Drowsiness. Lots of drowsiness. An immense yawn from Biella to Champoluc, five climbs scaled uselessly, calm, regular, like a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. And thankfully this was supposed to be World War III. And thank goodness they were going to crush Del Toro. In fact, without beating around the bush, they're all playing along for him. Yates and Carapaz consume their team to find themselves alone and exhausted when it's time to settle the score. The Mexican kid, instead, plays a waiting game, keeps his loyalists close, then 7 kilometers from the finish line he's fresh and ready to respond to Carapaz's much-anticipated attack, who nonetheless deserves the Mattarella knighthood for valor for being the only one in this Giro to attack somewhere. This time, Carapaz's concrete result is helping the Kid take out Yates. Something else to note, the usual great great Caruso, turning and returning as the top Italian at almost 38 years old, a good (not exceptional) Pellizzari, plus a sign of reaction from the battered Tiberi. End of transmission, end of a stage that should have put the pink jersey in trouble but instead reveals a slow parade of veterans, more mentally tough than physically.

Right on cue, like a tax return, the usual excuse starts at the finish line: what do you expect, there's too much fatigue. Good Lord, what do I expect: you've been telling me for two and a half weeks that you're waiting for the third week to turn the world upside down, you tell me we need to save energy for the brutal finale, then we get here to be told "what do you expect, there's too much fatigue". Oh, please. Even in Champoluc, even after the most boring stage of the century, the state pundits show no embarrassment in casually turning the page, as if nothing happened, sure, the decisive stage is tomorrow, you'll see on Colle delle Finestre, clearly everyone was thinking about tomorrow today. Sweet, them: they still find the courage to spin it this way.

And fine, I want to believe it. Even after seeing dozens of Giros arrive limp and worn out, with people only good for hanging pictures on the wall, never again the pink jersey, I want to believe it. I want to think that on Colle delle Finestre and Sestriere, the Carapaz, the Yates, the Gees will send the Kid home with a series of attacks that would tear the fur off marmots lounging at altitude. I want to believe it, but I must warn that then the music is over, the lights go out, the friends leave, telling ourselves there's still tomorrow will be a bit more difficult.

Before the end of the world on Sestriere, it's necessary to highlight just a couple of last things. One: in the first of the two Savoyard stages, at least the Pink Kid proves he's not so limited in terms of endurance and long climbs, as the technical masonic lodges had guaranteed me before climbing. Two: I don't know why, but these procession-like stages trigger a deep nostalgia for the last week of a year ago, with that guy in pink capable of creating masterpieces without any classification necessity, spending and giving himself, celebrating and exalting.

Obviously, I'm sure that in the final challenge, this year's phenomena will sweep away my nostalgia in their own way, making me eat these stupid comparisons, with attacks and counterattacks. But they should do it. It's true that this is becoming the Giro of tomorrow, but after Sestriere, the tomorrows are sold out. Only faith in a miracle with papal blessings remains. Even if the impression is strong that not even His Holiness could ever revive the Giro of the exhausted.