And they call it boring. Come on, swept away like Hurricane Mary had passed, all the tired and worn-out clichés of today. Boring Sanremo, seven useless hours, a now anachronistic race, why don't they change the route, add more climbs, sure, maybe the Colle delle Finestre and the Fedaia. And then boring Pogacar, always him, always the same, the death of uncertain and exciting cycling, how can one love such a champion...

Away, swept away all the mourning rhetoric, canceled by a stratospheric edition, which from the Cipressa onwards puts the best of the pack in front and doesn't let you breathe until the last meter. The newspapers of the past would have written: magnificent inaugural edition, in a great crowd setting, of the new cyclists' race Pavia-Sanremo, which aims to mark with its spectacle and prestige the bright future of this sport. Moving away from the Istituto Luce rhetoric, let's look at it and take it for what it is, this psychedelic Pavia-Sanremo of Generation Z. A gift from three excellent athletes, this Van Der Poel undoubtedly the undisputed lord of one-day races, this Ganna frighteningly strong and intelligent, pride and consolation of Italy, and of course, his Boring Teddy Pogacar, the obvious favorite, as obvious as his attacks on the Cipressa and Poggio, selecting riders as if it were the Tour of Flanders, but in this case with a variation that will delight his (numerous and sour) detractors: there's no saint, this time it's Teddy Po(ultry)gacar, done and dusted, in every way.

In the Sanremo of show and fireworks, perhaps this is the loudest and most colorful bang: Pogacar who first does everything to prevent Ganna's return (and that's fair), but then the Pogacar who builds a sprint like a world champion of mediocrity. Everyone can tell themselves their own story, he himself will have indisputable explanations, but freedom is magnificent because everyone can form a personal opinion. Mine is this: Pogacar throws it all away in the last kilometer, even less, with that extreme decision to leave meters to Van Der Poel, probably counting on using Ganna's slipstream for the comeback. But it's evident to everyone how naive and awkward the geometric calculation is: those meters left to Van Der Poel are too many, visibly too many, even without measuring them with a tape measure. Especially because they're left to a guy like Van Der Poel, not the last delivery boy at Saturday's meetup. Indeed, it seems unreal to him, he looks as incredulous as the Virgin of Nazareth when the Archangel appears with his particular announcement, just a moment and who sees him again. It's not a victory, it's a super-victory over two super-rivals, the heroic Ganna of ours along with the world champion of road cycling and poultry farming.

Rightly so, who makes a mistake pays, Teddy this time pays and Van Der Poel wins the strategy duel too. All this only does good to modern cycling: for one day we won't have to endure the complaints about boring Pogacar, for one day we can even enjoy the imperfection and amnesia of the new Cannibal, for one day we can go home without the annual debate about the sickening and banal Sanremo route.

Let's put it all together and anyway save in memory an unforgettable day. In the end, Teddy proves providential and decisive even when defeated. In the feathered version of the world champion.