently and unconsciously available, introducing you briefly what we will find each month. For the few who already know me because they follow my blog or have already come across videos on YouTube that place every Thursday evening, I give my warmest welcome back; for those who still do not know who they are, I wish to make a short introduction: double And not a typo and not a habit, I found myself in the heritage which small quirk of my last name, and from there I decided to adopt it as a sign of recognition.
The only Pagineetta (to be read with the open and I recommend it to Milan) There you will find, I wish, a pleasant pastime. The un hobby and just. So I pose the high mission to keep you company in that sacred moment of the day where you can close the bathroom holding this beautiful magazine to carry all your intimacy. You are sitting there? Well, it's nice to know they are there with you.
The toilet, as in any other time, the true biker you recognize why his side, right there on the heater, he crumpled magazines left to heat up from time immemorial. Are those who are less fond, but which recognizes two precise functions: declare any guests to his unwavering passion and, with that list always there, tickle the fancies of dejection on the next gear bikes. The magazine's most beautiful, instead, are retained. Here in Iron obviously we hope to finish in the second, those put on the coffee table while they are fresh and on the shelf of the study after a few months, but my phone book has the ambition to entertain and maybe even make you sometimes think.
I would like to tell you a little 'stories, anecdotes lived on the street. As I think most of you, I love to travel by motorcycle calmly, relaxation and curiosity. I started as a kid and I persevere with the same desire to amaze me that I had when I went up for the first time riding the Franco Morini 50 cc that I inherited from my brother at the age of 7 years.
You need to know, in fact, I have an older brother. Guzzista. Happens, tell me, even in the best families. For the elegance with which conducts its V11 without crease the shirt or scarf we renamed The Lord. Being the eldest, by kids, he was the expert and I was experiencing what his… experience. Let me explain: when I started driving the little motocross years 70 who had been his, he has shown a curious interest in the mechanical intervention (and this explains why an adult has inclined towards that branch of Lake Como…). Soon I found myself in the role of test driver of this old crock that resembled a Caballero version pony, stubby little diligent, with a propensity to smoke gray two times scarburato. The Lord intervened with the most disparate tools found in our small workshop. One day, eg, told me he had figured out how to make the most performing our little Morini: the discharge was not open enough, the engine was not breathing properly, had to open. I took a turn and became convinced that yes, there was just something that he did not vent properly, my crew chief was right.
The discharge was basically a Tubone black with the typical belly and times, and walked around the right side of the scooter just below the saddle, separated from my inner thigh only by a metal plate is very similar to a grater for cheese and just as effective in thermal insulation. Armed with drill bit fine for metals, the Lord came and began to expertly forellare the central part of the discharge. He knew exactly what he was doing, that I was lucky to have a talent in house, I could concentrate on driving. I gave him a kick without delay to the kick starter and I left for the round of field tests adjoining. Shortly after I returned to the pits with the right thigh smoked worse than a salmon and a half intoxicated: the Lord had pierced belly on top and from that day all the smoke exhaust was directed at me. A price to pay for what was, as you can imagine, a considerable increase in performance.
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