Mathieu van der Poel has lost two kilos, his shoulders have narrowed and his square jaw has sharpened, his chin like the shark of finance, which on the slopes of Montreal becomes the shark of cycling, a defeated and deadly predator. With him, with the beautiful and devouring God of the great classics, the greatest of the peloton fell, those who populate the dreams of all fans, the great and ambitious who fought a couple of months ago for only the most beautiful Tour in recent years. Remco, Seixas, Del Toro fell. They were victims of their own excess and the opportunism of an American runner, a 28-year-old veteran named Brandon McNulty who came to Europe from Phoenix, in the Arizona desert from which the nightmare of Psycho emerged, to conquer the Etna volcano seven years ago in the Giro de Sicily. He then worked for Pogacar in the UAE, won the Indurain GP in Estella with a similar move and raised his winning arms for the first time at the same finish line on Montreal Park Avenue, a wide and steep straight, 600 meters of triumphant walk. It was last year, at the end of the Montreal GP, a victory that his Slovenian boss gave him, always generous with those who help him.
He won the World Cup alone, like the great champions, after the most intelligent and measured action of a runaway World Cup. An attack 33 kilometers from the finish line, 240 kilometers after starting, almost six hours, two and a half laps around the circuit, taking advantage of a break for the biggest teams, who needed to catch their breath after dozens of battles, blows and fights. He will wear rainbows for a year, the favorite colors of his Pogacar, but no one will be able to say that his victory, celebrated with his fist raised, with the discretion and sobriety of the greats, was a gift.
In the sprint for second place, another great opportunist, the very veteran and wise Australian Michael Matthews, a close friend of Pogacar, with whom he trains in Monaco, surpassed Van der Poel, the cyclist whose greatness and ambition made the race explode, and in the explosion he also died.
The beginning of the great battle is a Sunday party next to Mount Saint Hilaire, a profile of the Little Prince's boa or hat, a miniature and misty sort of Mount Sainte Victoire and the harsh sun of the impressionist Cézanne, a forest that begins to turn red and a flight of 16 from 15 different countries, a Benetton advertisement, so many colors of the world united, the pink of the Bermuda jersey, those of Mauritius, Cyprus, Eritrea and even Panama, a hymn to Canadian multiculturalism, Quebec, a welcoming land for the disinherited of the earth, for those persecuted by the wars of empires, and so many different flags in the crowds that fill the roads towards Mont Royal, the sacred mountain of cycling.
They can be counted and distinguished by Alejandro Valverde, the Spanish coach sitting in the passenger seat of the car his brother drives while philosophizing about the race. Del Toro's Mexicans look ahead and Valverde warns, "we have to go ahead so that the car doesn't get away from us." You can hear him on TV. His runners in the peloton don't hear him, they stay behind, eating whips.
Pogacar is not there, injured in the Vuelta who could not win the sun around which the last three years everyone in all the races revolved. It's not worth waiting. You have to imagine, build the career. Everyone has to think. Act. Land of inspiration and daring. We talk about Van der Poel. From Del Toro. From Sixas. From Evenepoel. The democracy of the platoon in the most open World Cup. Of Ayuso's hardness and sacrifice, overwhelmed.
The global escape reaches a maximum of eight minutes that come to nothing when Thomas Voeckler, the French coach, calls his admiral Armirail to the car – there are no earpieces: the World Cup is old cycling, without commercial brands, at least officially, communication by voices, primary tactical games to break the fragile balance, and only the speed and technology of the atomic bikes remind us that they are racing in 2026, even with vintage clothes – and orders him to take command of the peloton as soon as The first of the 12 laps of the 13-kilometer circuit that made Eddy Merckx champion in 1974 and the best young Spaniards—Alejandra Neira, Benjamín Noval—begins the week that ends. It's not so much about catching the flashy escapee but about tiring Van der Poel, the least climber of the favorites, making him climb the three slopes of the circuit without respite, without rest. Camillien Houde, the polytechnic, Pagnuelo. A carousel that makes Seixas, the French climber, smile and applaud Evenepoel, the impulsive young Belgian who calculates that his main rival, his compatriot Van Aert, will also suffer from the imposing pace of Armirail – just over 18 minutes per round, at 42 per hour –, his partner on the Visma.
False hopes.
When Armirail gets tired (four laps, 54 kilometers, pulling the cart without looking back), Jegat replaces him on the offensive and Mas dies. There are eight laps, 100 kilometers left and the Majorcan, the Spanish team's bottom man, drops off and with a gesture of exhaustion and disappointment the winner of the Vuelta, radiant in red three weeks ago, takes off his gloves. All the weight and power for Juan Ayuso.
Only then did Van der Poel enter the scene, encouraged by his class, his love of great spectacle, his desire to repeat a sunny afternoon on the other side of the Atlantic, his heroics from the rainy World Cup in Glasgow three years ago. It moves a little and is an alarm clock that wakes the lazy from their dreams, and refutes the efforts of Voeckler's France.
Didn't you want toughness and speed? Take. It is the message of Van der Poel, who moves happily with his Irish friend Ben Healy, exhibiting freshness and watts, a devouring mouth. There are still 90 kilometers left. A company tailored to Poulidor's grandson, who, in a way, wants to avenge his grandfather, defeated by Merckx.
And his breath inspires Van Aert, his brother by force, his shadow always. They go with Onley, a Scot. And Roglic. Simmons. Charmig. The slogans are forgotten, the team game too. Del Toro and Seixas watch each other and hit each other. They run in fits and starts, guided by inspiration and fear. No one expected that victory would begin to be played almost 100 kilometers away and on a terrain typical of a breakaway day in the Tour. Hard but not tremendous. Without the walls of Flanders or the mountains of Liège. Without the mountains of the Alps where Seixas and the best climbers salivate.
Alliances impossible. Pride and determination prevail. Van Aert's apparent sacrifice for Evenepoel, whose mood dances between the edge of despair, rage, sudden euphoria that burns out in a cloud of smoke. They kill each other. From Toro to Remco, a memory of the Tour; Seixas is devastated by the cramps of the sixth hour. It is the race of the most boisterous. From the atomic Pidcock, from the imp Healy.
The last lap, everyone behind McNulty, is that of melancholic farewells. One last attack, like a trumpet solo at the end of a jazz concert, by Van der Poel. A sad and lonely lament from Seixas. And the exaltation of the good cyclist. Of Brandon McNulty, his old, pockmarked face, his mustache. And touch the glory.
