Even dawn and sunset are monotonous: always the same, with a few more or less nuances, but always the same. Yet every time it seems like the first time and the spectacle never gets old. Giotto's frescoes are monotonous, standing still and unchanged for seven centuries, yet they still stun as if it were always the first time. Battisti's songs are always the same, but even today they sound like they were just released yesterday.

There is monotony and monotony. There is the gray and mediocre monotony of low-level things, but then there is the indescribable monotony of the extraordinary. However, one must understand when faced with the exceptional. Perhaps it's even possible not to appreciate it so much, everyone has their respectable tastes, for a thousand reasons: but one must understand it. One cannot remain indifferent, it is culpable not to even notice the differences.

Certainly, there is an undeniable monotony in five Lombardia wins, five in a row, five out of five Lombardia participated. There is an evident monotony in the ways, the whole world knows that Pogacar will attack on the Ganda, in fact, the entire audience that understands comes prepared, punctual for the appointment, and indeed Pogacar follows the script, embroidering the memorable quintet in solitude.

But let's tell it all: this 2025 is terribly monotonous, Teddy's perfect year, opened with Strade Bianche, continued with the Monuments, passing through Tour and World Championship, European included, to end here in Bergamo, in the most beautiful, most complete, most sincere race in the world. It is no coincidence that right here Teddy expresses the record of records: five consecutive wins in five participations. Because the theater is perfect for the perfect rider, unbeatable on all terrains, in all seasons of the year. He lost Milan-Sanremo by missing a sprint, lost Paris-Roubaix by missing a turn, of course, one can't say if he would have won those too, but it really matters little: even these mistakes, these missteps, make perfection. They add that fragment of vulnerability that completes the mosaic of the perfect year, where losing is still arriving straight on the podium.

But 2025 also has a beginning and an end. The year of perfect monotony closes already preparing for the next season's expectations of counter-proofs and defeats. At the moment, however, one must come to terms with it and must keep this film: we are deeply immersed in Pogacar's epic. We are in front of the total champion, when he's there, one races for second place (ring Evenepoel, also a monotonous sparring partner). How distant seem the times when I dared to compare Pogacar to Merckx, not for the numbers but for the ways, ending up stoned by insults, like someone blaspheming in church. Time is a gentleman, we all used to say, especially those on the ground with such comparisons, we'll talk about it later, it takes time to disturb certain names...

We'll talk about it later, but I have a feeling that later is now: Teddy is 27 years old, wins everything there is to win, never once as a cunning rider playing on millimeters and slipstreams, always going away alone like a tyrant, giving the audience exactly what they expect, without petty calculations. A way, a style, a mark that definitely make monotony. The monotony of the masterpiece.

Then there are those who find this monotony terribly boring. There is always the background chorus in Pogacar's solitary triumphs. Opinions, views, tastes. To this party that dreams and misses the cycling of balance, perhaps even at a low level, nothing remains but to wait. Panta rei, everything passes, one day Teddy's decline will also arrive, the day when he will try as always to attack without managing to break away. Of course it will arrive. He knows it first. That's why he does well not to leave anything behind. To take everything while he can. It's the rule of life: every left behind is lost. And when the dark moment arrives, no one stops to wait for you.