Miracle in Milan: Norwegian Dversnes wins the flattest stage of the Giro d’Italia by breakaway | Cycling | Sports

The Giro returns to Milan, where he was born on May 13, 1909 and the giant red-haired Friulian sprinter who has only seen the rear wheel of the Frenchman Paul Magnier in the two flying previous. Miracle in Milan. The flattest and fastest stage does not end in a sprint. An escape by four disinherited people from the hopelessly broken land is the fruit of the platoon’s laziness, a miscalculation of more than 150 to whom no one tells that four on the urban plain, avenues of four kilometers, do not have two minutes subtracted just like that. There were two Polti on the run, and a Bardiani. Three Italians who are surpassed by Fredrik Lavik Dversnes, a 29-year-old Norwegian, a complete runner in the manner of the ancients – he neither climbs, nor descends, nor flats, nor sprints – who runs in Uno-X, the team of the collective game.

If Milan does not recover his morale, the Frenchman does wear again the cyclamen jersey that had been taken from him for a day

Only thirsty, unredeemed tourists brave the horrible heat of the Piazza del Duomo, not even a shadow, on a Sunday in May, 32 degrees, at four in the afternoon, so pleasant a siesta. The most active Milanese seek the shadows of the tree-lined avenues, straight like the dangerous tram tracks, to see the troubled Giro cyclists and climbers passing by, at atomic speed, almost 60 on average, and the climbers, dropping and cursing; most prefer to sit happily on the couch in front of the flat screen, snore a little, perhaps meditate. The cyclists, they, sweat, work, mess up, and some, the most curious and restless, think and get angry.

After the Padana plain and the moment of the musicologist longing for the Stradella in which they invented the accordion, the geographer recognizes in the broadcast of the race the mighty Ticino that the Giro will climb on Tuesday to its sources in the Swiss Alps on its return to the high mountains; From this river, before flowing into the Po that traces the border of the two Italys, engineers praise the Naviglio canal, which brings water and ships to Milan from Lake Maggiore.

The gregarious people almost carry so much water on each of their trips that they return to the peloton from the team car loaded with jerrycans, almost 10 each, and when Campenaerts multiplies the task, three water carrier trips in a few kilometers for the sweaty Visma kids with Vingegaard in pink, the others look at him and hesitate. Will you also carry empty drums? The doubt is legitimate. The commissioners have discovered that some cyclists urinate in cans because it is not possible on city sidewalks or to avoid being fined for doing so in the ditches, where there are always spectators. Campenaerts, the best friend of the leader of the corsaraised his hand and said, yes, that he was one of those who acted like this, but that, evidently, he did not then throw the bottle at the feet of the children happy on the road to take the jewel to their bathtub, but instead handed it to his director.

“It’s the most hygienic and safest thing,” assures the tireless Belgian who also has time to get out of the stewards’ red Citroën just at the moment when Enric Mas crashes into the fences in a chicane and points out the Mallorcan to the judges saying: do you see the danger of this urban circuit through the great avenues of Milan, the difficult asphalt, cracks, potholes in which our bikes bounce so much that the water bottles are thrown out? support? Vingegaard and Ciccone, Milan’s road captain, then convey their concerns and the judges, moved, decide that it will not make sense to scare the runners who will not compete in the sprint and establish that the times valid for the general classification will be taken when the bell rings announcing the last lap as they pass through the finish line of Corso Venezia, 16.3 kilometers from the original finish.

In their cars, some directors leaf through the profiles of the last six stages, three easy, three terrible, and subject their meninges and their hearts to the torture of Cornelian dilemmas. What to do in the face of the Visma wall that condemns us to travel the mountain routes in line and ordered like Roman legions and sends cycling back to the tedious times of Froome and his Sky? Undergo? Churn? What to do on Tuesday in the mini-stage of concentrated Swiss mountaineering (113 kilometers, four hard climbs and the end in Carí), which, according to the wise Nibali, is the most suitable for a revolt? Or on Friday in the Dolomites of Belluno, on Saturday in the double Piancavallo of Pantani, Landa and Friuli? Has the Giro finished? Do we give it new blood, life? All eyes are directed at the RedBull car, the team of the beloved Italian Giuli Pellizzari (sixth overall, at 4m 22s) and the dull Australian and already winner in pink, Jai Hindley (fifth, at 3m 43s). Who is the leader? Will they be able to sacrifice one for the slim chances of the other? Would they prefer, already defeated, to just try for both of them to finish the same but two places ahead, second and third? So far, the team has not opened its mouth. Perhaps Lavik Dversnes’ unexpected, against all logic, Milanese victory will inspire them. Monday, rest.