THE YOUTH OF TADEJ
The first time I saw Tadej Pogacar at the grand départ in Brest; I recall how he rolled onto the stage to great fanfare, though not as great a fanfare as the Breton riders, of course. Even then, I had to remind myself that off the bike, Pogacar’s probably a normal 22-year-old kid, liking memes, spending his time in WhatsApp chats and hanging out with his girlfriend. But when he’s on a bike, he’s someone - something - else entirely.
I settled on the analogy of royalty pretty early on in my writing about him because I felt it fitted. As he stood there on a stage occupied by breakdancing French children not too long ago, his eyes peered out at all of us, his face the picture of relaxation, an easiness further cemented by the gentle slope of his shoulders, the casualness of his wave. Everyone else who had been up there held the palpable tension of preparing mentally to ride the most prestigious and arduous bike race in the world. Tadej Pogacar held himself as though he’d already won it.
The Boy Prince. That’s how I referred to him, because he was prince-like, had the confidence and innate authority of total control, external and internal, and yet, at the same time, a gentle, serene, youthful benevolence. He rules not by tyranny but by playfulness, more Machiavelli, less Ivan the Terrible. I think even then, before the race had started, I knew that Pogacar would win - that this would not be a democratic election to power but a coronation. And yet,
