Horned on the Scales, Giulio Pellizzari takes his leave from dreams of glory and heads towards a second Giro, completely different, the usual one, a Giro of chasing, of comeback, of redemption, but not from the pink jersey, as too many had recklessly thought, with Vinge in the vicinity.

Our other Giulio, the valiant Ciccone, more disgraced than honored, nonetheless proves to be the best we have left, despite the openly declared divorce he has just concluded with his team, all faithfully lined up for the hard-working-regularist Gee (regular in the back).

As for Vinge, nothing to declare: another good training session, without effort and without excess, with the clear sensation that it's also a damned fun game, because when do you ever get to win a Grand Tour (third of his personal collection) without ever reaching the threshold of fatigue.

In all this, I must seize the unmissable opportunity to dedicate the rest of the space to a pink jersey that I culpably neglected for days, him and his valiant team. Of course yes, the petrodollars of the Emirati UAE don't suffice for me, I also cash in fairly from the Bahrain sheikh and let me get to the point: laughing and joking, Mr. Afonso Eulalio continues his journey in pink, one day after another, in the general conviction that it's always the last. Obviously he has on his side the most powerful and reliable of allies, precisely that Vinge who is very keen to leave it to him as much as possible (even on the Corno – the phenomenon confesses – he was forced to move only by Gall's attack). But net of astrological combinations, Mr. Eulalio is honoring his jersey in the most passionate and most noble way, defending it tooth and nail every single day, each day one more day, against the predictions that always consider him the last. It's tomorrow's pink jersey: tomorrow he loses it, sure, tomorrow. Every day tomorrow. And this time there's no tomorrow, because it will be a rest day, it could even be the day after tomorrow, in the time trial in Versilia, where Vinge will necessarily put his engine in gear to bank the Giro.

When they ask him if this dream can continue for long, with that 24-carat smile of his, a childlike smile that lifts the environment all by itself from the vaguely Lenten mood of this caravan, Mr. Eulalio goes from smiling to laughing: "You can dream, dreaming is beautiful, but let's not overdo it. The truth is that I don't know who I am, how much I'm worth, where I can get to. I don't know my limits. And neither does the team. Let's say we're moving forward one day at a time discovering the real Eulalio...".

The words of the true sage of this group echo in our ears, Damiano Caruso, his guardian, advisor, mentor (they even have a bet going: if Mr. Eulalio wins two stages, Mr. Damiano races another year), words from the eve: "Watch out, among the surprises of this Giro I would put Eulalio. You'll tell me if I'm right". Spot on.

With such a broody hen to nurture him, with a team manager as sharp as Pellizotti in the car, Mr. Eulalio has already marked this Giro and has already collected more than anyone could have predicted. Day by day, each day more, each day better. Culpably, I say again, I put myself among those who haven't celebrated him as he deserves. Him and Bahrain. I'm here to sincerely apologize, hoping to make amends in time. And with this self-flagellation, I also cash in from them. I'm swimming in petrodollars.