We start under the sign of the second French Paul, this Magnier who will devour plenty of opponents, a huge headache for our Milan. There's also a mass crash with a miraculously light toll, in a final alley designed straight out of Dario Argento, or one of his sadistic cousins, Bulgaria forever the new frontier.

And anyway thank goodness we got started: honestly, I was beginning to suffocate from anxiety, continuing to read all these presentations-introductions, invariably marked by mourning for the disastrous conditions of Italian cycling.

Let's be clear: it's the pure truth. I wouldn't lift a finger to argue otherwise. Just browse through the various articles and it's one long festival: never so few Italians at the start (hooray, a new record), no wins since Nibali 2016, the zero persists in the top-tier teams column (Bardiani and Polti keep the light burning), we can only dream of stage wins with Ganna, Milan and I'd add Scaroni (may heaven bless and preserve them for a very long time), in the general classification we're left with only Pellizzari (and thank goodness, I say, usually we're hanging on Ciccone, who punctually confirms he's not a GC rider). On top of that, the Giro itself adds another burden, this time saved in terms of prestige and nobility only by Vingegaard's intelligent choice (always grateful) to win the third grand tour as well, a Giro however that does nothing to demand respect, just look at the lineups sent by the teams to understand that they're playing with reserves anyway.

And so on, and so on, and so on.

The truth is known: we live in a time that smells very much like Italexit. Italy's exit from the great international race. And naturally, unlike Brexit, none of us voted for it. Yet. Yet here we are and we can't tell ourselves otherwise. It all comes down to understanding whether it's a slow and unstoppable fall into hell, or whether it's a painful French-style purgatory, that is, an era of transition and reconstruction waiting for a messiah, a Seixas of ours capable alone of reviving the old body, say it's really Finn.

In the meantime, we won't make the mistake of throwing anything away. We still have the Giro and we'll enjoy the Giro anyway. We're not so ignorant as not to know that any achievement will have a relatively lighter weight anyway, because the real weight is registered at the Tour with that participation of the best of the best, even at the level of domestiques, but this shouldn't prevent us from playing the game we have. I won't bore you again with predictions that even grandmothers have in their heads by now, but yes, let's parrot along, Vingegaard without opponents, Pellizzari who at this point in his life – with these opponents – can only finish second otherwise it's a disturbing frustration for his future, the scraps entrusted to Bernal, Yates, Mas, cited more to make critical mass than for actual world-class stature, obviously leaving due space for the wise men of the situation all ready with the ecumenical formula "there can always be a surprise," sure, why not, so everything counts and they win anyway.

Let's hold onto what's left, try to see only the glass half (a quarter) full, let's stand in the way of this slow and creeping Italexit. It will still be beautiful and fun, if in the absence of the first division the second division gives it all without pause. There's a national-popular Italy that still wants and demands its May Christmas, that the young riders don't reduce the celebration to bread and onions. When there's no strength, you need imagination. Or do we want to bring Vingegaard to Rome without even messing up his hair?