Nobody moves. Nobody wants. Nobody can. They wait for the fatal moment, hypnotized by Domen Novak’s trantran that ascends and descends Stockeu without even looking up at the plaque to Eddy Merckx, king of places, dedicated, that crosses the badlands scorched from the Ardennes towards the Col de Rosier, headwind, forests with trees with still bare branches on a Sunday in April with winter temperatures; approaching La Redoute, the battlefield, his friend Tadej Pogacar at his wheel. The UAE in control. “It’s been a horrible day of weather,” he says afterward. “So to warm up we decided in the UAE to always maintain a good pace.” On the earpiece, the directors. They don’t talk to them about epic, legend, history. They remind them of the points. Those who take the second, the third, the tenth and even the twenty-fourth. They are all important.
There are 60 cyclists. The best in the world, Pello, Pidcock, Vlasov, those who resign themselves to their fate, the fate of the peloton of these years, condemned to see Pogacar, Van der Poel, any of the phenomena leave. There are no duels. There are individual recitals. There is no fight. Nor on the burning slopes of the Ardennes, where Van der Poel does not respond, despite wearing the black pants of the big days along with his rainbow jersey. It is not his territory even if he wants it. It’s one more for one day. One of those who see, far away, ahead, Pogacar leaving, who attacks even before his favorite place in Liège, his favorite Monument, 900 meters from the top of La Redoute, the slope, the Napoleonic fortification of which he writes Tolstoy endless pages. It’s war, wait a second. One minute. The 400 meters that Richard Carapaz can endure on his wheel. Bravo until I burst. “I did what we said we were going to do. I’ve just followed our plan. Avoid falls. Run cautiously. “Attack at La Redoute,” summarizes the winner, who escaped a fall that cut off almost all the favorites 100 kilometers from the finish line. Everyone ran in tow from then on.
It is the peace of the defeated, who fear each other, watch each other, mark themselves. They attack each other. They brake. They start. If Pogacar were not in front, his battle, that of Egan, Carapaz, Bardet, Buitrago, Lutsenko, Healey, Van Gils, Pello, would be beautiful, an open, stark race, worthy of a chronicle that would be remembered for years. They would leave everyone breathless, heart racing. But ahead is Pogacar, a monologue, which reduces the drama to meaningless shouting. There is no agreement. They are only fighting to be second. The most determined, the bravest, Romain Bardet, who has suffered so much in other years on these roads, manages to leave alone to be second, 1m 39s behind. The others, unable to separate themselves, compete in a sprint for third place, 2m 2s behind, and pride forces Van der Poel to win.
There were then 35 kilometers left. The exhibition. After La Redoute, the false plain open to all the winds where everyone wants to take a break, their legs are screaming so much, so much pain. That’s where Pogacar accelerates again. And he leaves alone forever.
It rains, and in the freezing rain, Pogacar, bare hands, closed helmet in which, who knows how, his rebellious lock, the wing of the ferocious shark, manages to peek out, pedals aware that his story is already part of the history of the cycling. Aware of his obligation to attack alone, to arrive alone, to risk the tight curves of the narrow and dangerous descents past the hills towards Liège. A champion never disdains risk. Don’t worry. Imperturbable. Bright smile. Eyelashes so blonde that they seem transparent against his light eyes. “It’s very special to arrive alone,” he says. “And even more so with the national champion jersey.”
At the Quai des Ardennes, where he won three years ago, he greets the public, smiles childishly, a child who has done another prank, looks up and points with one hand towards the sky before crossing the finish line. “I ran all day thinking about Urska’s mother, my wife, who died two years ago, and I had to return to Slovenia without being able to run. And last year, I broke my wrist here,” the Slovenian says at the finish line after winning, at the age of 25, the sixth Monument of his career (three Lombardies, two Lieges, one Flanders). “So it’s been a very emotional day.”
In 2024 it has run only 10 days. Race days are the only days he enjoys. Maybe because he always wins. Six victories already. The Strade and Liège, and the Volta a Catalunya (and four stages). And a third place in the San Remo, the Monument that resists him. The rest of the days, between races, endless days concentrated at altitude, in Sierra Nevada thinking about the goals that will come in a year in which an even more difficult goal has been imposed: winning the Giro, his first participation in the pink corsa, before attacking the Tour in search of his third big boucle. “Are you going to Spain?” Pogacar asks Van der Poel, a good friend, who has a house in Moraira where he plays golf, while they wait to get on the podium. “Yes,” he answers. “I am leaving tomorrow. Vacation”. And Pogacar, who starts the Giro on May 5, looks at him with an envious face. “Enjoy, friend.”
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