Coppi's five victories, Merckx's incursions, and the blitzes of some young prince in the rainbow jersey: a journey through the Classic of Fallen Leaves, which, amidst mushrooms and truffles, closes out the great cycling season, much like Epiphany at the end of the Christmas holidays. And from America comes a disturbing question: who is the greatest, Merckx or Pogacar?
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In cycling newsrooms and in life, a jokey saying was all the rage: Lombardy and Epiphany take all the Races / Celebrations away!
Will it be the same in 2025? Who knows? The fact is that the second weekend of October is that of the so-called Classic of the Dead Leaves, which the collective imagination has renamed "foliage" in the French style, which is more contemporary in definition, but remains identical to the modern one of the latest poets of sport narrated and in substance.
Looking around, for those who spend time outdoors in Northern Italy, it continues to be the time when mycologists welcome the transition from porcini mushrooms to truffle mushrooms and then to chanterelles, and for those who comb the Langhe of Piedmont and the hills of the Marche that overlook Umbria, it is none other than – and hopefully it will be – the time of the explosion of passion for white truffles.
From this cocktail of emotions emerges the Giro di Lombardia, which in this context we like to describe as the Lombardy of the Giro, which has survived the test of time since 1905 and which has been part of the Gazzetta dello Sport since 1907, despite those who would like it to be included in a different basket of highly reputable events.
From Giovanni Gerbi to Tadej Pogacar, all the great noni – nobles, aristocrats, bourgeois, commoners or adventurers – have managed to insert themselves into Lombardia's book, which rather than being made of gold, would be described as platinum.
In 2025, Pogacar has secured all the laurels he was aiming for (with the exception of the world time trial) and is aiming for his fifth consecutive Lombardy victory after his successes in 2021, 2022, 2023, and 2024: a streak not even achieved by the immense Fausto Coppi, who, after his poker of consecutive victories from 1946 to 1949, had to wait five years before achieving his fifth.
Pogacar will eventually draw the wild cards that immortalized Fausto Coppi, Eddy Merckx, and, in France, the very yellow Jacques Anquetil, Bernard Hinault, and Miguel Indurain. And perhaps he'll reach the legend of Alfredo Binda, who remains the only rider to have been paid the entire prize money to avoid competing in a Giro d'Italia, which he would have won anyway: or rather, "killed" in terms of competitiveness.
Statistics aside, Lombardy generally anoints the master of the season now drawing to a close. Milan was its capital before its sad wanderings into the satellite provinces and even sliding to the outskirts of Monza, in a very sad period for the Rosea organizations, only to then surrender to Como and Bergamo in an alternation of affections due more to the interests of private entrepreneurs than to the vision of the masters of the steam and the politicians of the public administration who accompany them.
So much so that the ancillary events of the worthy Lombardy, such as the Granfondo of the same name but anchored in the timeless figure of Felice Gimondi, are decidedly less exciting than their counterparts in other races in Italy's richest and most industrious region. The Tre Valli Varesine, for example, rests less on its laurels and, year after year, proves more versatile and enterprising in finding new ways to enrich the tree of cycling. The two thousand registered for the Granfondo Lombardia, confined to Cantù, in the province, are far fewer than the 3.500 registered for the Tre Valli, despite the dangers of past editions.
In 2005, for example, we published a book on the centenary of the Lombardia club for RCS Sport. Twenty years have passed and nothing has happened. Is it just a lack of sensitivity?
We're left with the most poignant memories of the tales of the 32 eggs Alfredo Binda swallowed before the start (just yolks? just whites? Oh, to know), of Eddy Merckx's blitzes, of the occasional slipstream from the bikes of the Italian prince of the moment (whether he's wearing the rainbow jersey or not, it matters little). The rest can remain dormant until we decide to lift the lid of secrecy, which sometimes borders on the silence of a sport that has much to say and little (nowadays) to hide.
Pogacar has confirmed his position as King of the movement, and his team has dominated the scene with such authority—but authority is another thing entirely—that it seems disarming. When he opens the throttle, there's no one to match. These thoughts swirl around in his mind when they're interrupted by the phone ringing. From across the Atlantic, a question comes in: who would you choose between Merckx and Pogacar? On television, at a reasonably late time compared to the live broadcast on Rai, the caller recounts watching Pogacar dominate the Tre Valli and arriving at the finish line so fresh-faced he would be the envy of champions of any era.
“A sports doctor who is well versed in cycling,” explains Eugenio Colombo, who “emigrated” to Florida and is world-renowned as a scientist of equine morphology and is considered the #1 horse breeder, “tells me that the physical values recorded by the Slovenian boy are ten times better than those of a normal man… You, Angelo, who would you choose between Merckx and Pogacar?” is the treacherous question.
"Merckx," I reply. "And one day I'll tell you why." I leave breathless the man who exported Tony Bin's values and Varenne's charm to the world, and who collaborates with Arabian sheiks and American and Japanese breeders who annually enrich their home showcases with trophies and their bank accounts with heavy dollars.
That day will come soon.
In the meantime, we suggest a trip to the Langhe while we carefully observe Pogacar's latest foray onto Italian roads. Who can resist him from Como to Bergamo? And who knows? If we were in Malta, we'd take a stroll through Birgu to enjoy that popular festival, which never disappoints. Since we're just passing through Italy, we're heading for the Lombardia on Saturday, October 11th, sadly watching the Ghisallo climb foolishly placed in the first hour of the race rather than the final stretch of the competition: a bit like placing the Cima Coppi of the Giro in the first of the three weeks of Italy's most important race.
I don't know. Go figure.
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