The 109th Tour de France ends in glory with a Dane in yellow. An extraordinary tour for emotions and twists. A Tour from which it will be difficult to say goodbye. Like those movies that we would like to never end. We know that we are at the epilogue, we see the Arc de Triomphe silhouetted at sunset, the stunning carousel of the Elysian Fields (with the victory in the sprint of the Belgian Jasper Philipsen, already first in Carcassonne) but we cannot detach ourselves for the beauty of the images and for that sense full of sporting challenge which, even in Paris, never seems to run out.
There is no rhetoric, there is no trick, there is no deception. Even the tears and hugs, sometimes a little obvious, this time are authentic as the challenge between the winner, the Danish Jonas Vingegaard, 25, and the second who should have been first, the Slovenian Tadej Pogacar, was authentic. 23 years old, the baby phenomenon who has found his worthy rival, the Fisher King, who wins, trumps and convinces.
Two rivals made for each other
Two rivals, almost enemies, and almost friends, who seem to have invented a small table: too many beautiful, too brave to be true. Like the last stretch of Pogacar 6 km from the end of the Tour. Just to amaze us, let us have fun until the end. They are like this: a generation of phenomena that run like surfers on the waves. Always on the attack, always ready to invent something. A genetic mutation. As if they had abolished the old cycling of fatigue, with a new discipline that does not admit the boredom or prudence of the old wise men on two wheels.
Let’s face it: three weeks ago, when he left Copenhagen, the Tour seemed already written, cooked and boiled. Tadej Pogacar, already winner of the two previous editions, almost put his signature even on the opening clock. An insatiable monster, with that good-boy face that hides the cruelty of a serial killer.
Bravo, for heaven’s sake, even too much if you don’t have an opponent at your height. Even a Martian is bored in the long run. Do you remember Miguel Indurain? Formidable, of course. But what a beard, always with the yellow jersey, year after year. And let’s forget the dictatorship of Lance Armstrong, fortunately ended up in the dust and canceled forever from the register of the Grande Boucle.