Pogacar is never enough: after the World Cup he wins the European Championship too

The music is beautiful but still the same. By now, we have to give a medal not only to Pogacar, but also to the poor commentators who, when the Slovenian is in the race, don't know what to make up, and have to say whatever they can to keep the spectators from falling asleep. It's exhausting, really. A stimulating exercise to train the imagination. A virtuosity to be rewarded with rich prizes and cotillions.

What more do you want to invent when a guy - Pogacar, of course - only leaves with 75 kilometres to go and nobody catches him anymore? Of course, in the meantime, you can repeat once again that the Slovenian is a formidable talent; that this is his 106th victory, the 18th in 2025; count with unnecessary emphasis how much time he will inflict on his rival Remco Evenepoel (this time only about thirty seconds); to point out, finally, that the third on the podium (the Frenchman Paul Sexias) arrived almost three and a half minutes behind the Martian, who thus, a week after having worn (encore) the world champion's jersey, adds to his trophy room the European champion's jersey, conquered in France on the first Sunday of October, in the Drome-Ardeche department.

It is pointless to invent something with Pogacar, because the result is always the same: he wins by a landslide, the others lick their wounds, especially the psychological ones. Think of poor Evenepoel, also a phenomenon, but not as phenomenal as the Martian.

In one week, between World and Europe, the Belgian twice in a row had to eat the Slovenian's dust. In Rwanda, he took a minute and a half; in France, for the European title, he fared a little better: And thank goodness that at least in the time trial the Belgian had taken a tasty revenge.

But the reality is that in road races, when Tadej turns on the turbo, good Remco knows for sure that Pogacar will find him at the finish line after the Slovenian has already received kisses and hugs from his girlfriend Urska, also an excellent cyclist. Experts say that she motivates him: it may be, but Pogacar's voracity, superior this year even to that of the terrible Merckx, seems to be self-healing. Like those batteries that don't need recharging. When the Slovenian smells victory, there is nothing to be done. This is his magic potion, his very own propellant (said without any poisonous innuendo).