The real Cannibal is Slovenian, beware of imitations

On the steep roads of the Swiss Alps, Tadej Pogacar is attacked by the young, bold, and irreverent, and he enjoys putting them in their place. His transition week and whims towards Tour mode turn into six days of lessons and five victories: four stages and the overall of the Tour de Romandía.

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And naive ignorance.

“By winning four stages he equals the record of a certain Ferdi Kubler, is this something important to you?”, a Swiss journalist proud to bring to light the name of one of the greatest glories of Swiss cycling asks him after the last finish line. Pogacar doesn’t know what they’re talking about, he doesn’t know who Kubler is – the Tour of ’50, the World Championship of ’51, the Swiss brute who, crazed by amphetamines, insults himself while pedaling against Bobet on the Galibier and talks about himself in the third person: “Okay, Ventoux is not a mountain like the others, but Ferdi is not a cyclist like the others,” he says before catching the biggest bonk remembered after attacking on the bare mountain of Provence, but good manners force him to answer: “Every victory is important, so yes, of course it’s important to win and finish the team’s work.”

Four of the six stages and the overall of Romandía, one of the races he hadn’t even raced yet. Seven years and two months as a professional and 117 victories, averaging one every three days with a race number. Eleven days of competition in 2026, nine victories (82%): three Monuments, one great classic (Strade Bianche) and a mountainous stage race; and second in Paris-Roubaix. A gourmet calendar that he enjoys with vice, almost gluttony. The real Cannibal is Slovenian. Beware of imitations. Eddy Merckx may one day become like him.

Pogacar is at the peak of his art at 27 years old. He arrives in Geneva and its lake, the heart of Romandía, two days after winning Liège, carrying two extra kilos, the weight of muscle mass, quadriceps, glutes, which has allowed him to bounce off the asphalt of the Via Aurelia in San Remo and come out unscathed, then sprint against little Pidcock, and win and break the record of the climb to La Redoute. His muscular sprint was only useless in the Roubaix velodrome, against Van Aert chosen by fate and illuminated by faith.

He is the cyclist’s balance: he has gained weight and is more of a sprinter and explosive on short climbs, and on the third day he takes the lead of the peloton for the last seven kilometers, and from there controls all attack attempts. He jumps on anyone who moves and stops them like a magnificent stopper. And in the last 200 meters he launches the sprint, like a magnificent scorer, and no one beats him. “Uffff,” his coach says in front of the TV. “This is incredible.”

The two kilos of speed and classics weigh too much on long climbs, but they don’t stop him. He no longer enjoys the solitude of champions when he wants, but neither can anyone beat him. On the second day, the nine kilometers at 9% of Ovronnaz, Lenny Martínez, Jorgen Nordhagen, and Florian Lipowitz stick to his wheel, whom he affectionately calls the youngsters. They are his little brothers as Paul Seixas was in Liège. Passed on the descent, on the flat towards the finish, headwind, they enthusiastically take turns with him, colleagues on the same excursion (all, no, the reserved Lipowitz always stays on the wheel, calculated, rival), and the brave Nordhagen, who cut his teeth in O Gran Camiño against Adam Yates, even dares to launch the sprint. Pogacar easily surpasses them. “I hadn’t planned anything, but it was good to beat the youngsters,” he says at the finish. I was glad to have two young and eager guys pulling with me. They did a great job and are very strong. We managed to keep the breakaway, which was difficult being only three and one stuck to my wheel.”

On the triple pass through Jaupass on Saturday, in the queen stage, only Lipowitz holds on with his suction tactic, although he manages to shake him off by a handful of seconds after a hard effort. The youngsters learned the lesson and on Sunday, on the last climb, the very gentle Leysin from Aigle, they wanted, rebellious and fierce students, to return it. Nordhagen dared to attack and Lipowitz finally came out of the shadow. The German, third in the last Tour behind Pogacar and Vingegaard, did like the Dane: treat the Slovenian as an equal and, probably, only the malice of his teammate Primoz Roglic, who races selfishly like the old glories, prevented him from winning. Lipowitz attacked once, twice, and Pogacar responded apparently comfortably; the Slovenian counterattacked, standing on the pedals, and Lipowitz not only held him, he counterstruck. “After he attacked, when I attacked and then he counterattacked, that was really impressive,” says Pogacar. “My legs hurt a lot, I have to admit it.” The two cooperate preparing to play for the victory in the sprint when Roglic arrives from behind like a gust. Lipowitz, still tender for the big poker games, gets nervous with his teammate’s breath on his neck and launches the sprint very far, 600m from the finish. Easy task for Pogacar to surpass him. “It was horrible, endless,” confesses the Slovenian master. “But there was no turning back. I had to hold on until the end.”

Pogacar, the gourmet, will not race again until mid-June, when he debuts in the Tour of Switzerland, another one missing from his palmarès. He will enter Tour mode with altitude concentration, heat training, muscle and weight loss, digestive system training, trials to feed on lactate. He will return to keep winning against his little brothers, Seixas and Lipowitz, who learn their lessons so quickly.

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