Close up, no one is normal.
If you were born in Ferrara and you live in Amsterdam, it’s easier to not be normal.
And if you were born in Ferrara and you live in Amsterdam, the bicycle is an inevitable part of your life.
I am lucky to not own a car and I train with my bike whenever I can, even in below zero temperatures…
And trapped in a body that Nature cruelly whips with injuries in its desperate search to finish an Ironman.
I will finish an Ironman before I die or die trying to finish an Ironman.
My name is Achab and these bicycles are my whale.
Because everyone has their own whale…
THANKS to the love of my life Lucia, “MY LOVE I SWEAR THIS IS THE LAST BIKE” , and my apologies to Elvis (my son), who suffers the cold every morning when I take him to nursery school on the cargo bike.
THANK YOU: First of all thanks to the geniuses, the artists, the directors and the wanderers who I have re-mixed in my bicycles and from whom I have stolen phrases, images, words, works and omissions.
“Unfortunately even good people become pirates in a world where the rules are absurd”.
And this phrase was also stolen from the book Remix…
THANK YOU: to all the people who helped me in this project and without whom I would never have seen my whale… Uday, Joost, Ian, Claudio, Vince, Mister Bernd, marcel, Martijn, Romeo & Carmen and Mirko. And Grom, who lit the flame!
THANK YOU to my friends: Uomo Lupo, Ironman ironico, King of Pain and Masterchef, with whom many years ago we tried to start a bicycle business and who have made me dream, laugh, have fantastic meetings but who also allowed me to understand the words of my grandfather: “masturbation and business should be done alone”.
And a special THANK YOU to Carlo Talamo, who many years ago in Via Niccolini, gave me one of his books with this poem:
“Days. No, months. But no, years. Not even. A lifetime. I have taken a lifetime. To transform what was torture for everyone into a game. I grew up hearing that if work was healthy, it was better to have leprosy. Neapolitans say ‘to labour’ instead of to work. But I don’t recall one day of labour. I remember a warm room with lots of toys and me in the middle holding my hands out to touch glossy paint. Sweet chrome. Strong steel. And now I am here. In this Number One where those called Harley live outside time. I was only four years old with fat little wobbly hands, but I was already drawing confused squiggles that I called motorcycles and, even if I didn’t know it, I had two V cylinders. It never went away. It will never go away. This mild illness that ties me to something I don’t know how to explain. That I have never tried to explain. Some understand it. Others don’t. It’s not important. There are a thousand things that I will not understand, closed as I am in a world of bolts, handles and cylinders. And motorcycles that have been copying themselves for 90 years. Always the same. Different from each other. Always new. Because I will never tire of playing with them.”
Because everyone has his whale.