Milan-Sanremo will be regarded as the pinnacle of the Pogačar era – and why cycling’s most dominant rider still inspires devotion

I have a confession to make.

I was staying in London at the weekend to attend a few gigs, so was forced to watch both editions of Milan-Sanremo, Italian coffee etiquette-breaking latte in hand, in a selection of the capital’s fashionable cycling shops-cum-cafés (thanks very much, unreliable hotel internet connection and glitchy Discovery+ app).

But I’m glad I did. Because otherwise, if I’d stayed in my cramped Premier Inn room, shouting at my perpetually buffering laptop screen, I would not have experienced Tadej Pogačar’s potentially era-defining triumph on the Via Roma in the company of Pogi’s biggest fan.

The supporter in question – let’s call him Paulo – was perhaps the most Italian man who’s ever Italian’d in the history of Italianess. Bald, wiry, and in his 50s, Paulo was sporting a pair of trendy glasses, some very untrendy three-quarter length jeans, and a t-shirt designed to resemble the rainbow jersey of his idol.

Paulo, as anyone within a half-mile radius soon learned, was a die-hard Pogačar tifoso. In fact, the final dramatic 40km of La Primavera seriously put him through the wringer. I’ve seen the video of the UAE sports directors in the team car – they were nothing compared to Paulo.

When the world champion crashed on the run-in to the Cipressa, his shorts and his race plan in tatters, Paulo unleashed a horrified yelp and slammed his fist into the table, to a chorus of jangling cups and saucers. During Pogačar and his team’s chase back to the peloton, an anxious, fretting Paulo proceeded to hunker down in front of the television, jeans straining, muttering prayers to the cycling gods.

When he swiftly regained contact and began working his way through the bunch, Paulo responded by blowing at least a dozen kisses in the direction of the four-time Tour de France winner’s exposed backside. And when that devastating explosion rocked the Cipressa, the shouting began in earnest.

‘Yes, Tadej, yes! King! King!’

Van der Poel’s implosion on the Poggio, the Dutchman punctured and bleeding after being hit by a flying bike, sparked another round of kisses, one planted straight on the communal television (the traces of that smacker still evident when the time came to switch channels).

By the time Pogačar and Pidcock dove past the greenhouses into Sanremo, the vast majority of the café’s punters may well have been silently willing the Yorkshireman to upset the odds – not that we would have broached that particular matter with Paulo, of course.

As Tom and Tadej lunged at the line, the scene in our café mimicked that of the Via Roma. Silence, then an eruption. King Pogi was crowned. And Paulo was very pleased.

Over the last few years, it’s fair to say, the cycling world (or at least part of it) has become somewhat jaded with the Pogačar era. Whatever way you want to frame it, it’s boring to watch the pre-race favourite saunter off into the distance with two hours remaining. We know we’re watching historic, epic feats, but let’s be honest, we could do with a little excitement and suspense from time to time.

Which is why the 2026 edition of Milan-Sanremo – and the emotional turmoil and ecstasy experienced by Paulo as he watched on from London – served as an acute reminder of what makes Pogačar so great, probably the greatest we’ve ever seen.

I didn’t ask him, but I’m not sure Paulo would have much time for the ‘boring’ accusations thrown his hero’s way. Not on Saturday, anyway.

After celebrating his first Primavera triumph – and the 11^th Monument of his career – the Slovenian superstar hinted that he may never return to Sanremo, except to sample the city’s focaccia.

I’m not surprised. This race, more than any other, became something of a fixation for Pogačar, an unsolvable problem, a quasi-religious crusade, as Daniel Friebe noted at the weekend, one that dominated his winters and cast a shadow over his spring.

When winning everything else began to appear second nature, Sanremo – and its nuanced, tactical, unknowable character – continued to elude him, flitting cheekily in the breeze, despite the very best efforts of the very best rider we’ve ever seen. It almost did once again on Saturday.

That time-stopping, Paulo-horrifying crash seemed – for 15 minutes or so, anyway – to represent the latest chapter in the ongoing saga of ‘Why Tadej Pogačar can’t win Milan-Sanremo’. Bad luck, Tadej, it’s just not your day. Again.

Instead, Saturday’s race could well prove the pinnacle of this era-defining cyclist’s career. The sudden, electrifying jolt of La Planche des Belles Filles (terrifying, just five-and-a-half years ago) marked the start of it all. The unyielding dominance of his 2024 campaign cemented his status as the greatest male rider of the last 50 years.

But the 2026 Milan-Sanremo showcased what Tadej Pogačar can really do on a bike. The resilience in the face of adversity, the astonishing, unfathomable talent, the desire to win a race that seemed unwinnable.

Let’s face it, he’ll probably go on to win every other monument this year, then the Tour, then the worlds, and by Lombardy, we’ll all be decrying another Pogi rout, yawning loudly at the ruinous inevitability of it all.

But when that time comes, I’ll be thinking about that tattered rainbow jersey, those painful cuts, and that roar of pent-up relief on the Via Roma. Oh, and the sight of an exuberant Italian man kissing a television in a shop in central London.

‘Yes, Tadej, king!’