I was in Italy for a friend’s wedding when I kept seeing this little folding bike around — small wheels, a single down-tube, an integrated rear rack. I always notice bikes. I look at brands, details, proportions. When a bike goes past, I instinctively check the downtube before the rider’s face. It’s just how I’m wired. The way a surfer knows the locals by their boards, not their names — that’s how I am with bikes.
But this one didn’t stand out in any dramatic way. It just blended in. Still, the shape must have filed itself away somewhere in the back of my mind.
I didn’t think much of it until I saw one in Philadelphia. And that’s when it clicked. Seeing it here at home made me realize how much I loved the silhouette. How simple and approachable it looked. How it felt like a bike for everyday life — or the idealized everyday life. The one you think involves sitting in cafes all day.
The image wouldn’t leave my head. I started searching Facebook Marketplace for one — it wasn’t easy, since I didn't know the model name and I'd seen the frame under several Italian brands. Eventually a Bianchi one popped up about an hour away, so I went and grabbed it.
It’s a cool bike.
But I didn’t love riding it.
The handling is twitchy. It’s remarkably slow. The reach is too short to be comfortable for medium to tall riders. And it is wildly flexy. The single small quick-release hinge holding the whole thing together did not inspire confidence.
The one I found was rough, and the platform isn’t exactly easy to upgrade or maintain. The brake levers are welded to the handlebars… But having it in the basement clarified something for me: I liked the idea of this bike — the spirit of it — more than the actual riding experience.
It’s a piece of what nudged me toward designing the Martini.
Not exactly an homage, but not not an homage either.
Eventually I learned the bike had a name: the Graziella. It was originally made by Carnielli and designed in 1964 by Rinaldo Donzelli. And it turns out nearly every Italian brand made their own version, Bianchi included. Sixteen- or twenty-inch wheels, the fold in the middle, all that adjustability — it was simple neighborhood transportation that looked good. The design was no technological marvel.
And that was the whole point. The Graziella wasn’t trying to be a performance bike. It was a get-around-your-neighborhood bike. Some people affectionately or disparagingly called it a “grandma bike,” which honestly feels like part of the charm — approachable, unfussy, democratic.
In addition to grandmas, it was ridden by Salvador Dalí and Brigitte Bardot in its heyday. Style icons in their own right saw the appeal — and everyone else did too. Like the lovely and utilitarian Fiat Panda, the Graziella is everywhere — you can’t go far in Italy without seeing one. It became one of the most ubiquitous bikes in Italy, putting millions of people on two wheels and making everyday trips — to work, to family, to the farther-off café — newly accessible.
The more I learned, the more it lined up with what I’m trying to do now. My goal — the big one — is to bring that same spirit into electric bikes.
Electric bikes don’t have to be complicated or intimidating. They can be the most inviting bike you own.
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