The bicycle in Italy’s social evolution
Ruota libera tells the story of the bicycle as a simple yet revolutionary object, capable of crossing two centuries of Italian history and becoming a symbol of progress, emancipation, work, sport and freedom.
From the origins of the velocipede to military bicycles, from working bikes to the great feats of champions and on to contemporary innovation, the exhibition takes visitors on a journey through technique, memory and the collective imagination.
Hosted in the spaces of Villa Manin, the exhibition restores the bicycle to its deepest meaning: not only as a means of transport or a sporting tool, but as a silent companion in social evolution, able to tell stories of effort, the desire for movement, individual achievements and shared change.
It is a ride through history, “freewheeling”, where every model becomes the trace of an era and every detail speaks of the relationship between people, the road and freedom.
Room | Theme |
Room 01 | Origins |
Room 02 | Military |
Room 03 | Travel, Work, Curiosities |
Room 04 | Racing Bikes and Their Champions |
Room 05 | Innovation and Experimentation |
Room 06 | Pantani |
Origins
On page 133 of Leonardo da Vinci’s Codex Atlanticus, we find a drawing that clearly recalls the bicycle. Scholars still debate the authenticity of this drawing, but it is undeniable that, if this great genius of humanity invented astonishing machines and devices, he could hardly have failed to imagine a means of locomotion alternative to the horse.
This is where our journey begins, before moving on to documented history, which places the first bicycle in 1817.
Its invention was prompted by an event that had nothing to do with movement on two wheels. In 1815, Mount Tambora in Indonesia erupted in what is still regarded as the most terrible and devastating volcanic eruption in human history. Dust and soot darkened the Earth’s atmosphere for six months, causing temperatures to fall dramatically. As a result, 1816 became “the year without a summer”: grain and hay harvests failed, leading to the death of many animals, including horses.
Crises sharpen ingenuity, and the talented German Baron von Drais, observing carriages and gigs, came up with the idea of placing a beam on two cart wheels and adding a steerable handlebar to the front wheel, derived from the steering joint of carriages. He thus invented the Laufmaschine: the first pedal-less bicycle, propelled by pushing the feet against the ground to set the velocipede in motion.
From then on, through attempts and refinements, the bicycle began to take its first steps in technological evolution. The first pedals were sketched out by the Scotsman MacMillan in 1838, but it was only in 1867 that the Parisian Michaux family applied them in a significant way, using them to drive the front wheel of the velocipede.
In 1869, a watchmaker named André Guilmet, observing the movement of the pocket watches of the time, experimented with a Vaucanson chain, applying this linked mechanism to a bicycle built by Eugène Meyer and connecting a 29-tooth front chainring to a 20-tooth sprocket on the rear wheel.
The invention of this chain system, together with James Starley’s tangential-spoke wheel in 1874, made it possible to move gradually away from the dangerous high-wheel penny-farthings that dominated the roads for many years, and to adopt “safety bikes” with cross frames, which brought “the cyclist’s feet back to the ground” from the 1880s onwards.
In 1885, Rover invented the “diamond frame”, which in 1888 was fitted with pneumatic tubular tyres invented by an unsuspecting veterinarian named Dunlop, later perfected by Michelin in 1891 with the tyre and inner tube.
From that point on, the story is essentially modern history, because the evolution from velocipede to bicycle had already reached the configuration we know today. Later technological advances would concern only materials and components, making the bicycle lighter and more efficient.
Military
Two wheels have played a far from marginal role in the history of armies and wars since the earliest velocipedes. A means of locomotion such as the bicycle could not fail to attract the attention of armies around the world, which until then had relied on horses for rapid movement.
The velocipede needed no hay, veterinarians or staff to look after it. Easy to use, robust to transport and fast on the battlefield, it was adopted for military purposes by many nations from the very beginning.
The bicycle was officially used by the Italian and French armies in 1866, followed shortly afterwards by the Japanese and Dutch. England introduced the velocipede into its army ranks in 1870, followed by the Swiss and Belgian armies in 1877. In 1884, the Austro-Hungarian army established its first small contingent of cycling troops.
The introduction of velocipedes among the equipment of the French army dates to 1886 and was promoted by the then General Georges Boulanger. In 1895, a decree formally admitted the bicycle among the army’s official equipment.
It was still necessary, however, to solve the problem of providing soldiers with a vehicle that could be transported easily even where it could not be ridden. The solution came from Captain Henri Gérard, who conceived one of the first folding bicycles in history and had it built by Charles Morel, a mechanical manufacturer from the Grenoble area.
After being patented under the name “Capitan Gérard”, this bicycle was a remarkable success and was also marketed to the civilian public. Its distinctive feature was the curve of the frame around the rear wheel, designed to reduce bulk once the frame was folded.
The French army was not the only one to use bicycles. In Austria, as early as 1896, the Steyr company registered the name “Waffenrad” (“weapons on wheels”), which was applied to several models of military bicycles. Among the models produced, the folding “Steyr Waffenrad”, inspired by the “Capitan Gérard”, went down in history.
Like its French counterpart, it was fitted with solid rubber rims, one of the essential features for tackling the roughest terrain.
Italy followed the French and Austrians with Bianchi in 1912, when the Milanese company won the tender to supply the Italian Army’s Bersaglieri corps with a bicycle featuring a folding frame and shoulder straps for carrying.
Here too, the wheels were small, 60 cm in diameter, with solid rubber tyres, and the bicycle weighed a “light” 16 kg. Models were produced for both officers and troops.
The officers’ versions had a sabre holder instead of the rifle case, which was positioned parallel to the top tube. The frame and fork were described as “elastic”, thanks to a rudimentary suspension system patented by Bianchi.
The brakes were rod-operated, like those on civilian bicycles of the period, and petrol or acetylene lamps could be mounted on the handlebar.
Military bicycles continued to be used up to and during the Second World War. In that conflict, the British Army’s “BSA Airborne Bicycle” stood out for its efficiency and versatility. Designed for paratroopers, it was also issued to the air force and infantry.
The “parabike” was a folding bicycle weighing 14 kg which, once folded, could be attached to the paratrooper’s equipment and carried during the jump.
To make it lighter, the frame was designed with a double-tube structure, with the upper and lower tubes curved to make it easier to carry on the ground and aboard aircraft.
Travel, Work, Curiosities
From its earliest days, the bicycle proved to be an instrument of democracy and social emancipation. Before the velocipede, transport and travel took place on foot, on horseback or by carriage, and only the wealthy could afford the latter two options.
The arrival of the bicycle opened up new possibilities for everyone. It was certainly not given away, but even those who struggled to buy groceries and balance the household budget aspired to own a velocipede. At last, it allowed everyone to travel, to discover the surrounding world more quickly and to explore places beyond their own neighbourhood and city.
From the very beginning, many people attempted adventures and challenges by bicycle that were reported in the newspapers: around their own country, across Europe, around the world!
In 1894, Annie Cohen Kopchovsky, a Polish-born married woman, mother of three and naturalised American, accepted a wager made by two wealthy Boston gentlemen: to cycle around the world in one year, earning 5,000 dollars along the way.
Nothing could have been easier: Annie set off from the Massachusetts State House in Boston on 27 June 1894 on a 19 kg women’s Columbia bicycle, carrying a sponsorship for Londonderry mineral water on the rear wheel and wearing the long skirts of the period.
When she reached Chicago, she persuaded Sterling Cycle Works to give her a lightweight men’s racing bicycle weighing 10-11 kg. With this bicycle she completed the journey, also adopting more functional clothing – bloomers and a sweater – on 12 September 1895.
Her 15-month journey of more than 15,000 km caused a worldwide sensation. She became famous for challenging the contemporary idea of women’s roles, claiming equal rights in sport as well.
And yes, women on bicycles. How much discrimination, abuse and prejudice women had to endure before they could ride a velocipede. Yet with determination and iron will, women succeeded in asserting their independence, proving that they could accomplish the same feats as men.
The bicycle was considered an important possession, rather like a car today. Often it could be used only by the head of the household for work. In poorer families, when the tyres wore out, people continued to ride directly on the rims.
In Italy, in the first decades of the 20th century, a bicycle cost the equivalent of roughly two to three years of a worker’s wages.
It was also subject to a road tax: a metal licence plate fixed to the headset and renewed annually. Anyone without one risked having the bicycle confiscated.
Many craft trades developed thanks to the bicycle: the baker, the knife grinder, the barber, the greengrocer, the bird seller, the cobbler. The sacrifices were considerable: a knife grinder’s bicycle could weigh up to 40 kg. Many set out from Maniago in Friuli in March and returned in October, working as itinerant craftsmen.
The clergy also benefited from the bicycle, despite initial resistance linked to the dignity of the cassock. Thus the “priest’s bicycle” was born, with a raised step-through frame to make mounting and dismounting easier. Law enforcement also adopted the velocipede. It was not unusual to see firefighters racing along with heavy equipment, ringing a bell, the forerunner of the siren.
And children? For many, it was a forbidden dream. Only the wealthiest could afford a bicycle of their own. The others learned in secret on their father’s bike, risking scoldings – and the occasional cuff around the ear.
Racing Bikes and Their Champions
“Not for fame, but for hunger!” Even at the dawn of competitive cycling, riders took part in races in order to eat, to nourish themselves. Poverty was too widespread in everyday life, while races offered a rare sense of wellbeing.
At the end of the gruelling 1923 Milan-Sanremo, Ottavio Bottecchia was interviewed by Bruno Roghi of La Gazzetta dello Sport. The glory that would see him win the Tour de France in 1924 and 1925 had not yet arrived. The journalist described him as “lanky, bony, pale, exhausted, with a hooked nose…” He asked him, pointing to the untouched bag of race food protruding from his shoulder haversack: “And this?”
Bottecchia replied in Venetian dialect: “I’m taking the food bag home. My people are starving.”
Hunger was well known to the figures of heroic cycling, the “dispossessed”, or rather the “isolated” riders, who could not benefit from the abundant refreshments provided by the major cycling manufacturers, such as Bianchi. They had to fend for themselves: begging for a piece of bread and cheese, stealing eggs, gathering fruit along the route. A hungry cyclist adapted to anything: “Hunger prevailed over honour”, to paraphrase the Supreme Poet somewhat irreverently.
At the time, the cyclist was a true hero, a kind of superman capable of facing stages of 400-500 km in a single day, on roads that were often almost impassable.
Early cycling was an extreme sport, in which the challenge against nature was a fundamental component. The great distances also found meaning in a kind of almost mystical intoxication: the cyclist, riding a machine that felt like an extension of the body, could go ever farther, ever faster.
The bicycles were extremely heavy, real “gates” weighing 20-25 kg. There were no gears: a single chainring at the front and a single sprocket at the rear. The mountains became the ultimate test.
After the famous “death stage” of the 1910 Tour de France – 326 km, four Pyrenean summits and 7,000 metres of elevation gain – Octave Lapize, having crossed the Aubisque on foot, shouted at the organisers: “Murderers! You are murderers!”
The suffering was made worse by extremely strict regulations. Henri Desgrange demanded that each rider finish the race with everything he had started with, even punctured inner tubes. Even removing a sweater during a stage was forbidden.
“We are the convicts of the road (Forçats de la Route), not giants, not cyclists, but suffering beings cruelly tormented,” declared Henri Pélissier in 1924.
It was in this context that the great champions emerged, often from poverty.
Luigi Ganna, winner of the first Giro d’Italia in 1909, trained by riding 100 km every day on a touring bicycle to get to his job as a bricklayer.
Ottavio Bottecchia began cycling during the war, on a military bicycle.
Alfonsina Morini Strada began at just 10 years old on an old 25 kg men’s bicycle, winning races against boys while still in adolescence.
Gino Bartali, at the age of 12, insisted so much with his father that he obtained an old bicycle, with which he was already astonishing more experienced riders.
As a boy, Fausto Coppi delivered bread on an “Aquila” bicycle, with which he began winning his first races.
Marco Pantani, at the age of 11, dropped an entire team on a climb while riding an old women’s bicycle.
The greatness of these champions lay not only in victory over others, but in victory over themselves: an inner, almost metaphysical struggle against their own limits.
Innovation and Experimentation
Experimenting in order to innovate has always been the driving force behind the evolution of the bicycle.
From the first attempts, often bizarre – such as high-wheel bicycles, tricycles and unicycles – came continuous technological refinement.
Pedals, chain, tyres, gears, materials: iron, steel, aluminium, carbon. Today, electronics, Bluetooth and advanced systems.
The future seems to have few limits: spokeless wheels, recycled plastic materials, radical designs.
3D printing and laser sintering already make it possible to produce customised frames in high-strength nylon.
Alternative transmission systems are being studied, including direct connections between pedals and wheel.
The present is dominated by pedal assistance: a technology that makes the bicycle accessible to everyone.
In the future, the bicycle is likely to play a leading role in sustainable mobility, alongside electric and hydrogen-powered vehicles.
Pantani
If climbing is the essence of cycling, Marco Pantani is the essence of climbing. From a very young age, he was an athlete capable of sending crowds into raptures, bringing cycling to a level of popularity not seen since the days of Fausto Coppi and Gino Bartali. That collective frenzy continues to grow even today, born from his way of racing: attacking head-on as soon as the road began to rise, with repeated accelerations.
More than a strategy, his was a biological attitude: from childhood, his body seemed forged for climbing. His ability to recover immediately after peak effort allowed him to repeat his attacks uphill; for his opponents, it was a devastating way to race. Anyone who tried to follow him was in trouble, even from his earliest races as a boy.
Over the years, Marco added to this aptitude an extraordinary precision in caring for his bicycle. A special way of racing required a special machine and, since there was no comparison for his racing style, he had to build that machine for himself. The first part of his career unfolded with the Carrera Podium team, which was not only one of the world’s leading teams but also a manufacturer. There, changing bicycles constantly, experimenting with measurements, set-ups and materials, Marco trained the hypersensitivity that would become his decisive weapon in testing and fine-tuning the perfect machine.
For Marco, the pursuit of perfection was a philosophical concept: a point to strive towards without ever reaching it. He was a torment for frame builders and mechanics, because his days on the bike were a constant process of modifying, shifting and measuring, in search of an ideal balance that could only ever be approached. His relationship with the bicycle was physical: it was the very continuation of his body. Pain in the bike was equivalent to pain in a limb; an incorrect position, even by just a few millimetres, had to be corrected immediately, otherwise it was impossible to continue – as with a shoe that was too tight. It mattered little whether this happened in training or during a stage of the Tour: he would stop and adjust the millimetre that was out of place.
His bicycles became a kind of laboratory, where research constantly brought improvements that appeared microscopic, but became macroscopic when viewed across a long sequence of time.
This exhibition presents the most important pieces from a complex body of work which, for the first time, has reconstructed Marco’s technical and human journey: from the roads of his amateur years to his final pedal strokes, restoring to the Pirate his role as a bridge between the classic bicycle and the modern bicycle. His first bicycle, in fact, was not very different from those used in previous decades; his last ones, however, already anticipated contemporary cycling.
A Reflection Aloud
Coppi and Bartali: Myth and an Endless Dualism
What cycling meant in the immediate post-war years is something we can only imagine today. For once, the aura of myth surrounding it is not rhetorical at all.
Gino Bartali and Fausto Coppi were not only two extraordinary champions: they were unrepeatable symbols of an Italy rising from the rubble of war.
Two men, two characters, two visions of the world.
Bartali came first, by age and by history. Yet in the collective imagination, they are inseparable.
They never truly loved each other, but they did not hate each other either. They respected each other deeply, like two warriors aware of the worth of their opponent.
They were also united by grief: both lost a brother in a race.
Coppi and Bartali embody two opposites: tradition and modernity, faith and rationality, prudence and audacity.
Who was the greater? The question is pointless.
Between 1940 and 1950, cycling had two unrepeatable champions, essentially equal in greatness.
Two true heroes, different in everything, alike only in their legendary stature.
Those who saw them never forgot them. Those who came after miss them without ever having seen them.
With them, myth became reality.