On further reflection, the problem with Fast Company is not the silliness of pretending it’s not about Ducatis, or the unfortunate title (the same as the much-parodied business magazine) but that it’s simply a mediocre story, ill-structured and ill-told. I’ll accept less-than-stellar writing to read a really compelling story like Ultramarathon Man, and great writing can make anything seem interesting, like Paul Theroux’s account of being bored and drunk on the Trans-Siberian railway. But Gross manages neither. His memoir meanders through the moderately successful relaunch of the company and his frustrating relationship with a closeted boyfriend, then stops without ending: the boyfriend is still closeted, the company is muddling through, and Italy is still charmingly different from the US. The only things Gross learns are how to ride a bike and how to buy expensive custom shoes. His readers are even less well served: we don’t learn anything at all from his experience and are barely even entertained.