Pioneer of frame construction, creative oddball, passionate worker - the Italian Dario Pegoretti was a special personality who shaped the craft of frame construction for many years. Pegoretti died of heart failure on 23 August 2018 at the age of 62.
Pegoretti began building frames in 1975 with his future father-in-law Gino Milani. He founded his own company in 1991 and began selling aluminium and steel frames under his own label in 1998. His customers included the late actor Robin Williams and musician Ben Harper. In March 2007, Pegoretti fell ill with lymphatic cancer, but recovered in the same year. On average, he sold around 350 frames per year.
In 2015, TOUR visited the frame builder in his workshop in Valsugana:
A visit to Dario Pegoretti
from TOUR Magazine 10/2015
by Heidi Schmidt, Photos: Oliver Soulas
Veneto. Shit, we've travelled too far. This discussion is to blame. It's about what makes the difference. In photography, for example. "Of course, medium format is complicated, unwieldy, analogue and expensive, but it produces something completely different from this super-sharp, overdrawn standardised mush," says Oliver, the photographer accompanying me. We are on our way to Dario Pegoretti. He doesn't do uniformity either. And the doodles on his customised frames are a little more than just a matter of taste; a kind of trademark, which is why they are often referred to as art. The list of orders is long. If you want a Pegoretti frame, you need time.
Search for the real thing
We turn round by car and have some time to philosophise: Why is manual labour in demand again? Because of the quality, of course. Many people are fed up with things that give up the ghost after a few months. And there also seems to be an increased need for unique products in our individualised society. Products with a background, with little stories that are worth telling. These are the new status symbols. For example, the hand-tanned leather bag that you can say you picked up in the furthest corner of Austria.
in the furthest corner of Austria, being shown round the workshop and being addressed without being asked. The craftsman himself is naturally relaxed, because he not only doesn't give a damn about his appearance, but also works on things with leisure. That's what today's stressed and increasingly abstract workers want, if they can't live it themselves: the result of a unique working process, from a guy with character. What's more, handmade products are made in a traceable way: a craftsman, the raw material, a workshop, the end product. Just the thing for anyone who has lost track of things in our globalised, complex, performance-driven world based on the division of labour and longs for simplicity. Like Dario? We'll see.
Having finally arrived in Valsugana, a valley in the south-east of Trentino, we pass under a dual carriageway, over railway tracks and along a single-lane, bumpy road. The sun is high in the sky, white snowy peaks gleaming in front of it; the valley remains strangely untouched, lifeless and grey. We turn a corner: "Dario Pegoretti" is written calmly above an entrance door. A young guy opens the door and Oliver presses a crate of Augustiner beer into his hands. "You are welcome," Marco greets us and accepts the crate with a grin. The anteroom swallows us up. The sun, the mountains, the snow - all that stays outside. A neon lamp shines over a low coffee table, cigarette butts spill out onto a plate next to a bottle of wine. Empty plastic coffee cups stand around. It smells of cold smoke, the walls are covered in smudges. Two loudspeaker boxes protrude from between the tattered furniture, books, magazines, catalogues and CDs are piled up everywhere and there are a few old bicycles in front of them. Like a stoner's room in a student flat share.
Marco immediately draws us into the large hall, where an Italian radio station is blaring in the background. Then Dario enters the scene and fills it until he dominates it. An appearance, an unkempt one. A cigarette hangs between his lips, his shaggy hair is long and grey. He must have had a haircut at some point. A knitted jumper hangs over his broad shoulders,
whether the corduroy collar belongs to it or to the shirt underneath. His legs are covered in stained jeans with bare feet in closed slippers sticking out.
Dario hates pressure
He greets us with a deep voice and a firm handshake. Coffee? Of course. He presses a coin into Marco's hand and sends him to the machine. Two espressos come back, which you wouldn't have expected from the ugly machine. Dario speaks English. As soon as he realises that Oliver understands Italian well and that I not only understand but also speak it, he switches to his mother tongue. "Ma Heidi", he will say again and again, "parla italiano!" when I flee into English for the sake of simplicity.
In addition to Dario and Marco, Pietro and Diego are also there. Together, the four of them make up the company "Dario Pegoretti". Dario briefly explains that there is a lot to do. "Everyone always wants everything immediately and thinks they can get everything with money." He, Dario, hates pressure. He is already back at work. Time to look around, back to the stoner room. Here hangs the obligatory nude in workshops, a stylish one at least. She is about to mount a Brooks leather saddle. Underneath, on a chest of drawers, an open letter. A fan has taken the liberty of writing to Dario and sent him CDs by Jaco Pastorius. On the wall, a large plaque reads: "Dario is 1. evil, 2. materialist, 3. ruined by the family from Verona, 4. not humble." And further: "Dario 1. broke his mother's heart, 2. only caused trouble, 3. everything, 4. wanted to become a mechanic, although his family saw him as a teacher."
Back in the hall, none of us are bothered. The pressure that Dario spoke of can neither be felt nor seen. Pietro tries unmotivatedly to repair one of the steel cutting machines and fishes with a magnet for a broken gear wheel. "Lavoro di merda". Shitty work. Marco stands at the frame jig and painstakingly builds steel tubes into a frame: cut, file, lay out, cut again, file, lay out, cut, file, lay out ...
Diego searches extensively for the round, transparent stickers that he sticks on the mounting points of the finished frames to protect the paintwork, on small screw threads for bottle holders, etc. And Dario sits with a fag in one hand and an acrylic pencil in the other, scribbling on a frame. Yes, scribbling on it. He's not painting, he's not drawing, he's scribbling like a child who's grown up far too much. Full of pride and completely serious, he draws one short line next to the next. As if he has a plan that is only recognisable to him. Dark-rimmed glasses sit on his nose. The strap hangs in front of his eyes. Full concentration. Everything happens with paralysing slowness. Or is it perfection that doesn't allow for a hectic pace? Is this the small difference that Oliver and I were talking about in the car earlier? The extra mindfulness and precision?
No frames for compatriots
Diego and Pietro now spend what feels like an eternity looking at a fork where they claim to have recognised an imperfection in the paintwork. "That needs to be done again." "I have a few German customers," says Dario in the background without context, "for them, one plus one is always two, and they only see everything technically. But in life, you can't always measure everything." Dario is not one for nice small talk. He not only comes across as unkempt, but also gruff. It's fitting that he provocatively greets visitors to his website by telling them that he no longer sells to Italians. Why? They talk too much into his trade. He can't stand that, and it shows in the design. The customer can only choose the style of paintwork, but cannot determine exactly what it will look like in the end. Individuality. In return, the frame is customised exactly to the customer in all dimensions and geometry. Quality.
And what is the story? It's a short story: Dario actually wanted to race in his youth and was looking for a job that would earn him money. So in 1975, he joined his future father-in-law Gino Milani in frame construction. It didn't turn out to be a racing career, but he fell in love with frame building. To this day. For him, falling in love means desire, dedication, passion, muse - and also a little stubbornness. The story behind his frames is a promise. The promise to buy something with a frame from this guy who refuses to follow market principles and has absolutely no intention of growing his company. Shortage of supply. Handmade in Italy. Road bike fans from as far away as Taiwan believe this promise. 4.40 pm: Time for Marco, Diego and Pietro to call it a day.
The secret of his success?
8 pm. We have a dinner date with Dario. He arrives 20 minutes late and looks like he's come straight from the workshop: same jumper, same trousers, same slippers - his fingers and nails are still black. What's the secret of your success? "I don't know." Pause. Good steel, says Dario, is a problem. Columbus, the Italian steel forge, has reduced production. He can hardly get material for more than 300 frames. One of them is constantly busy procuring steel. He complains a little about the many taxes he has to pay to the state. "Dario, what's the problem with Italian frame construction?" "The old ones are dying off. They still cared about the frames. The young ones are all about the money," he replies without hesitation. "But things aren't actually that bad. Italians just like to moan."
Next day. When we arrive, everyone is already at work. Except Pietro, who is missing. He's at the blood donation centre. I take a closer look at the frame types. I notice three big differences. On the rear triangle. Dario explains that one variant is the one from the very early days (where the dropout swings beautifully and narrowly around the axle) and the one with a sleeve from the mid-early days (also rather narrow); the thick one is the modern one - where the steel tubes are supported by a steel semicircle. In the meantime, it smells a bit like a heated fondue pot. Pietro is back and has started welding. Welding is the supreme discipline, either he or Dario does it.
Lunch break. Everyone has their lunch with them, except Dario, who retreats to the stoner room, puts his feet up, closes his eyes and listens to music. It plays an important role for Dario. He even names frames after albums. "Wish you where here" by Pink Floyd, for example. The others sit in the kitchen around a table with a plastic cover, once again illuminated by ungracious neon light.
The pursuit of perfection
Time to ask them too: What is Dario's secret? Everyone agrees that it's his experience. Because despite measurements, figures, calculations and computer programmes, it takes an experienced eye to make the customer happy with the right frame. There it is again: life is not just about numbers. Dario likes to recommend a frame model to his customers against their will. This happens when he is sure that one customer is the sportier rider or the other the more leisurely one. Someone who rides for fun will be better off with a more comfortable geometry than someone who has very sporty ambitions.
Then comes Lorella. Dario hasn't mentioned her at all. His girlfriend. He has been separated from the daughter of his former master frame builder for a long time. How is life with Dario? "Difficult," she says quietly. A quiet person with a gentle handshake. "He lives here in his workshop and his office," she says, "even at weekends." "To be able to work in peace," he adds imperiously, taking a drag on his cigarette, "especially to do the office work." A sign hangs above the table: No smoking.
And then Dario says something else. About perfection: the beauty of it is that it is never achieved, but you can strive for it again and again. I am now certain that Dario and his colleagues are not slow, they give things time; they stubbornly refuse to rush - and they do so with dedication. Efficiency and growth count for nothing here. Only precision. Probably because they strive for perfection.
