Merckx won five pink stages, the record, in the ’73 Giro. Pogacar, with his sixth victory in this Giro, Saturday in Bassano del Grappa, his fifth as leader, equals him. Five in pink – Perugia, Prati de Tivo, Livigno, Santa Cristina and Bassano -, one in white UAE, in Oropa. And on Sunday, the coronation in front of the Colosseum in Rome.
He lets go in the last straight and by 4s he does not reach a 10-minute lead over the second place overall, the Colombian Daniel Felipe Martínez, the prince of Soacha. Despite this, the 9m 56s he gains are the greatest advantage in the last 59 years (in 1965, Vittorio Adorni surpassed Italo Zilioli by 11m 26s). Neither Anquetil nor Merckx nor Hinault nor Indurain nor any of the great champions in history, only Fausto Coppi in the immediate post-war period, had won the Giro with such dominance.
Austro-Hungarian Empire. Trenches. Young Italians and Slovenians on both sides. A century ago, some killed others. Sports rivals in the Giro del 14, in the Tour, when the misery was so great, the hunger, that the cyclists coined the expression “I have kneecaps like the bones of a skeleton.” Enemies on the battlefield of 15. The Tour, the Giro, are paralyzed, so that the real war can triumph. Tens of thousands of bones from thousands of soldiers piled up in gigantic ossuaries. Isonzo. Useless battles. Stupid. And the craters of the bombs, the explosives, the trenches, mud, barren land, disfigured the work of nature, millions of years, the Dolomites advancing like a bulldozer towards the plains of the Po, and raising the limestone, sedimentary rocks. Mount Grappa. Prosecco Hills. The plain of Treviso, the land of Pinarello. Pogacar against the sun that burns your baby’s skin. She points it out and laments. Itching, pruritus. Medical car wipes. Calm and theater. The fans will enjoy his return the more. The artifice of cycling, of competitive sport, in the face of history. Those who killed each other a century ago hug and sprint. The orange flags, and the ikurriñas, color the Pyrenees, the border Alps are Slovenian. White, blue, red, waving in the wind. The fans that did not exist are multiplied by thousands. More than Doncic, so fabulous, so far away, we love Pogacar, so childish, so close.
Six million a year with the UAE. Lifetime contract and a termination clause of 150 million euros.
And Pelayo. Beyond himself. Pelayo as Nairo in 2014, an M in the lead on Mount Grappa. From Semonzo up, 18 kilometers, descent and start again. Twice and the final descent. More than 30 kilometers up the Brenta River. The UAE responds to passion with reason. Oliveira, Molano, Langen, Bjerg, Grossschartner, Novak, Majka. The platoon, decimated, on the wheel. It’s all under control. All measured since December. The kilometers, minutes and seconds that each cyclist will be in front. Scientific cycling and the heart of Pogacar, pink. The greatness of the champion. “We have been very conservative with the team,” says the untouchable leader after the rest stage in Sappada. “No one spent too much energy and Monte Grappa, yes, it is the last day of this Giro for us climbers. It’s going to be a very, very nice stage for us, for the Slovenians here. Of course I dream of arriving alone. The best victory is to come alone, but you never know what can happen. Maybe, yes, maybe someone is stronger than me, but we will try anyway.” Nobody complains. Everyone is happy to end up alive. Alpine soldiers in formation in the ditches, the little hat with the feather, brandy distilleries, grappa barricata, licorice, and the wooden bridge that Hemingway, an ambulance driver in the war, crossed while his head was disturbed by some unworn children’s shoes.
Greatness. First he has to finish with Pellizzari, transcended. The Scarponi who wants to be Pogacar and rises quickly controlling the computer. Watts. Pulsations. Pedaling frequency. Slope Speed. Know the condition of your engine. You know how much gasoline you have left. Calculate and accelerate more. It goes without a chain. The pink glasses, the sweaty pink jersey, at his brother’s house, happy. His partner Tonelli guided him on the first descent. Then, 50 minutes from the finish line, he dies. Three kilometers later, Pelayo gives way. Alone, ahead, Pellizzari. He has more than 2m 30s advantage. Ahead, the enigma, the void, unknown land for a debutant cyclist, 20 years old. Behind, the UAE army. Pogacar accelerates its own. At 41 kilometers he tells Grossschartner to leave him, that he is not going fast enough. He is replaced by Novak, his Slovenian friend, who is amazing. 1m 45s at 40 kilometers. At 37 kilometers, 1m 15s disadvantage. Enter Majka, the Polish friend. The faithful lieutenant like Yáñez was to Sandokan. At his wheel, the peloton has disappeared. Only the Colombians, Dani Martínez and Einer Rubio, and Antonio Tiberi, resist. Second, eighth and fifth overall.
After the rain, the pine trees sing. The oaks. Smell of wet earth in the sun. An unequal duel and therefore beautiful. Pogacar asks Majka to speed up more. He wants to go for Pellizzari now, for the one-on-one. At 36 kilometers, to fulfill what was written, the Slovenian in pink gets up from the saddle, smoothly accelerates the pedals with the cranks so short, 165 millimeters, so agile, to go against fashion. Rhythmic shoulder movement. And he leaves. Pellizzari is 48s away. False plain between meadows. He scolds the fan who pushes him. Only then does adrenaline overflow, gushing out like rebellious, warrior locks between the cracks of his pink helmet. 500 meters further on he already has Pellizzari, heroic, within his sight, within his reach. He moves his entire body, wanting to move the bicycle tied to the ground by the force of gravity, and he only moves forward almost in a twisting motion. He has gone beyond himself. From his calculations. He has attained the glory of it. When he passes her, Pogacar sweetly greets him and smiles at him. He congratulates him. He invites you to follow him. There are four kilometers of ascent left. In such beautiful company, Pellizzari, the bravest of humans, resists a kilometer. Pogacar in pink from the tips of the feet to the tips of the helmet, and the bike is also pink, it reaches ecstasy. The last bottle, the last adhering gel, given to him by an assistant, in the ditch 20 from the finish line, on the slope of the Pianaro that breaks the descent a few hectometres, he passes directly to a child who runs happily next to him . He forgets himself, his thirst, his hunger. He gives himself to everyone. He enters Bassano, overflowing, greeting the people who acclaim him. Flags of martyred Palestine, rainbow bathtubs of Pace. Transform the hardest stage into a walk of glory. A hallway in his honor. He is everyone’s champion. Behind, the pedal proletarians sweat.
Before the first microphones, Pogacar becomes shy. “I don’t know why it was so important for me to win this stage,” he confesses. “I have been wearing the pink jersey since the second day, with all the obligations that entails. We will say that it has been a rehearsal for the summer [el Tour, claro]. He wanted to finish the Giro with a good mentality, in good shape. And I think I have achieved it.” And smile.
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