“Cycling is not only suffering, it’s also pleasure. You’re in nature, in the landscape, in the world. You’re with people, among people. You live in a state of eternal youth,” said Alfredo Martini, a hero of the sport and one of its most thoughtful interpreters: someone who helped frame cycling as a social and artistic expression, not just a competitive discipline.

That vision echoes throughout the work, and the identity, of Italian artist Luca Di Maggio. Di Maggio’s practice, shaped by influences from around the world and across historical eras, finds a natural resonance with cycling culture. His work feeds on it, both lyrically and tangibly. In his pieces—balanced between large-scale street art and meticulous handcraft—the essence of cycling emerges as a medium for collecting, sharing, and elevating a wide range of themes.

The simple yet intricate geometry of bodies and frames. The raw, human contact with others, and with the world around us. The recognition of our collective fears, vulnerabilities, and fragilities. And, too, the beauty of motion—both individual and communal—as a way to explore the present, or simply to navigate the city and make it one’s own.

Every narrative thread in Di Maggio’s creative process rhymes with the shapes and messages he studies firsthand on what Dino Buzzati once called ‘noble horses’: his poetic term for bicycles. Buzzati, a multidimensional storyteller himself, often found inspiration in cycling. “Racing is wonderful,” he once titled a piece on the Giro d’Italia. The same sentiment flows through Di Maggio’s work.

The visual gallery accompanying this editorial deep dive is authored through the lens of Alessandro ‘Zuek’ Simonetti, and originates from a production created for Roy Roger’s Workwear, to whom we extend our thanks.

THE ORIGINS OF A DUAL, YET SHARED PHILOSOPHY

“Art entered my life almost naturally, but first and foremost as a necessity: as a form of therapy. After my father passed away, I had to find a way to let it out, to keep from losing my mind. At the time, I was studying law, but I knew deep down that path wasn’t mine. So, I left everything behind, enrolled in an evening course in graphic design, and began my artistic journey. Back then, art had a very specific function: it became a way to better understand myself, to heal the pain I was carrying inside. I never cared about saying, ‘I’m an artist.’ For me, art is something more intimate, more personal… It’s always been a means to express what I can’t say with words.

Cycling followed art in parallel. I was never a huge fan of it as a kid, but I was always riding, just for the joy of moving. I still remember my first bike… it was stolen, and I cried for days. My father bought me another one: it wasn’t the same, but it was enough. That bike became my adventure companion. Eventually, the two passions intersected. I still remember the day Cinelli gave me a frame ‘in exchange’ for one of my works. With that frame, I started riding seriously: alone, but with this inexplicable urge to improve. From that moment on, it’s been a continuous discovery. Cycling became a way of life, a tool to navigate the world.”

AN ARTISTIC AND CYCLING TOUR

“In the 2000s, I lived for five years in Eastern Germany: a place where the bicycle is more than a way of transport. It’s part of everyday life, it’s culture. I used my bike for everything: grocery runs, work, hauling materials. That’s where I learned the importance of balance, like using front panniers to stay stable on a downhill. It’s not just technique: it’s a mindset, a way of moving through the world. Germany was a school of life for that, and for much more. During those years, I collaborated with all kinds of artists, even with people who used to design punk posters during the GDR. I lived in a building full of artists. We’d have breakfast together, we shared the production itself. We talked about art without complicated theories or intellectual posturing.

In Germany, I lived something real: human exchanges that were simple, and deep. During that time, I also refined my use of large-scale tools: rollers, buckets, tarps. It all started with homemade stencils and graphics I’d create in the evenings after work. Then I moved to walls: bigger and more challenging ones. I never stopped studying or seeking inspiration: museums, galleries, catalogues, art books. If I had to define my creative process, I’d say it’s driven by curiosity: by a thirst for knowledge. I love discovering things, diving into them, turning them into works of art. Whenever I create something, it always starts from a simple idea: there’s art inside all of us, but we need to truly know ourselves to uncover it. The better you know yourself, the less you fear. It’s just like in sports: knowing exactly where you are in space and time gives you confidence. It’s not about aesthetics, it’s about awareness.”

Before Germany, I lived in Vienna during the ‘90s. That’s where I discovered snowboarding, underground magazines, small creative shops. I’d flip through Burton catalogues like they were art books… I biked everywhere whenever the weather allowed it. The city had—and still has—a real street culture, a culture of movement. The cycling infrastructure was already way far ahead of Italy’s. I remember in driving school they taught you to look for bikes before checking for pedestrians… a totally different mindset. After returning to Italy, where I’m now based, I realized that in many areas, we’re still missing that extra step: that willingness to fully open ourselves up. But you learn something new every day. And I keep learning.”

STREET ART ON TWO WHEELS – AND TWO WHEELS IN STREET ART

“I believe cycling, and sport in general, is a vast form of language. It allows us to tell endless stories. I truly believe in that. And I think creating a work of art is a bit like approaching a climb on a bike: at first, it’s tough, but then you reach the top, and every time, you get to see the world from a new perspective. It’s an effort that’s worth it. Cycling, after all, is a sport born in the streets, among people. It makes you move slowly, but it lets you live the places you pass through, meet people… Every stage can be translated into narrative, or pure aesthetics. Take the Giro d’Italia, for example. To me, it’s not just sport: it’s a poem crossing the country. It’s like street art: color moving on wheels, color populating sidewalks.

I’ve never liked the institutional art world. I prefer the street: real contact with people. I’ve always felt like real things happen in the street. People stop, look at you, talk to you, share their stories, even if just for a few minutes. Working in public spaces, for me, carries immense responsibility. I mostly paint in neighborhoods I know well: on old, decaying walls, I recover rusted billboards and try to transform them into something new. One time, a passerby told me, ‘We couldn’t stand looking at that wall in that condition anymore.’ That sentence captured the essence of my work: I don’t want to make art for art’s sake, I want to give a voice to places, to people. Today, I think of my work as a craft. I still feel a deep need to create, to build, more as a craftsman than as an artist. Real work, for me, is done through effort, through encounter, through relationships. That’s where true, authentic storytelling is born. Spontaneous storytelling. 

When I talk about spontaneity, I mean that the more time you spend among people, the better you can understand, communicate, and translate reality into art. I’ll say it again: I don’t feel like an ‘artist.’ But I do feel an innate need to draw, to express myself through gesture and movement: as if it were a kind of athletic instinct. Creating large-scale works is, in some way, a physical act, it’s like a sport. You move your whole body. There’s adrenaline. When I work on pieces like that, I’ll often be on my feet for ten hours a day, and that makes me feel alive. One of my greatest dreams was to travel constantly with a cargo bike full of paints, brushes, buckets… and just paint. I did it once: riding from Milan to Lecco on my own. It’s tough, but the purpose is deeply meaningful: to move, and to leave a trace.”

OF FRAGILITY AND FORM

“Another recurring theme in my work, one that also relates closely to the cycling world, is fragility. It’s incredibly important to me. I often use paper, precisely because it crumples, it folds, it carries its marks… just like every human being. While paper shows its creases, though, people try to hide theirs. We live in a time of filters and masks, and it’s harming us. Social media, for example, offers many opportunities, no doubt. But it also tends to amplify ego, not the substance of who we really are. Paper, on the other hand, is something truly exposed, truly authentic. 

When I think about fragility, I can’t help but reflect on Pantani: a man as fragile as he was powerful. He had that ability to push, to accelerate when he wanted to, without worrying about tactics or numbers. And yet, he was destroyed by the very fragility inside him. Still, he left behind something real: something we still celebrate at every race. Unlike many others, he didn’t have a team to shield him. He isolated himself. He shut down. He got lost. In my view, admitting your fragility isn’t a weakness: it’s a strength. It makes you human. The same is true for paper: if you color it, if you build a story on it, it becomes strong. It comes alive. In my life, I’ve experienced many types of fear: often manifesting as panic attacks. But when I’m on the street, painting, all of that disappears. Because in that moment, I feel real, and fragility, or fear, fades away.

Talking about form, I always see geometry in cyclists: two inverted triangles, full and empty, broken lines… The body becoming bike, and the bike becoming body. It’s a huge challenge to portray that kind of fusion, but a beautiful one. The tandem bike is another recurring image in my work. To me, it’s a powerful symbol. It represents trust, complicity: one person leads, the other supports. It’s like life: where we all need those around us.”

THE FINISH LINE

“In both my life and my art, I try to follow an unwritten rule: you have to know how to play. Yes, you have to take yourself seriously, but without ever losing your sense of lightness. I have a five-year-old nephew, and I spend a lot of time with him. He reminds me how important it is to stay in touch with that part of ourselves that remains free, unafraid. Children carry truth. Among adults, that truth is fading: we’re losing it. We present ourselves, but we don’t really know ourselves. We think, we talk, but we do very little. We put ourselves out there, but without truly showing up. Appearance has taken the place of presence. And that scares me. There’s something I often repeat to myself, something I want to say out loud: don’t be afraid to live. Don’t waste the time you have. Don’t just be alive, live fully. With spontaneity, with courage, with the desire to leave something real behind. In art. In cycling. Wherever you are.”