Ineos is led by Imanol Erviti and Xabier Zandio, two directors who were brought up on the cycling of José Miguel Echavarri and on winter nights they would listen to him tell, together with Francis Lafargue, whom he loved so much, about the patience with which they worked to create with Miguel Indurain the perfect cyclist for the Tour de France, and Carlos Rodríguez, 30 years later, is trying to teach him those virtues of, you could call it, slow cooking. And Carlos Rodríguez, on whom all hopes are placed, learns and grows without rushing, and matures, and acquires deep flavours, and on the ascent of Galibier, the old father of the Alps who has enjoyed with Coppi, with Bahamontes, with Gaul, with Merckx, attends in the front row, with his mouth closed and his heart at 200, a demonstration of what is in fashion now, something never seen before on its venerable slopes that took the breath away from the elderly: the new cuisine When there is no time for anything, and tomorrow is already yesterday, and Tadej Pogacar, sprinting in Valloire against time and against himself, so fast, and only after crossing the finish line he raises his arms and beats his chest with both fists, pure King Kong, pure exaltation of his strength. And all he needs to do is shout to finish off the sensible ones, who feel, after only four stages, that everything has been said.
This does not scare Rodríguez, from Almuñécar and serious, always quiet, the wisdom of an old man who fears nothing, and acts decisively, and around him, as if he were a life preserver, a magnet that attracts all those seeking security in the uncertain times that fly by, the greatest are grouped: Jonas Vingegaard, the pride of the injured number one, Primoz Roglic, Remco Evenepoel and also Juan Ayuso, the first lieutenant of the Slovenian, the man of the coup de grace.
“I wanted to push hard. I know this stage very well, I have trained here for many weeks in the past, passing through Sestriere and Montgenèvre, and I felt at home,” says the Slovenian, who won the stage with a 35s lead over the group led by Carlos Rodríguez and also earned 18s of bonus time for his solo action, which began just over 800 metres from the summit, the 2,642-metre Galibier, where ice blocks stand in the ditches marking the route, and finished 21 kilometres further on and 1,200 metres below, at the foot of the Télégraphe. “I didn’t want to go too early because of the wind and I had to make as much of a difference as I could in the last few hundred metres. And then I know the descent, but I was a bit surprised to see the road wet in the first few corners, so it was a bit scary, but then this descent is super fast and if you know the road it also helps.”
On the Galibier, the port of tradition and slow cooking, the UAE is a Thermomix that heats, shreds, grinds and cooks the peloton at breakneck speed, at breakneck speed, and such is the rhythm of its destructive blades, the pedal strokes that speed up the pace, that the voice of the Radio Tour announcer turns into a string of shrill roosters when he sings the names of the cyclists who inevitably, and following the motto that guides the lefts, give up in order to better resist. To survive. The excited voice of the spokesman rhythms the ascent of the Lautaret, the endless ascent to the foot of the Galibier, Alps bordering Italy through the beloved Sestriere, clear air, transparent as light, and a wind stronger than the slope and than the desires of the old escape in which Oier Lazkano dissolves, determined to grow in the mountains. It is destruction and love. It’s Nils Politt working for an hour and a half at the front, the first climb, Tim Wellens and Marc Soler sprinting through the corners, Pavel Sivakov, Adam Yates, Almeida arguing with Ayuso, so much energy overwhelms their emotions, and Ayuso, who prepares the final blow when the peloton is already eight: three UAEs, two Soudals –Landa and Evenepoel—Rodríguez, Roglic and also just one Visma, Vingegaard. “You had to be very big to do what we did with such a strong headwind,” says Pogacar in the interview truck, so comfortable in his role as alpha male, while he finishes chewing his snack. “The fact that Vingegaard was left without a team was fundamental.”
Without a team, Vingegaard grows, stretches his neck below his turtle shell and when Pogacar accelerates, he digs into the wheel, as he has done all his life. He only lasts 500 meters. Then he is left alone on the descent. The courage of someone who does not give up even though he fears, even though he knows, what will happen. The pride of a champion. “I couldn’t keep up with him. He went very fast,” says the only cyclist who has beaten Pogacar, twice, in the Tour, who only regrets that his lieutenant, Matteo Jorgenson, did not have the best day and could not accompany him. “But, to be honest, we are better than we expected. I calculated that I would be 2m behind and I am only 50s behind, and there are two and a half weeks left…”
Four stages have passed and in Valloire the light is almost setting at five in the afternoon, when all the defeated arrive counting the seconds lost, the minutes, looking for reasons to believe. An end-of-Tour atmosphere accelerated by Pogacar’s grace, his confidence, the strength of his team. “Pogacar has left us because he has an explosiveness that no one else has,” says Landa, who only thinks of Evenepoel, second in the general classification, 45 seconds behind. “But I think we have done well. We are optimistic.” Those who believe in the podium are close – Ayuso, 1m 10s behind; Rodríguez, 1m 16s behind, and Landa, 1m 32s behind, but Pello Bilbao and Enric Mas are already 4m 40s behind. And only the leader of Movistar, perhaps the most sensible and aware of his limitations, gives up. “I have let myself go for a long time. My body has not responded. My legs were not working. “You have to accept it and that’s it,” he says. “I’ve been feeling bad all day, they’ve given me a few minutes.”
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