A MotoGP rider’s job is to ‘race and skid and crash and then make love and drink wine’

It is the season to be merry, I’m told, so perhaps now is a good time to celebrate one of MotoGP’s coolest superstars, through one of the best interviews ever published.

We stand at the end of the year that marks the 50th anniversary of Giacomo Agostini’s eighth and last MotoGP world championship. The Italian stallion won his titles between 1966 and 1975, making him the most successful motorcycle racer of all time, ahead of Valentino Rossi and Marc Márquez, who both have seven each.

Ago isn’t only the most successful motorcycle racer of all time, he was also the first modern racer: the first to win a MotoGP crown with a two-stroke, the first to be sponsored by a tobacco company and the first to star in mainstream movies.

(Marlboro didn’t only bankroll Ago because he rode motorbikes fast, but because he was the personification of La Dolce Vita and of the 1960s’ emerging jet set. And he was so good on the silver screen that director Bruno Corbucci nearly convinced him to quit the asphalt for acting.)

No wonder that in early 1967, Sports Illustrated – the world’s biggest sports magazine – sent its best journalist, Bob Ottum, from its New York offices to interview Ago in Italy.

Ottum’s access would make any current MotoGP journalist (including me) sob with frustration. He got to spend several days with Agostini, hanging out in bars and restaurants, taking adrenaline-fuelled drives in Ago’s Porsche and watching him test MV’s latest MotoGP bike at the company’s test track.

The story was titled, Viva! But Hide Your Women, and started like this…

“His name is Giacomo Agostini, and he poses most of the time as just plain mild-mannered, handsome, glittering Super Italian. In moments of crisis, he strips and changes quickly into a skin-tight, soft black leather costume, with a black leather mask and soft black boots, and roars off on a motorcycle that looks a whole lot like a torpedo.

“He lives on the far edge of life, where most men are afraid to go, at a kind of blinding speed punctuated by crashes. He always recovers from the accidents, ministered to by platoons of stunning, pliant girls; he is cool, scarred and bold.

“People see in it [motorcycle racing] a form of fine, sensible insanity, like knife-fighting or letting the bulls chase you through the streets of Pamplona, which also makes a lot of sense if you don’t think about it too long.

“All through the summer, the racers speed on a crushing weekly schedule: race and skid and crash and then make love and drink wine. Only the flintiest survive to make a great deal of money, which means nothing to them. The rest earn trophies, rings and jewelled watches, which also are not important. But they all get covered with glory, which is what motorcycle racing is really about.’

Ago’s and Ottum’s first meet is at a restaurant…

“Agostini ordered wine, checked the label carefully, felt the bottle for temperature and then sipped it for taste.

“‘Good,’ he said, rolling the wine and a little English around on his tongue. ‘You must drink it. But as for me,’ he shrugged elaborately. ‘I cannot. It is sad. In the racing season I must not eat too much pasta and must drink…’

“He turned to his translator inquiringly.

“‘Poco,’ the man said.

“Agostini nodded. ‘I must drink only a little wine, for I must stay healthy to race the motorbikes.’ He leaned back and flashed the brilliant smile. ‘I weigh 65 kilos now, and my ideal racing weight is 63 kilos.’

“Agostini is 1.74 meters tall, or five feet seven inches. He has hazel eyes and black hair that always looks sculptured. Surprisingly, he has all of his fingers and toes and his teeth are perfectly in line.”

Their idle hours in restaurants produced gems like this…

“‘You like miniskirts?’ asked Agostini, pointing to a leggy girl who was being restrained from leaping on him only by the iron thread of chaperoned propriety. ‘On Italian women I don’t like them. Italian women are not miniskirt women, they are women of the heart. But on English girls’, he made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, ‘Yes! I spent three months in London last year, and the English girls… ahhhh, lovely.’

“’I rented this little flat in a building where there were many English girls who were…’”

“He looked at the translator.

“‘Maids?’ the man said.

“‘Ah, maids,’ said Agostini. “And they would go out in the morning and work in the homes of the very rich, and they would come back in the evening and come to my room and visit me.” He smiled again.’

Of course, Ago also conducted a little business during Ottum’s visit. He rode his 500cc triple, at MV’s tiny test track, next to the MV factory in Gallarate, which mostly made helicopters under licence to American helicopter company Bell.

“Gallarate lies in a clammy gray fog; the test track is out behind the factory, consisting of a lonely black-top road guarded by men with slit eyes,” wrote Ottum. “Curves at each end of the road vanish off into an out-of-focus filminess. Agostini’s yellow Porsche pulls up and stops and Agostini gets out, in black double-breasted blazer, gray slacks, carefully knotted tie. He also is wearing black-and-tan high-top square-toed shoes with pearl buttons up the sides. They are the most beautiful shoes in Italy.

“Agostini pulls off his tie, shirt, undershirt, pants—methodically, heavy-eyed, like a man preparing for a religious rite. He holds the pants up by the cuffs and shakes them all straight and then puts them carefully across the front seat. In his under shorts, very routine shorts for the rest of the clothes, he walks around to the trunk and opens it, takes out a crash helmet and sets it aside and then tugs on a faded maroon turtle-neck shirt. Then he unfolds the racing suit.

“The black leathers fit so tightly he has to raise his shoulders sharply to zip up the front from between his legs. He pulls on the boots and zips them up the back. Then he tugs on his racing gloves and, punching them between the fingers to tighten them, he walks over and looks at the machine. So far no one has spoken.

“This is where Fellini [the legendary Italian movie director] would cut to title and credits; it is a natural break. The mechanic nods and backs away, the sparkplug wrench in his hand. Agostini pulls a comb from a small chamois case and carefully combs his hair. Then he puts on the helmet. It is striped, fore and aft, in green, white and red, the Italian colours. He snaps the black leather mask across his face and pulls down the goggles. With that gesture he changes identity. The Racer. Super Italian.

“Starting an Agusta 500cc motorcycle is a lot like overpowering a Texas long-horn steer. Giacomo grabs it by the handlebars and pushes it, running alongside, until it coughs explosively into life. Then he leaps on sidesaddle and, in a smooth flow of motion, throws one leg over and blends into it. The monster vanishes into the mist and the mechanic listens to its barking from afar and scowls and looks at the wrench.