The Cannibal Turns 80 : his shadow is vast—Pogacar brushes it, but cannot bleach it
1. The Goldfish Syndrome
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.
2. The Ogre’s incomparable bulk
Grand Tours: 11 for Merckx, 4 for Pogacar.
Monuments: 19 against 8.
Total wins: 525 to a mere hundred-and-change.
To scale this Himalaya, « Pogi » would have to keep his current cadence for another twenty years—Sisyphus scanned the plan and pedalled off elsewhere. Remember, too, that Merckx garnished the track while pillaging the road; he devoured everything, everywhere, all the time. Blondin saluted him as a conquérant de l’inutile—a conqueror of the useless.
3. The Nobility of the Useless
Pogacar, twenty-six, already hoards marvels; his precocity borders on the implausible. Yet Merckx strung four Grand Tours in a row (Giro ’72 → Tour ’73) and, save for 1974—the Giro-Tour-World treble—nailed at least one Monument every year from 1966 to 1976. The Slovenian, too, enjoys planting a flag “just to see”; he shares that taste for plunder, that romantic belligerence. Does it embroider E M on his jersey? Not yet.
4. Between pupil and master
Eddy, magnanimous, knights his heir:
« Bien sûr que j'aurais aimé affronter les coureurs d'aujourd'hui ! Qui ne rêverait pas de rouler dans le peloton actuel ? »
One rainbow-soaked evening he even blurted:
« C'est évident qu'il est maintenant au-dessus de moi. Je le pensais déjà un peu au fond de moi-même quand j'avais vu ce qu'il avait fait sur le dernier Tour de France, mais, ce soir, il n'y a pas de doute. »
Then back-pedalled, sensing enthusiasm misread, and slipped in a pinprick of pride:
« Je pense qu'à mon époque, il y avait quand même plus de concurrence. Aujourd'hui, sur les classiques, Pogacar doit surtout se méfier de Van der Poel, de Van Aert. Sur les grands tours, ce sont quelques autres adversaires... »
5. Each to his Olympus
Comparing eras is like measuring wind; yet numbers—stubborn notaries—remain unbending. Pogacar has Merckx in his calf, fury in his eye, that baroque elegance that turns the useless into necessity. Still, Merckx is Merckx: a one-off creature, limited edition of one.
So let us toast the Cannibal—eighty candles on his cake—and his “Petit Cannibale” from Klanec, spinning in the elder’s radiance. One day, perhaps, their curves may cross. Until then, the Belgian sits enthroned, the Slovenian orbits, and legend keeps turning its carousel, cheeks puffed with superlatives.
