Every Day, I Think About the 2020 UCI World Championships Men’s Road Race: Slovenian Rhapsody, Part 1.
By: Kate Wagner
Tags: Cycling, Creative Non Fiction, Sports

The Mishap at the Autodrome, Revisited

Entering the autodrome, Tadej Pogačar appears to be 15 positions from the front.

I have replayed the footage spanning the end of the Cima Gallisterna and the beginning of the autodrome countless times in an attempt to see what happens between our two protagonists at their moment of decision. The events to follow are nebulous and murky, jumbled up between careening hairpins and constantly shifting camera views. Despite this, there’s still enough there to tell a story.

First thing’s first: somewhere between the 70 kilometer mark and the 65 kilometer mark, the Slovenian duo call Alaphilippe’s bluff. They know after they enter the descent that the purpose of the French Offensive is not to launch Alaphilippe to victory but to make it look like that’s what they’re going to do. They do this to get a rise out of the peloton, to tire everyone else out with the pursuit and in some ways, this works out quite well — the peloton’s dropping riders left and right. If Alaphilippe actually appeared poised to attack solo, neither of the Slovenians would allow the charge to go ahead without them. But Alaphilippe’s doing no such thing, and as a result, Roglič and Pogačar both (albeit at different times within those five kilometers) decide to let the Belgians do the work of chasing.

Roglič in the rear.

Primož Roglič has been missing since the 67 kilometer mark. We don’t see him again until the riders enter the autodrome with 59 kilometers to go. He’s managed to fall all the way to the back of the peloton for reasons entirely unknown. One wonders whether he’s just having a bad day — a mechanical issue perhaps. Maybe his legs are simply unable to sustain the pace of the French. Regardless, he’s suspiciously far back and none of his teammates are around to help return him to the front. How could Slovenia let this happen?

58.6 kilometers to go: Jan Polanc drops back to assist Primož Roglič. The Slovenian rider 15 positions from the front long assumed to be Tadej Pogačar is no longer there as the French wind their way around a corner of the racetrack.

Tadej Pogačar signals for the team car.

57.9 kilometers to go: Tadej Pogačar pops his head out of the middle of the peloton and signals for the team car. The announcers miss this development and the camera only captures it for a split section. It appears as though the Slovenian team is having a rather tough time — one leader’s fallen behind while the other seems to need some kind of assistance, either medical or mechanical.

But this is not true.

As is often the case in cycling, what appears to be chaos is, in fact, order. Tadej Pogačar isn’t in distress. He’s dreamt up a plan — a beautiful plan, a noble plan — and he’s waited patiently for the calm flat of the autodrome to set it in motion.

Roglič makes it back somehow.

57.7 kilometers: Pogačar drops to the back of the peloton, and as it passes, one can see a team of three Slovenian riders move their way up near the front of the bunch. One of them is Primož Roglič.

57.1 kilometers: Tadej Pogačar steadies himself. The sound of rushing wheels fills his ears as the peloton absorbs him, the rushing fades as it spits him out. There’s no radio — he has no way of communicating with his teammates or the team car save for whatever sound he can force out of his big lungs.

In cycling, the number 13 is considered bad luck, and if one is assigned that number, it is tradition to pin the lables upside down on one’s jersey in order to mitigate said misfortune. As the camera shows Pogačar fall behind the group, we can see that he has not done that. He’s young, too young to be superstitious; too talented for bad luck to affect him in any major way.

Tadej Pogačar pockets his bottle.

Pogačar’s behind the team car. It’s clear they are not expecting him, but no matter. He reaches down and puts his water bottle in the back pocket of his jersey. He’ll need it for later, and he wants to make sure he doesn’t forget it in the chaos of what’s ahead. He pedals back up to the car, gestures at it.

56.8 kilometers: The announcers suspect Pogačar’s had a mechanical issue. In reality, Tadej’s bike is perfectly fine — it’s just not the one he wants, not the one he needs right now. It’s too heavy, and if he’s going to fly, his wings have to weigh as little as possible.

It’s now or never. If Tadej wants a lighter bike, the only opportunity he has to get one is at the autodrome. It’s the one truly flat part of the course, and he’ll need to build up as much speed as possible to make it back to the rear of the peloton. The width of the track makes it easier to pass the team cars. It spreads out the group, which relaxes a little bit because they know that the most punishing climbs are ahead of them, the racetrack their sole chance for respite.

Pogačar’s bike change.

It happens so fast. The car stops, and a man gets out. Pogačar quickly but carefully abandons his bike in the grass as the man unlatches another bike off the roof of the sedan. He hands it to Tadej who leaps into the saddle and in one fluid, continuous motion, launches himself.

Pogačar picks up speed, hurtles forward faster and faster, weaving in and out of the cars, and within a minute he can see the mass of bright colors fanning out across the road. With ease and grace, he passes by the neutralized car of the race commisaires, and, looking as though he’d expended no effort whatsoever, he’s back in the bunch.

Tadej Pogačar rejoins the bunch.

Anticipation

At 52 kilometers to go, blond-brown hair poking out from the slats of his helmet, Pogačar steadies himself, rests his hands on the brakehoods of his bicycle and takes a deep breath, trying to get oxygen into his lungs, slow down his heart rate, recover from the big effort he’s just had to make. None of his teammates are present to help guide him up through the ranks — they’re up there with Roglič, shielding him from the wind. It’s an indication that Pogačar is acting on his own — that the bike change has caught his comrades by surprise. He takes an energy gel and pops it in his mouth before weaving to the side of the group, careful not to get sucked into the center by any of the jolty maneuvers in front of him.

Meanwhile at the head of the pack, the Belgians set the pace, fan themselves out across the road, slowing down the tempo a bit from the hellacious sprint the French made them suffer through. It seems as though the race has finally simmered down, but while the pace relaxes, the anxiety froths beneath the surface.

Over the course of the next ten kilometers, several contenders test the patience of the Belgians. Australia sidles up to the front with Michael Matthews. Poland’s leader and 2014 World Champion Michal Kwiatkowski tries to get in position, the Dutch rider Dylan van Baarle in his wheel. Britain’s Luke Rowe brings his young compatriot Tom Pidcock to the front, but Rowe can’t sustain the pace for long and fades back into the bunch. Pidcock, without a domestique, is left in the wind, and despite an effort by Rowe to come back a few kilometers later to help his associate, the attempt is ill-fated and ultimately amounts to nothing.

The Slovenians Reassemble

At some point, the Slovenian team reassembles — whether that’s because Pogačar rode his way forward or because everyone else dropped back to help him is unclear. He settles in and has a chat with Primož Roglič.

Tadej Pogačar has a lot on his mind. He’s got a lot of decisions to make, questions to ask himself, and it is at this point in the race where all those decisions coalesce and he tells his friend what he plans to do.

A day before the World Championship Road Race, in a Zoom interview with Cycling News, Tadej Pogačar confesses that he’s still processing his feelings surrounding the Tour de France. “My head’s all over the place,” he admits. The interviewers question whether or not he and Roglič will be able to work together after what happened at the Tour, and both men insist that they ride well as teammates and there will be no problems. When asked about who would lead the Slovenian team, Pogačar does not give anything away, but he does say that Roglič winning the race would be like “a fairy tale,” a dream come true — albeit with the caveat that there would still be a lot of tough competition, and who comes out on top remains to be seen.

What Tadej means by “a fairy tale” is not that the possibility of Roglič winning is in any way fantastical — after all, the man’s one of the best cyclists in the world, second place in the Tour de France be damned. He means that Roglič winning would be the perfect ending to a great story, turning an arc of disappointment into one of redemption.

Primož Roglič is already the stuff of fairytales, the rainbow bands would simply add another chapter.

The Moment

Let’s be very clear here: Tadej Pogačar has the ability and the form to win the 2020 UCI World Championship Men’s Road Race. The course suits him, he’s already warmed up from the Tour, he has a good team around him, and if it came down to a bunch sprint, he could hold his own. He could choose to compete for the victory, and if he makes that choice, he’d be a force to be reckoned with. But by the time he meets up with Roglič at the foot of the Cima Gallisterna, Tadej Pogačar has long since made the decision not to win.

The two stay together for a while.

The two Slovenian leaders, at the front.

One can imagine Pogačar debating his plan with Roglič, insisting that it’s the right thing to do, insisting that somebody has to take the initiative at the 42 kilometer mark — besides, that’s where Anna van der Breggen launched herself in the women’s race yesterday, and nobody caught her, not even at the finish line.

“I’m going to make a break for it, Primož,” Tadej says.

“What? Why?”

“Someone’s got to wear out the Belgians. They’re shutting everything down. They’re going to grind us into dust through strength in numbers ‘til the end if something doesn’t change. My legs are good, I know I can do it.”

Primož does not want Tadej to go. It’s too early, it’s a waste, and secretly he’s worried that if he lets Tadej break away, he’ll ride away victorious and further twist the knife the boy lodged a week ago in Primož’s heart. Tadej, however, knows that his legs aren’t good enough for that. He could win if he stayed with the group, but in a solo breakaway with forty kilometers left to go? Fat chance. Still, he doesn’t tell Primož that, for the sake of both their pride.

“Why you, though, Tadej? We have domestiques for that.”

“Jesus, Rogla. Like the Belgians are going to waste their energy on some lowly Slovenian domestique. But the winner of the Tour de France…well.”

Tadej has a point, and when Primož looks around and sees none of his other teammates nearby, he realizes that Tadej Pogačar is all he’s got left. Used to commanding a powerful train of riders as the leader of Team Jumbo Visma, the current situation has Roglič feeling rather exposed. If Tadej goes, he’ll be all alone, but if Tadej succeeds in wearing out the Belgians, it would be much more helpful than the alternative of simply taking turns in the wind. Besides, if Tadej wins from a breakaway, they’re still on the same team. It would be a victory for Slovenia, their victory. With a sigh, Primož acquiesces, and though he agrees to the strategy, he remains unsure as to whose benefit Tadej’s breakaway will serve. Only Tadej knows the answer to that question.

44 kilometers to go, Roglič assumes the position ahead of Pogačar, leads him in and out of lines of weaving riders. The speed is brutal and the maneuver is difficult, but they persevere, waiting patiently for an opening. Every few seconds, Roglič looks back at his young companion, checks to see if he’s still there, not yet used to their roles as equals — as teammates for their country or as riders, as people. Their teammate, the sprinter Luka Mezgec joins them and takes over for Roglič, who’s relieved he no longer has to do the hard work of braving the wind, of dodging riders left and right while setting Tadej up. Roglič’s admittedly not a great domestique, but Mezgec is, and he makes quick work of guiding Pogačar exactly where he needs to go.

Tadej Pogačar attacks.

Roglič slinks back into the peloton, holding his breath a little, craning his neck to watch Mezgec deliver his precious cargo on time and in great condition, right at the doorstep of the Cima Gallisterna. As the wheels whoosh around him, he reflects on the gentle, strange friendship he’s shared with Tadej Pogačar, hopes that all those words of encouragement and advice have paid off, wishes that their days as mentor and protégé could last just a little longer. Tadej disappears from Roglič’s field of vision, and all Roglič can think is come on, Tadej, come on.

Part 4