I'd ridden plenty of solo, hard kms this week in the cold, with maybe enough damage to request a massage from the team soignie, so I called il Presidente Gigli about it: "Si, si capito, no problemo Breedie, a domani, ok? 5? Ok, ciao ciao."

So at 4.55pm this afternoon, there was a knock at the door, and the familiar face of Vittorio was extinguishing the last cigarette he would have for the next hour. He looked slightly perplexed at the thought of it. Or maybe that was his usual expression. He was born before Mussolini had the trains running on time, and wore glasses that reminded me of my wonderful grandfather, John McCann (who had his driver's license much longer than he ever should have).

Vittorio carried a massage table and a wonderful rectangular locked box, that I discovered contained all sorts of medicinal assistants, including no less than 6 different sized pairs of scissors. From my vantage point on the massage table, I could see carefully rolled bandages, oils and creams, and I imagined the now absent blood-letting equipment and cocaine vials from Back In The Day had made room for netting to cover damaged joints.

He barely spoke, but I got the impression that that was Vittorio's normal MO, and not for the benefit of his english speaking bike rider. He smelt like a combination of Dencorub and Marlborough Heavies, and coughed every once in a while to get the O2 flowing to his Popeye-like forearms. These were rivalled in girth only by Leo Donati's, infamous butcher of Lygon Street. Both probably have the same understanding of meat.

Vittorio proceeded to survey, manoeuvre, assess and finally knead, elbow, and shake. It was the work of a man who'd done this 5000 times before, and his only comment to me the whole hour was that my left quads were tighter than my right (my massage therapist in Melbourne can verify this).

After he was done, and had wiped the oil off my legs with a mit doused in alcohol, he wandered into the kitchen to see what was for dinner - I had made lentil and vegetable soup and had some bread in the oven. Vittorio looked around the large, warm empty kitchen and said, "zuppa, pané, e vino.... sola in la casa.... tranquilla. Ciao." And gave a wave with his small but powerful hand and its 5 cipolata like digits.

A prossima settimana, Vittorio....