With the Giro scheduled to pass by in a few hours, fans were already filling the roads to the day’s finish in Feltre. Along the way, you could spot local bike clubs, riding in perfect formation, off to stake out the prime real estate at the side of the road, especially on the day’s only real climb, the Valico Le Laste. And I think it was there, on the lower slopes, that I spotted the first one. In the mix of 11 or so riders from a club in Bassano del Grappa, one rider violated the symmetry of the group’s matching jerseys: they, in classic, broad red-green-and-white stripes, and he, in the dazzling yellow of Mercatone Uno.

But it wasn’t only the jersey that set this guy apart. It was the hair – or rather lack of it — along with the goatee and the wrap-around sunglasses. His bald pate shined with sweat; a yellow bandanna hung from his jersey pocket. His bike was a spot-on replica of the team-issued Bianchi — it even sported a “139-Giro d’Italia” number plate behind the head tube. And his Vittoria shoes were exactly the same as those of his hero. I was looking at a Marco clone.

Then, coming into Feltre, its streets lined with crowd barriers and commercial banners touting the wonders of Fiat, spring water and some kind of iced tea in a plastic cup, I noticed a couple more bald guys with goatees. One, sitting on the stoop in front of his grocery store, looked at least 60, but his beard was dyed yellow, a dead ringer for the color of the Pirate’s jersey.

Now, I knew there were Pantani fans out there. I’d seen the devoted tifosi show up in all sorts of places — even now, after all that went down this past year. What I didn’t know was that Pantani — whose look was once compared to Nosferatu’s — had turned into something of a fashion icon. (Encouraging news for the follically challenged, a bad turn for anyone selling hair plugs or toupees in Italy.) Marco was now a role model.

The morning after Feltre, the race left for Val Gardena. This was when the real climbs hit. I cruised up the Passo di Fedaia, the “Marmolada,” just to get a feel for the road and the atmosphere.

It’s a long, narrow climb that starts out at a deceptively easy 4 percent. The road steepens as it moves to the top of the 2057-meter pass: 7- 8- 9-percent and then more. I pulled my car over at the point where the slope reached a ghastly 15, because the crowd was too thick to negotiate. Besides, I thought I spotted the Marco clone from the day before. At least I thought it was him. I soon realized I’d need tags to keep track of them all.

Pantani clones numbering in the hundreds were swarming over the narrowest point of the Marmolada. The Club Marco Pantani, Team Fan Marco Pantani, Club Pantani — every Marco fan club in Italy seemed to have been drawn to this very spot. Cars, picnic tables, bikes and people were jammed into the parking lot of a small restaurant. Other folks, sitting and standing along the road, were enjoying thick-crusted dark bread, prosciutto and red wine from big basket-covered bottles. This was the ultimate tailgate party, all in honor of Pantani.

Pirate flags lined the road; signs bearing words of encouragement for Il Pirata were tacked on to cars, vans, buses and bikes. Pantani graffiti covered the pavement. But it was the crowd itself that conveyed the clearest message. Bald or not, Marco was definitely the theme for all. Bandannas — pink for the Giro, yellow for Mercatone Uno, all of them for Marco — were everywhere. And peppered throughout the crowd, there were bald guys with goatees: tall ones, short ones, fat, thin, young, old ... each doing his best to look identical to Pantani. It was kind of like going to a Cardinals game and seeing half the fans trying to look exactly like Mark McGwire.

Just as I was struggling to understand this strange new reality, the universe offered something of an answer. A heavy-set fellow in a bright yellow jersey spotted my press badge and thrust a small plastic cup filled with red wine into my hand. “Eh, stampa,” he said with a smile, as he patted me on the back and offered a sandwich. Here was an opportunity to ask why.

Why Pantani? Why, after a year of drug charges, an indictment, a pending trial, give so much energy, so much devotion, heck, so many razor blades, to someone like Pantani? I mean, drugs have been the topic ever since the —

“I don’t care about drugs,” he stopped me. “All I care about is passion. Don’t you think all of these guys are cheaters? At the top, things are equal. When they all stop cheating, it will be equal again.”

Before I could manage another question, a cop interrupted and told me to move my car. In an hour, the fans would be treated to a sight of then-race leader Casagrande catching the remnants of an early break. Pantani would crawl by 12 minutes later.

I spent a week puzzling over the clubs and clones lining the roads of the Giro. To me, it didn’t add up. In sports, shouldn’t hero worship stop where cheating begins? Do you really want to look like the guy who’s tearing the fabric of the sport apart?

I spotted my yellow-jerseyed friend from the Marmolada one more time —  “Hey, stampa!” he yelled when I passed him near the crest of the Colle dell’Agnello — but never got to talk with him. He was too preoccupied with the race, which he was following on a small TV set perched on a picnic table while he waited for the race to arrive. Below, the leaders were hitting the early part of the climb, and in hot pursuit came his hero, Marco Pantani.

“All I care about is passion,” he’d told me.

Maybe that was all I needed to know.