It’s in this suspended space—where the front wheel lifts and the city becomes vibration—that photographer Lorenzo Roncaglione has found his place. Trained as an architect of visual form, a photographer by instinct, he has become one of the most compelling eyes on Milan’s bike life scene: a grassroots movement, halfway between subculture and urban sport, bringing together boys and girls from different neighborhoods, united by the same search for freedom, belonging, and athletic validation.

Alongside him is Denilson “Denny” Ramos, a rider among the leading figures of the Bike Life scene. Through him, we move across Milan’s labyrinth of parking lots and straightaways that run from the center to the outskirts, returning an honest view of an urban grammar built on family, trust, and conscious choices.

From their firsthand testimonies, one thing becomes clear: bike life isn’t just an urban sport—it’s a language of redemption, belonging, and freedom. And like every authentic language, it deserves to be understood, not filtered.

Origins

Lorenzo Roncaglione: “I started out with architectural and interior design photography. Then, at a certain point, I realized it didn’t satisfy me. What I was interested in was people. Architecture definitely left me with rigor, geometry, a set of dogmas that are essential. But that’s also why, at a certain point, I left it behind: for me it became limiting. There’s a manual from A to Z on how to do things, and innovating is hard.

I began with street photography during Covid. I was in Lisbon, not in Italy: there, you could go out. I found myself in a city emptied of tourists, with only locals, and I was fascinated. With interior photography I missed human interaction—in those photos, at most there’s a human presence to give scale, to better understand real dimensions, but that’s it. I was looking for people, involvement. So, step by step, I started shooting in the street. The first photos were very canonical. Then, shot after shot, street after street, court after court, I gained courage, found my rhythm, my eye.”

Denny: “I still remember the first ride I took part in—it was a 24/7 ride, about four years ago. Actually, before really knowing bike life, I ended up at a mini-meetup of kids—back then we were kids too—organized through social media. From there I discovered 24/7, I understood what it was, and I jumped in. The adrenaline of riding in a group hooked me immediately: it was something new, and I told myself, ‘Why not try?’ And that’s how a unique passion was born.

From there I started riding every day, self-taught. I saw YouTube videos of guys in London doing wheelies through the streets and, simply, I wanted to do it too. I tried, I studied the videos, I replicated. That’s how I learned.

As a kid I always played football. Then I quit and switched to the bike. I didn’t really carry much over from football: they’re different sports. Bike life, for me, still isn’t definable as a true sport—but I’m sure it will become one in a few years.”

The city breath

Lorenzo Roncaglione: “I was born and raised in Milan, in the city. I like nature, sure, but I’m not one of those people who dreams of retiring to the countryside at 70. I feel good in urban chaos: I like the energy, the turmoil, the people. On every trip I try to carve out urban breaks, even just to walk and observe. It’s my way of recharging. The city, for me, is a living organism—and photographing it is like breathing with it.

I’d never crossed paths with bike life until I came back to Milan. It was still a young movement, at least in Italy. In the United States it had existed for a long time, with motorbikes and quads; here, the bicycle version was being born right in those years—and personally I was in a bit of a stalled period. Work was scarce because of Covid, so many times, when it was possible, I’d go out walking to clear my head. One day I see a kid lifting a wheelie down the street; the next time, two; then ten kids on bikes, all together doing wheelies. I’d never seen anything like it. Before leaving, I’d lived seven years abroad, so for me it was something new, unheard-of.

From that moment I got curious and started searching on Instagram. I found the 24/7 Crew and went to their first meetup. It was crazy: a sea of people, pure energy. I made friends with so many of the guys, then meetup after meetup it became routine. By now I must have done more than fifteen. They know me—when I arrive, we greet each other, we talk, I shoot. I feel part of the group. I feel good there.”

Sport and subculture

Lorenzo Roncaglione: “Even today I don’t know whether to define bike life as a subculture or as a true sport. It’s a complex question that maybe doesn’t have one correct answer. It’s born as a subculture, undeniably. But I consider it a sport, in every sense. It’s evolving, like skateboarding in its early days: that wasn’t born as a canonical sport either, and today it’s in the Olympics.

At the meetups—which in theory would be illegal, because they take over the streets without permits—the kids hold real competitions: the longest wheelie, the closest swerve, the combo traffic. All tests of control, endurance, balance.

Bike life is an athletic gesture. It’s a shame that many still see it only as a disruption to Milan traffic. But I see authentic sporting energy in these kids, and I’m convinced that sooner or later its value will be officially recognized.”

Denny: “At the beginning I experienced it more as culture. Today, seeing how it’s evolving, for me it’s already a sport. It could be one officially, if it weren’t for the heavy labels stuck on us—the prejudice that often sees us as semi-criminals, or vandals, doesn’t help. But as an athletic gesture, control, endurance, mindset: bike life is already a sport for me. Family and discipline together. If we learn to keep them in the same frame, then we’ll truly move forward. One wheel at a time.”

Entering the family

Lorenzo Roncaglione: “One of the most fascinating aspects of this project is trust. As with any photographic project like this, I entered on tiptoe—with humility, with respect. This is their world, and I’m not part of it firsthand—I rode a bike as a kid but I don’t wheelie, I don’t compete. So the first thing for me was not to judge, but to observe.

The key, simply, was sending the photos to the guys. Not shooting and disappearing, but giving back. Showing that you’re there with them, that you’re taking risks too—maybe to a smaller degree, but you’re there. I pedal with them: one hand on the handlebar, the other on the camera.

Then you need consistency. If you go once and disappear for months, no real bond forms. I was always there: weekend after weekend, meetup after meetup. I tag everyone, I send photos to each person. That’s how trust was built.

There’s also an age gap—between me and the ‘average’ bike life kid there are twenty years. But they never saw me as an intruder. On the contrary, today when I go to meetups I often hear, ‘Oh, Lorenzo’s here to take our photos!’—that means a lot to me.”

Denny: “Among riders, trust is concrete: if I need to go into a supermarket, I leave my bike with a friend and maybe buy him a drink. Otherwise, I could never leave my bike alone. It’s a small gesture but fundamental—it means a lot. With photographers… it depends on the person: it matters that you’re present, respectful, not invasive. If there’s respect, trust comes.”

One movement, a thousand stories

Lorenzo Roncaglione: “I’ve met so many different backgrounds in the bike life scene. What I feel unites many of these kids is a desire for personal and social redemption. I sense it at every meetup. Bike life is a real family—with its fights and its affection—but above all with an incredibly strong sense of belonging.

Many of these kids come from difficult contexts, often from the outskirts. The bike becomes a form of payback, a way to turn something seen as ‘tacky’ or ‘annoying’ into an athletic, creative gesture. They’re athletes, even if not everyone sees them that way. Holding a wheel up for two hours, always focused, is physically exhausting. I, who am just pedaling normally, after two hours I’m destroyed.

When you shoot these scenes, you realize you’re not just photographing kids doing wheelies: you’re photographing a language. It’s energy, community, freedom. I hope that, in some small way, photography and my images help change the narrative—help people understand that behind every lifted wheel there’s a story, often of courage and redemption.

Unfortunately, communication in recent years has been a bit steered. On too many topics, the message gets filtered, bent to precise logic. If you rely only on one narrative, you risk painting everything with the same brush. I believe you can only allow yourself to judge certain situations if you’ve truly been inside them—not if you saw them on TV or read them in a headline. We live in a historical moment where things change quickly, and looking at them through glass—like we’re in an aquarium—is limiting and counterproductive. A real reportage, an honest exhibition, has the power to shift perception. It shows the humanity, the fatigue, the real beauty behind these movements. And it’s exactly there that you understand that most of these kids don’t want to ‘live in danger’—they want to get out of it.”

Denny: “What weighs on you in the city is the constant judgment from people who aren’t part of the scene. Sometimes they complain even in spaces closed to traffic: Casa Milan, for now, is the only place where they leave us in peace—but who knows for how long. What I love, and what many people don’t tend to perceive, is the community, the family that gets created: if I call someone to ride, they’re always there. Even without calling, in Milan you’ll always find someone pulling a wheelie. It’s community.”

When brands hit the street

Lorenzo Roncaglione: “The fact that big brands are getting closer is, in a way, part of the redemption. It means the scene is visible, that it has reached cultural weight. That it exists. And for many kids, that’s an important form of recognition. Of course brands have commercial interests: that’s inevitable. The average kid follows multiple bike life profiles, and if he sees his idol wearing a certain brand, he wants it too. It’s a dynamic we know well, but I don’t necessarily see it as negative.

These dynamics start bringing jobs, budgets, sponsorships. And in the real world—where a bike breaks, a motorbike gets wrecked, shoes wear out—access to concrete resources can make a difference. It becomes part of business, as always, but it’s the same path skateboarding, surfing, and basketball went through. Every sport born from the street passes through three phases: emergence, affirmation, consecration. And in between, a constant dialogue between authenticity and the system.”

Denny: “Brand interest is definitely a good thing for the visibility it gives the movement: showing that this world exists, that it isn’t invisible. And then tangible resources: equipment, budgets, work. Lately I see bike life everywhere—sports stores, capsules, details that change a commercial. Sure, some brands follow the trend of the moment: that’s normal. But if the support is real and doesn’t use the scene as background, it’s positive. They’re helping people discover us—and for us, that matters.”

From the street to recognition

Lorenzo Roncaglione: “Bike life is born from something that, by nature, is hard to organize. Saturday afternoon ride outs in the middle of traffic—I couldn’t tell you how you could replicate that in a controlled or designated context. It’s like asking a skater whether they prefer skating in a skatepark or on the street: they’re two different things. There are parts of the movement that can be organized—contests, for example—but the true ride lives on the unexpected: the tram passing, the car you didn’t see, the adrenaline of moving through chaos. If you remove that component, you risk losing its essence.

With motorbikes it might be a bit different: there I’ve seen more structured competitions emerge, even on tracks, and they work. But for bikes, spontaneity is everything. I think a lot will depend on the willingness of those inside the scene: accepting some compromises to gain sporting recognition, without betraying street roots. It’s a transition many other sports have already gone through: some stay more ‘real,’ tied to the street, and others take a more competitive or professional path. Both, in my opinion, are necessary.

Today, thanks to social media, you can discover that in London, Berlin, Madrid, or Paris there are groups similar to yours. And when these communities meet, the level rises across the board: communication, events, awareness. It’s pure community—the same spirit I see in the world of photography too. You follow each other, you write to each other, you exchange ideas. And that, to me, is the healthiest and most powerful side of social media: when it creates real connections, when it brings together people with shared passions and positive values.”

Denny: “Social media is a double-edged sword—it depends a lot on who you are, your personality. At first I posted to show the stupid stuff I did on the bike: last-second swerves, real risks, videos that went viral and did numbers. I realized I was overdoing it: I risked my life more than once. I understood you can push on social media without going too far, without setting a bad example for those who follow you. A clean wheelie, done right, is worth more than a borderline video. Too much extremism gives the movement the wrong image. I was like that too, but I changed. Social media can create opportunities: it’s up to each of us to make it work the right way.

As for the state of bike life in Italy and abroad, I think every country has its own history, culture, and style. In Brazil they have a lot of downhill, so they develop a different kind of riding; they also have ‘the spot,’ a dedicated place where you can do whatever you want without bothering anyone—we’re still dreaming of that, even though one crew is working on it. France today is the reference: there’s huge participation and a style that became the benchmark across Europe—dodging objects at the last second, snapping back in and continuing to pedal… they raised the bar. In Italy today, many of us copy that French style—me included. What I want in the future is more contests and an ecosystem able to hold the different languages together. For me, and I think for the movement, it would be another turning point to have dedicated spaces. We don’t need much: decent asphalt and space. On a circuit we’d be safer and we wouldn’t bother anyone. I’m absolutely in favor.”