Hints of fall foliage in the aerial shots make it even clearer that Canada deserves a return visit even without the boost of a cycling world championship. The Quebec tourism board will have to capitalize on the legacy, because France has started to push and the breakaway's margin is destined to shrink, the race—if there weren't 156 km left to the finish—would see every form of recreation come to an end.

Chemin Voie Camillien-Houde we've come to know well, just like the climb near the University. Spectators? Even in the third row, a sign of a world championship—the second here in Montreal—blessed not by sunshine on the concluding Sunday, yet strengthened by the public embrace already experienced by the elite women the day before. Such clamor that somehow clashes with the drowsy morning atmosphere through the streets of the Mont Royal neighborhood, but we understood: it was the calm before the storm unleashed in all its fury on the banks of the St. Lawrence River.

A survey would be needed, not one about betting favorites, since we'll know soon enough. A country of diaspora par excellence, does Canada have all these communities of Mexicans, Colombians and Belgians or what? An idle question, in the certainty that flag vendors made a fortune at the World Championship, as did tent rental companies for VIPs and barrier rentals—what else is new? The whole world is the same, but the cycling world is by definition inclusive, because among the many "unknowns" in the breakaway there was the privilege of sharing the starting line with the Remcos, the Seixases, the Del Toros.

Speaking of which. The chronicle presses perhaps in the media center (the leading group thins out and two illustrious Eritreans remain, Girmay and Mulubrhan) hosted by the complex of the old and iconic Percival Molson Memorial Stadium, outside, just a few meters away, it's not yet time to check your devices to understand how things are going: especially since they pass right under your nose. If Leknessund, Mulubrhan, Meehan, Liepins, despite being in the crosshairs, are the ones who've pushed furthest ahead, it's still the French unleashing hell, when you catch a glimpse of some Italian blue in the group positions.

The regrouping thus opens a second chapter at 1 PM sharp. That strong wind pushes the Flemish flags is no surprise, maybe it's a subliminal message, perhaps a reference to the northern classics. The star Mathieu Van der Poel doesn't sit idle and tests the pulse of the company, so it's up to Bettiol to show himself, while the international broadcast lingers on Amsari, an athlete who spent a long time in the breakaway.

Observation point at 500 meters, where there's the turn toward the finish: lap after lap, the world spotlight lives on crackling phases and rituals of old (see the broom truck with its straw brooms), while the big screens show the whipping of those wanting to take a group away on the main climb, the stadium increasingly teeming with people.

"Who are you? Where do you come from? Where are you going?" Among the twelve who declare their identities there are VDP, our Pellizzari and Scaroni, Buitrago and Healy with McNulty. And Roglic. When Van der Poel and the aggressive Van Aert are involved, can anyone speak of mere tremors? It means that behind, a simple invitation to stay alert isn't enough. Beyond tactics, the alarm bell rings for illustrious and most illustrious names, the super favorite Evenepoel, Seixas, to which our Giulio Ciccone is added (there's also Piganzoli), who at this point is the man designated to race for the Italians.

At km -74 an episode unfolds: Mathieu, impressive in his attack, takes Onley and Simmons with him, signaling that from here on it will be a race of elimination. With a touch of the chaos of plans that fall apart, even though 70 km remain, try preaching caution among people thrilled by the fury of the trio and the comeback attempt animated by Remco, Seixas, McNulty, Del Toro. Easy to say and harder to do, since VDP travels with a minute's margin, not over Roglic, who leaves Van Aert and Charmig and catches up to the first group (replacing Onley).

Anything can still happen and it would seem like a junior race but it's not, after all the gap has narrowed and the dance could still begin. Sensational at the Cibali: Remco doesn't hold the pace of the chasers, actually no, counterorder here he stages a time trial, catches those ahead of him with the help of a most generous Van Aert, attempts a whip like Del Toro in the group also including Piganzoli. Three laps to go, the preponderance of racing highlights hasn't hidden and indeed exalts that strange mix of popular passion and anticipation generated by the clash between so many cycling tenors, almost as if there weren't a glaring absence. That devil of an ungainly Healy has bellicose intentions, after all a year ago in Kigali he took bronze, the news remains that a new fading of Evenepoel, caught in the third group and then resurrected again.

Giulio is still there, come on Giulio with the red helmet, just a few turns and the penultimate passage under the finish line will give a complete picture of what's happening. McNulty tries, going away on the flat, anticipating the second climb in the festival of elastic bands and changes of front behind him. Seixas, Pidcock, Ciccone, Van Der Poel, Jorgenson, Matthews, Del Toro and Buitrago could aspire to much that becomes everything, if not for Brandon from Phoenix, whose name pronounced yesterday by Gianetti now takes on a different value.

25 km to go: Del Toro pays, VDP too, the Irishman as well, a dip averted by the comeback on the seconds. The word goes to the last 12,400 meters of Mont Royal, preceded by another attack from Evenepoel. Ciccone has courage to spare and with Pidcock he tries everything, especially since trimming the gap (59" become 14") from McNulty isn't a far-fetched ambition. There's a way and a way to reach such a conclusion and today we've been witnesses to the unpredictability that takes center stage, with McNulty's final attack less than 10 km from the end. Pidcock, Jorgenson and Schmidt, while cramps put Seixas on the ropes, will race for silver, actually no, the cards are shuffled again. And here we are at the 500-meter corner, where you observe from a very special perspective the moment when the title is awarded. The American arrives in a solo parade, the final spectacle of the craziest World Championship in the world.