When Personal Passions Become a Way of Helping Others

This story originally appeared on the Gents Cafe Newsletter. You can subscribe here.

Born and raised in Milan, Andrea Chiaravalli (@motobast) is driven by two lifelong passions: art, an interest sparked by his grandfather and cultivated through his involvement in the family business, and motorbikes – a bug that bit him in his teen ages and never left him.

After dealing with the loss of his youngest daughter, he found a form of salvation in his passions, and decided to start helping others – raising funds for research through his many different activities.

What are your main passions, and how do you cultivate them in your daily life?

Everyone in my family was into sports. Ironically, I was the least athletic one: my sister’s a dancer, my brother used to compete in ski races, and my dad ran and did cross-country skiing. As a kid, I had a thousand passions, but one by one, I left them behind. I started with ski racing – then quit. I did rock climbing – then quit. Skydiving? Gave that up too. I even had a band and played bass… dropped that as well.

Then I started a family – I got married young, at 26, and my first daughter was born when I was 28. Eventually, I got into running, which I’d always liked for its simplicity. Whenever I had a moment, I’d throw on my running shoes and go. Even while traveling: you can run anywhere, whereas other sports need gear – bikes, skis… Running is always doable, and it became my way of staying active amidst the chaos of everyday life.

Motorcycles, on the other hand, are a funny story. I always loved them, but no one in my family ever rode. The only reference I have is an old photo of my grandfather on a 1924 Guzzi near Lecco. Other than that, nothing. In fact, my dad would’ve never bought me a motorcycle!

As a kid, I was obsessed with horses. From ages 10 to 15, I spent all my savings at a stable on Lake Como. And I think that’s really where my love for motorcycles began. I would’ve loved to have a horse of my own – I even asked my dad through the stable owner… Of course, his response was: “You’re out of your mind.”

Then one day, I had this flash: I realized that, for someone who loves to travel, the modern day horse is the motorcycle. It might sound cliché, but for me, that’s exactly what it was. I’ve always seen it as a way to go far, to explore. Like: you roll your bike out of the garage and just go wherever you feel like.

The problem, of course, was money. But when I turned 18, I applied to become an Officer in the Alpini (Italian mountain troops), and I got in. After five months of Officers’ Training, you started earning a salary – one and a half million lire a month, which was a fortune for a young man.

Toward the end of my service I was stationed at the Susa Battalion, near Turin, and I met a guy there who was selling a BMW. That became my first bike: a BMW R45. I still remember riding it home from Turin to Milan thinking, “These people are crazy! How do you ride at 150 km/h on the highway?” I wasn’t used to it at all.

Of course, I didn’t tell my dad – he was totally against it. My uncle lent me a garage near our house so I could keep it hidden. Every morning, I’d go there, get the bike, and ride. That’s how the whole thing started.

Besides being the “Modern Day Horse”, what does a bike represent to you?

Over time, motorcycles became a real passion for me. To gain more confidence as a rider, I took several off-road and technical riding courses, but I’ve never been into racing – for me, the bike is, above all, a way to travel. Sure, I also use it in the city, because I could never replace it with a scooter. I always ask myself: why would I? There’s something special, something essential, about moving around on my motorcycle.

I’d almost call myself a purist: I don’t like the idea of arriving somewhere by plane and just renting any bike. It has to be mine. I struggle to accept even something as small as a misplaced mirror or a license plate holder I don’t like. The motorcycle trip, the way I see it, only makes sense if it happens with your own bike. For example, if I ever went to the U.S., I’d probably avoid renting a motorcycle altogether. I’d rather get a convertible and drive across the country – and if I had to ride, I’d ship my own bike over.

I can’t fully explain where this attraction comes from, but over the years I’ve met many people who feel the same way. Take Andrea Vailetti, for instance: for him too, it’s essential to travel on his bike – the one where he put that sticker in just the right spot, the bungee cord tied exactly how he wanted on the luggage rack. It becomes a kind of ritual, a community built around details, gear, and a very specific aesthetic. And from there, it naturally expands to everything around motorcycle travel: the right clothing, the most iconic helmets, the perfect jacket, even the idea of a “patina” built up over time. The bike becomes an extension of your lifestyle.

Is there a motorcycle trip you remember as specifically significant or adventurous? What made it so special to you?

Now that I’m in my sixties, I’ve racked up a lot of motorcycle journeys – but there are a few that I still remember with particular intensity. One of the first was what I’d call my “initiation” into the world of two wheels. I had started out on a BMW R45 – a fairly modest bike that couldn’t go much faster than 110 km/h. Then one day, a friend let me try his R80 G/S, and that’s when I truly understood the difference. Not long after, in 1983, right after finishing military service, I bought a used R80 G/S for five million lire. I took three months off and set out on a solo journey to Portugal. That experience – so full of freedom – left a deep mark on me.

Another key moment came toward the end of the ’80s, when I discovered the Harley-Davidson world. I had just bought a BMW K75, but a small Harley shop had just opened in Milan and I was curious. When I walked in, I discovered a kind of motorcycle that immediately reminded me of riding horses: analog, essential, raw. So I traded in the K75 for a Sportster. From that moment on, even though I was traveling more uncomfortably and at a slower pace, I felt like I had gotten even closer to the true essence of motorcycling.

One of the most iconic trips I took with the Harley was in 1992, when I managed to convince a few Harley-riding friends to join me at the Super Rally in Paris. At the time, the Harley Owners Club didn’t even exist yet, and the Super Rally was one of the most important gatherings for American bike enthusiasts in Europe – a massive meetup held in a different country each year. Riding from Milan to Paris on my own Harley, and then finding myself surrounded by bikers from all over the continent, was a powerful experience. Back then, the Harley world was still pretty unknown in Italy – no specialized magazines, no internet – you discovered everything firsthand, by traveling, by meeting people.

These days I’ve distanced myself a bit from the Harley scene, which has become a bit too trendy over the years, and I’ve gone back to BMWs, which perhaps still maintain a slightly more understated profile. But in my heart, those two brands remain my benchmarks. Back in the ‘80s and ‘90s, I built up a huge collection of books on both, and during every trip I made a point of visiting local dealerships – it was another way of diving deeper into their universe.

You’re an ultrarunner: what made you embrace such an extreme sport? And what happens when you run for hours upon end, in the middle of nowhere?

I started running because of its simplicity and the direct connection with nature. At first, I told myself: “I’ll just do one marathon – New York – and that’s it.” It was almost a rite of passage. The goal was to join the “4-hour club,” and I made it: 3 hours and 58 minutes. But I didn’t stop. I got hooked. I started getting faster, eventually reaching 3 hours and 24.

But then I got tired of it. To improve, you need drills, intervals, technique. It stopped being about freedom and turned into a calculated training regime. You’d gain five minutes after months of work. And that’s when I realized that wasn’t what I was looking for. I didn’t want to go fast. I wanted to go far.

I was fascinated by stories of races in the desert. So I started exploring that world. I ran the Marathon des Sables: seven days across the Sahara, completely self-supported. They only give you water; you carry everything else on your back. It’s the Dakar Rally of running. After that, the desert stayed with me. I ran the Desert Cup, 190 km non-stop from Petra to Wadi Rum in Jordan. Then a race in Libya, back in Gaddafi’s day: four marathons in four days.

In these races, you always hit a point of deep crisis. You ask yourself: “What am I doing?” Because it’s not just the race – it’s the year of preparation. At the time, I was working a lot. I’d wake up at 5:30, run for two hours, shower, take my daughters to school, then head to the office. Sometimes I’d run at night, because you have to get used to being on your feet for 20, 30 hours. I’d run the ridgeline from Como to Bellagio, take a short ferry ride, then run all the way back. Madness. But that’s where something happens.

The crisis, when you push through it, opens up a different dimension. Under the stars, alone, in the silence of the desert… it feels like a spiritual retreat. I don’t talk about it much – it sounds fanatical – but you really do touch something deep. You’re dirty, hungry, exhausted. You’re an animal. But you’re also pure. It’s like you strip everything away. And in that nothingness, you find yourself.

There were some surreal moments. Once I was running at dawn and saw hooded men running alongside me. I panicked and threw rocks at them. They were hallucinations. Later I read it’s common – many people see gnomes or strange figures. The brain, under stress and overloaded with endorphins, starts creating images. You’re high on your own chemicals.

Then I got into ultratrails, which are often even tougher – non-stop mountain races. The Desert Cup took me 43 hours. I’d nap for an hour at the checkpoints. But you’re basically awake the whole time. Once I tried the Tor des Géants: 330 km and 23,000 meters of elevation gain in Valle d’Aosta. I never finished it due to physical issues, but it’s an incredible world. The frontrunners take 60 hours without sleeping. I managed micro-naps or, at most, three-hour breaks. When you reach the end, you’re completely out of your mind – but also filled with something you can’t quite explain.

Your body wears down. I wore out my cartilage. But after my youngest daughter passed away from cancer, running became a form of salvation. I felt that, running in nature, I could somehow run with her. It became a way of being together.

After she died, I had surgery: rebuilt ligaments, cartilage repaired. They told me to stop running. But little by little, I started again. At first, I could only run one kilometer, and it already hurt – but then the desire came back. And I actually ran some of my best races between 2015 and 2019.

The most iconic one was the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc, in Chamonix, at the end of August. It’s the queen of trail running races. There are five distances – I did them all, though there’s one I never managed to finish despite three attempts. I dedicated eight years of my life to that race. In summer, I trained everywhere – even on vacation in Greece, I’d go out at night with a headlamp and run for hours.

The toughest race? TDS. They call it “The Wild One”: 122 km and 7,600 meters of elevation gain. It took me 30 hours. But it was worth every second.

Even now, I’m still running. I always say it’ll be the last race – but then another one comes along. This past January, I ran the Desert Marathon in Oman: five stages, all on sand, the hardest I’ve ever done. Forty-two kilometers of dunes they call the “Roller Coaster Dunes” – blazing sun, sand up to your knees. A nightmare. But also a dream.

In the end, it’s always the same: you think it’s madness… and then you realize it’s your own form of prayer.

The Everest Trail Race hasn’t just been a sport challenge, but also a symbolic mission. You set yourself the goal to raise €26,000 for research, and ended up with 134,000. What sparked that idea, and what was left by the experience?

The Everest Trail Race felt like a kind of closure. I had decided it would be my last race – or at least, that’s what I thought at the time. I wanted to choose one that would take me to the place I had always dreamed of: the highest mountains in the world. It was a challenge, yes, but also a symbolic journey.

I dedicated that race to my daughter and, at the same time, I wanted to do something tangible. I launched a fundraising campaign in support of Vidas, a hospice that cares for terminally ill children. They were the ones who helped us through the most difficult moments, when we were told there was nothing more that could be done for my daughter. Thanks to Vidas, we were able to keep her at home with us until the end. They came every day – a palliative care doctor, a nurse – always available, even in emergencies. They arrived on motorbikes in 20 minutes. All free of charge. It was incredible.

So I thought that, if I could do something in her name, it had to be for them. The race had 26,000 meters of elevation gain, so I set a symbolic fundraising goal of €26,000. And yet, incredibly, we reached €134,000. It was overwhelming.

It gave me so much – more than any medal. It was one of the most powerful and human experiences of my life. In the end, it was so much more than just a race.

Besides being a biker and ultrarunner, you’re an illustrator, engraver and painter. Anybody who loves motorbikes and visual culture has certainly browsed a magazine that hosted your works: Riders, Moto Heroes, About BMW… How did this connection with the visual world start?

I’ve been drawing since I was a child. My maternal grandfather was a painter, and I often visited him in his studio. That’s where I first breathed in that atmosphere of oil paints, turpentine, silence, and concentration. Later, I attended an art high school, so drawing remained part of my life. Unfortunately, right after finishing school, my father became ill and passed away at only 55. I had just returned from military service in the Alpine troops, and at that moment, I had to set some dreams aside and join the family jewelry business in Milan, together with my brother.

In the end, it was a job I actually liked. As a kid, I used to help out after school. There was the workshop, the store… it was a beautiful, hands-on world. But the desire to make art never fully left me. So, while working during the day, I took evening classes at the Brera Academy and later at the Art School of Castello Sforzesco – where my grandfather had also trained. That’s where I specialized in painting and engraving. It was a former high school teacher who first believed in me: he encouraged me to take part in group exhibitions and organized my first solo show.

Since then – this was back in ’82 – I’ve always continued to pursue art alongside my work. I painted at night, on weekends, and every couple of years I held an exhibition. I’ve never been a “professional” painter, but art has always had a steady place in my life.

In recent years, I’ve started seriously thinking about dedicating myself to painting full time. After everything that’s happened – the loss of my daughter, my father, my father-in-law – my wife and I have come to see life very clearly: the time we have should be lived fully. My eldest daughter lives in Rome and is a doctor, I’ve been working for 41 years… so I thought: in a few years, I’ll leave it all behind and do just this. I’ll return to art – for real.

How has your art evolved over time?

My art has evolved quite naturally, following the course of life. In the jewelry business, I mainly focused on the creative side – sketching, quotes, production. Since it was a small, family-run business, I did a bit of everything, and over time I developed a special bond with many clients. Some of them still follow my exhibitions today – there are those who own more than twenty of my paintings. They’ve become almost collectors. It’s a connection that started long ago, and I’m lucky to carry it with me still.

I always kept art going alongside my job. It was only in the past two years that I started dedicating all my time to it. But every stage of life brought changes to my style and subjects. I began with human figures, then, driven by my passion for motorcycles, I started drawing bikes. One day, I showed some sketches to Carlo Talamo, the legendary Harley-Davidson importer, and he suggested I do an exhibition just on that. That’s how Just Harley Davidson was born, at Numero Uno in Milan. It was a success – it appeared in magazines, newspapers… and from there, people began to commission portraits of their own motorcycles.

Then came Riders magazine. They asked me to create a regular feature, In Serbatoio Veritas, where I drew a different fuel tank each time, paired with a short text. I did something similar for Moto Heroes Italia, where I illustrated motorcycling icons with my drawings and handwritten notes. I collaborated with journalist Paolo Sormani, and we had a great connection.

Over time, I felt the need to widen my perspective. I started focusing on other subjects close to me, like my garden – I even held a show dedicated entirely to its flowers. Or silverware – not as technical drawings, but as true object portraits. I’ve always tried to depict what moves me emotionally.

Photography also found its way into my path—almost by accident. I’m not a professional photographer, but during Harley rallies – especially the Super Rallies – I took countless shots. I collected over 500 photos, and ten years after my first painting exhibition, I held a show made up entirely of those images. It was called Harley on the Road. It went really well: I sold almost everything.

In the end, my art has become a faithful reflection of my life. It has transformed along with me. And now, after all these years, I can say that every passion I’ve had has left a mark, a visible trace on my work.

Your art has always been a form of personal expression; then, it also became a way to support research. How did it happen?

It all began in 2003, with the birth of my youngest daughter. She came many years after my first, who was already studying medicine at the time. Unfortunately, when she was eight, she was suddenly diagnosed with a very rare and aggressive form of cancer. It was an incredibly hard battle that lasted nine months. From that moment on, my life changed completely.

When you go through something like that, when you hold your daughter in your arms during the final moments of her life, everything you once thought was important takes on a different weight. You truly start to ask yourself: “Why am I here? What is all this really about?” I loved my work, but after that, I felt a deep need to focus only on what truly matters to me. And if there was something I had always wanted to do – in art, in running, in travel – then the time was now. There was no more time to postpone.

Probably, if she hadn’t passed away, I’d still be working in the jewelry business today. But losing her led me to choose to fully live the things I love. I was able to dedicate myself to extreme races, to intense training that I never could have sustained while working full-time. I also had more time to rest, to reflect, to create.

And then, when something so painful and profound happens, you become aware of just how much suffering there is in the world. The tumor that struck my daughter affects around 500 children a year in Italy. It’s rare, yes, but those numbers are real, and they are people. I felt the need to do something. I didn’t found a new organization, because there are already many great ones out there. I chose to support those that already exist, offering what I know how to do – art, running, traveling – to raise funds and awareness.

You have a very distinctive style: when did you start paying attention to how you dress? And what does “style” mean to you today?

Let me tell you something that happened this last weekend: I went to Saint-Tropez with my wife, and arrived there in an old Defender. Many people would never choose such an uncomfortable, fuel-hungry, and slow car – for them, it would make much more sense to drive a faster, more comfortable, and less expensive car.

But my wife and I love that very aspect – the slower pace, the extra time that lets you truly enjoy the journey, not just the destination. It’s a bit like life itself: we prefer beauty and the joy of simply being in the world, even when that means making choices that aren’t always logical or easy.

For example, I love having breakfast outside – even if it’s raining, as long as there’s a canopy overhead. That, to me, is the true spirit of a holiday. I know people who always stay indoors, facing a wall. But to me, style is about seeking beauty that makes you feel good, that helps you enjoy the moment.

When I travel by motorcycle, I always think carefully about what I wear. I have a technical Gore-Tex jacket, super functional; but more often, I’ll go for my old Belstaff, worn out and faded, with which I’ve taken so many meaningful trips. That jacket now has a kind of green patina, almost like a stamp of time. For me, it’s about bringing a piece of history to life again, projecting it into the present. I don’t live in the past, but I do like to keep writing new chapters, to keep making new memories.

I respect nostalgia, but I don’t want to be its prisoner. Every choice I make – even in terms of style – is meant to give me the feeling of being alive, not just enjoying life. Because “enjoying” sometimes sounds like it’s all about owning things, about money. I much prefer the idea of living fully, always with authenticity and passion.