il campionissimo

Papa-daddy here.

Six flights for now-9-week-old Fausto later, we're safely back in Memphis. Fausto's 4-week visit to the California coast and the Colorado mountains went well for all concerned. He had a grand time with all his grandparents and enjoyed meeting his cousins Christian, Elijah and Phillip. Cousin Alex was not able to make the trip to see him in Durango because she got a last minute gig recording a rock band in Tuscon, but she may be interning at a studio in Nashville soon, so other opportunities should be just around the corner.

A few of Fausto's many introductions to papa's bike-racing buddies have already been mentioned, but the list would not be complete without including Drew at Bouré Sportswear, who papa cut lycra for while he was finishing up at Fort Lewis College, lo these many years ago. Drew is still producing fine cycling shorts and other quality gear for FLC's national champions and the Durango Wheel Club, one of the country's oldest cycling organizations, host of the annual Iron Horse Classic, and a group known for "training rides" harder than most pro races. (That's what happens when you've got a small town boasting a host of Olympians and other athletic demigods. Not to mention Bob Roll.)

As fun as it was to meet Drew and his sidekick Wade and pick up papa's new bib shorts, the highlight of Fausto's stop at Bouré headquarters was the chance to pose for a photo with a very special bicycle. That's Bianchi's 1953 Tour de France model behind papa and Fausto, the one they rolled out to commemorate the 1952 victory of their great rider, Fausto Coppi, the man still known in Italy as Il Campionissimo.

Here I should acknowledge that this coincidence of names has caused the cycling aficiciandos in my circle to respond to the seamonkey's moniker with a certain widening of eyes, raising of eyebrows, and pursing of lips. Yes, the mantle of greatness wears heavy. But really, it was a month after we'd decided to name the little man 'Fausto' that I realized it carried a cycling connotation and not just a personal one. It was the literary and operatic Faust/Faustus I was more concerned he'd be confused with, and yes, the intelligentsia responds as the cyclists do.

Before we left Durango, we made a last stop at the town's iconic bakery, Bread, where the bathroom walls are plastered with autographed posters and photos of prominent local bicycle racers, and stocked up on baquettes and insanely good cookies. While we were chatting out front with Rob, the owner, a Grateful Dead devotee who looks like Wavy Gravy in purple-tinted glasses, he sent his 4-year-old daughter, Sailor, back in to "get mama a turkey sandwich."

"Why does mama need a turkey sandwich?" Rob asked her when she came back with a yummy-looking turkey and havarti on cranberry bread.

"For her milkies," Sailor said, thereby adding another name to our ever-expanding mammary euphemism list.