He used to ride a women's bicycle around Milan. A bicycle that, given his considerable size, he towered over. A conspicuous and visible presence, but not always noticeable to drivers. That time, a man who had parked his car by the roadside opened the door without checking for oncoming traffic. The impact was inevitable. The cyclist fell in the middle of the road, and the door, needless to say, was half-destroyed. The man, remorseful and frightened, rushed towards the cyclist. When he discovered it was Bruno Pizzul, he fainted. Result: the victim reviving the offender.

Bruno Pizzul would recount that episode with his usual refined elegance, his sophisticated British-Friulian humor, and innate linguistic prowess. One day in Siena, at the Ciclomundi festival organized by Ediciclo, he made hundreds of urban cyclists, pilgrim cyclists, casual cyclists, and even (the Sienese) impossible cyclists feel a sense of belonging to the road, to humanity, to life. The lightness of life, him weighing a good quintal.

Life is no longer with Bruno, who died this morning in the hospital in Gorizia. It doesn't console us that he was 87 years minus three days, because a Pizzul should be immortal, even without a microphone, even without commentary, even without cycling stories, but simply as a presence, as resistance, even as a symbol. That of a balanced, sensible, and - this word no longer means anything today - just journalism. In tone, in volume, especially in truth. The rest was matter - welcome - for bars and taverns, possibly for living rooms and newsrooms.

The bicycle was the genesis of a long-ball-and-pedal life. City mom, from Udine, anxious, very concerned about studies. Country dad, from Cormons, imperturbable, a butcher, who would have wanted Bruno to quit books early to work behind the counter cutting meat. To beat the competition, dad outmaneuvered mom: "At the first failing grade," he told Bruno, "I'll give you a bicycle". Bruno got a 5 in math. Mom sent him to bed without dinner. Dad left a new yellow Torpado next to his bed the next morning. He had won. And the bicycle would remain with him for life. Bruno would never get a driver's license ("My pride and joy"), thus never drive a car and would always move by bus, tram, and train, getting rides from colleagues (Mario Poltronieri, who had test cars) and friends (so bulky for small cars: often with knees in his mouth), and in Milan by bicycle, challenging traffic and weather, thieves and the distracted. I would meet him - on bicycle - outside the elementary school, where he would drop off or pick up his grandchildren, I my children. "My cruising speed," he would explain to me, "is equal to that of pedestrians, so they end up tolerating me even on sidewalks". He was proud of one bicycle: "A gift given to me a few years ago, during a meeting in Bologna on sustainable traffic, a personalized bike - I erased my name out of shyness - assembled with components from Italian factories and christened 'Thoughts and Pedals'".

Football was his passion. Imposing physique, stopper role, aiming at forwards' ankles, in the style of Nereo Rocco saying "may the best win? Let's hope not", and again in Rocco's style, "hit everything moving at era level, if it's the ball, even better". Catania, Ischia, a knee injury then meant the end of a round career, for him the beginning of a journalistic one. In the RAI sense. Radio-TV commentator competition, hired, it was 1969. To liven up the routine, the presence of colleague Beppe Viola. Right from the start, his first TV commentary, Juventus-Bologna, Coppa Italia playoff, neutral ground in Como, was in 1970: Beppe tempted him with a lunch, Bruno let himself be tempted, result: arriving at the stadium already a quarter-hour into the match.

Pizzul was part of that generation, the last romantic one, of journalism. Especially at RAI. He had free access to room 341, third floor, journalism section, occupied by Beppe Viola and colleague Fineschi, where one would eat, drink, joke, laugh, invent, produce everything for everyone, and most importantly, smoke absolutely freely. For a short time, Pizzul alternated with Carlo Sassi and Heron Vitaletti at the replay booth, inaugurating processes that would never end with a precise and serene judgment. Bruno obeyed out of patriotic love (he was an Alpine soldier, for heaven's sake), but that informant role was not familiar to him. In a Juventus-Cesena match, the referee had awarded a penalty to Juve for a foul by Cera on Bettega. Pizzul showed the frames "and the image - as Viola wrote - was mercilessly contrary to the referee. Cera hadn't even touched the opponent. Pizzul said nothing, simply replaying the sequence a couple of times until Paolo Frajese, then host of Domenica Sportiva, intervened: 'So, Bruno, is it a penalty or not? Come on, say it!'. Pizzul was then backed into a corner. 'For me,' said the good giant, 'it's not a penalty'." All hell broke loose. And anyway, Pizzul went to Sassi and settled: "For me, that's enough. You go ahead with that gadget".

National team commentator from 1986 to 2002. He had become the voice of the National team. But the good giant knew a lot about cycling. He would read, follow, interview. It was still the era of meeting and confronting. He could be seen at punching points, Sanremo and Lombardy, also along the Giro roads, Milan. He liked the environment, the people, the staff, from operator Chiaradia to illustrator Giovetti, and journalists, from Mario Fossati to Gianni Mura, and riders, all of them, from champions to domestiques, the smoky air of Six Days, the alcoholic air of trains. He never put on airs. He would participate when he could: and, let it be clear, for free. He would lead meetings and ceremonies of the Emilio and Aldo De Martino Award, he cared tremendously, as if it were the Nobel Prize ceremony.

Wife, Maria, "the tiger", three children (Fabio, a convinced urban cyclist himself) and 11 grandchildren, a whole squadron. After RAI, Pizzul returned home to Cormons. With friends. Cards, wine, and bike. Goodbye, Bruno.