With a solemn, hieratic gesture, as if the road did not steepen or put lead in his legs, as if he had a third lung, Adam Yates climbed two twisting mountains alone, two real toothaches, two tortures difficult to swallow, and ended up celebrating a triumph of the era, one of those that explain that cycling is a literary sport and of troubadours, where feats follow one another, where limits are parentheses that are surpassed, where the public is encouragement, where two wheels are many stories. From Motril to Granada, three mountain passes in between – El Purche (average gradient of 7.6% and ramps of 17%) and twice the Alto de Hazallanas (9.5% and 20%) -, a superlative spectacle, a stage as electric as it is magnetic. Long live cycling. And long live Yates, Carapaz and Mas, long live the Vuelta too, a very open edition because there are many contenders for a single sceptre. For now, in any case, everyone wants to conquer the jersey red, the one that O’Connor stole in the sixth stage with a display that left wide-eyed to the peloton. One like the one Yates did this Sunday,Yessss! he shouted as he crossed the finish line with his arms raised, now seventh overall – one minute from the podium – led by O’Connor, seconded by Carapaz and cheered on by Mas. It was in Granada, the land of dreams.
The story goes that after a capitulation of Granada agreed upon but not executed by Sultan Boabdil, overcome by the intransigent pressure of the radical sectors and far from having help from the Islamic empires because they were busy with other things, as well as geographically distant, the Catholic Monarchs – Isabel I of Castile and Fernando II of Aragon – managed to surrender the enemy troops. Ten years of war that, with the conquest of Granada in 1492, were enough to enthrone the last Andalusian kingdom and end Islamic power in the Peninsula. And in that, still in Granada, although without daggers, crossbows or helmets, of course, the cyclists in the Vuelta are. More than 500 years later, all together, all against Ben O’Connor, the reconquest of the city continued. jersey red. From Roglic to Mas passing through Yates and Carapaz.
Cyclists stubborn in do an O’Connorread as a breakaway of hundreds of kilometers to get a minute out of the peloton, the breakaways followed one after another as the curtain rose on the stage, renowned cyclists such as Van Aert and Marc Soler, also Küng, Herrada and Castrillo. But everyone wanted to join the party, so another large group, with David Gaudu (FDJ) and Adam Yates – UAE leader after Almeida’s abandonment due to Covid – at the front, decided to follow in their footsteps, joining a breakaway that soon distanced itself to five minutes. There was a long way to go, an eternity, three leg breaker and a stage for the newspaper library.
That explained the UAE, which in the end was the protagonist in the Vuelta as required by its exceptional season and colossal budget – although the biggest bite, of course, is for Pogacar, the king of the bike – because until then it had not gone beyond a secondary role, subordinated to an Almeida who was not firing on all cylinders. Thus, at the foot of El Purche, when they had a four-minute lead, Soler and Vine put on their work overalls, Stakhanovites for the common good, which now passed through Yates. A frenetic pace that served to gut the breakaway – only eight remained – and to put one more minute on the peloton, still patient because there was a lot left, Vlasov and Daniel Felipe Martínez (Bora) having in any case given their effort to push Roglic. In between, Carapaz’s attack, which could turn out heads or tails, bravery or recklessness, genius or folly. And it remained a real hat.
The first lap of Hazallanas highlighted Carapaz’s gallantry, biting the asphalt, flying and flying, Homeric pursuit of the fugitives, everyone absorbed when reaching the summit except Yates because Soler said this is as far as I go, because Vine had no more to go on, because Gaudu was at the limit. Behind him, Bora was also setting the pace, already worried about the calculator, without a peloton that was worth anything, although Roglic still did not show himself. Hidden fragility. Peace, in any case, until the last climb.
It happened then that Yates got the boost of seeing himself back in the mix of the general classification, climbs to remember, laurels to celebrate. It happened that Carapaz went into combustion again because he is finally ready to fight for the Vuelta, promises kept. And it happened that Roglic got lost along the way, fireworks, more sand and less lime, without legs to reply, although relief for an O’Connor who was overshadowing him. Mas saw it, who said to himself this is mine, who started and put some distance between himself, who gained a minute in the climb, and who only broke down on the descent with gusty winds, damned descents he thinks, who did not take a tumble by a miracle, who is so respected that he even worked with a psychologist. A drawback, in any case, that does not tarnish his bravery. Because this Vuelta, as O’Connor predicted, as Yates (also UAE) confirmed, as Mas proposes and as Roglic attempts, is for the daring.
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