The Cannibal Turns 80 : his shadow is vast—Pogacar brushes it, but cannot bleach it
Our era—the swirling bowl of the now—adores a memory barely three seconds long. The last man to win is always right: John McEnroe, the other day, swore that Rafael Nadal would « sans doute » have lost to Carlos Alcaraz or Jannik Sinner on Parisian clay. Cycling is no safer from this merry-go-round: Pogacar rules the cobbles, and some already dub him “GOAT”, eager to shelve Eddy Merckx in the attic trunk. Beware the rush; the Cannibal’s legend is no tyre you swap with a finger-snap.
Pogacar, the tight-rope walker who strolls on thin air
They had promised us a chiaroscuro July, a blade-to-blade duel between Vingegaard and Pogacar. The Dauphiné—France’s dress-rehearsal where every man adjusts the tassel of his cap—turned into a solo delivered in perfect Slovene: Tadej Pogacar spoke, and the mountain fell silent.