It appeared to be a simple stone in the road. He had no way of avoiding it, and in an instant the red jersey was down. He sprang to his feet, scrabbled around, and then collapsed back down again. In that moment, Tadej Pogačar became human again.
If there was one defining moment of the racing year, then perhaps it is this one; the crash which ended the world champion’s Vuelta. One could also have argued a case for other outstanding moments from this year’s long and dramatic road campaign. After all, there were many to choose from: Kasia Niewiadoma Phinney’s assault of Mont Ventoux, Wout Van Aert’s impassioned victory in the velodrome of Roubaix, Demi Vollering soloing over the
line in Nice to claim her second Tour de France or Mathieu van der Poel collapsing onto the cobbles of the Champs Elysées in Paris. All these images, now filed away in our collective memory, could on their own have stood to represent a whole calendar of competition. Or, one
could instead have picked at random from Pogačar’s personal collection of triumphs which for most of his serene passage through the year he seemed to be assembling at will: on the Via Roma, finally hammering a silver nail through the heart of Sanremo, alone again in
Oudenaarde or a streak of yellow flying up Alpe d’Huez in pursuit of the impossible.
So, why choose to remember a crash? It wasn’t even, by the peculiarly cruel standards of road racing, a particularly bad one. But it was severe enough to end his season abruptly and damaging enough to fracture his aura of perfection. And because his career is the sun that sits at the centre of the cycling universe, his sudden absence, temporary and passing as it is, only a very partial eclipse, casts a strange and unfamiliar light. Everything seemed suddenly altered. Pogačar himself, and everything in his shadow.