To an extent, we only realised what had happened when it was too late…’ WALTER GODEFROOT SAN REMO’S VIA Roma is one of those places in sport where real mystery and imagined mystique intertwine almost to the point where they become one and the same thing. Augusta National’s 12th tee has its swirling wind, Lord’s its slope, and the Via Roma its own matrix of wiles. Real or imagined, they confuse and beguile. Failing that, they provide explanations for the otherwise inexplicable, excuses for the otherwise inexcusable. It’s the strange camber, say some. No, argue others, it’s the imperceptible rise in those final 400 metres. Another popular yet preposterous theory is that this otherwise unremarkable shopping street threading east–west through San Remo is beholden to its own micro-climate. The breeze doesn’t so much blow off the Mediterranean, just two streets to the south, it doesn’t so much swirl as cast a spell. Tonight there is talk of black magic. How else can the Italians account for their 14th consecutive Milan–San Remo without a home winner, after 42 wins in the first 50 editions?
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