But here’s the truth, whispered by true fans and screamed by sweaty Spanish mountains:
La Vuelta is actually better.
Yes. The Vuelta a España. The late-summer chaos machine. The third Grand Tour. The one you sort of forget about until suddenly you’re watching some guy named Juanpe solo up a goat path at 20% gradient while the commentary team yells in five languages.
Let’s break it down — because while the Tour may have the prestige, the Vuelta has the drama. And tapas. And so much heat-induced hallucination.
1. La Vuelta doesn’t care about your feelings
The Tour flirts with riders. It builds up. It teases. It gives you time to get comfortable before destroying you in the Alps.
The Vuelta?
Stage 3: surprise summit finish at 2,000 metres.
Stage 5: “Oops, all climbs.”
Rest day? More like “Active recovery, but make it unkind.”
It doesn’t ease in — it dropkicks you into the furnace and says, “Pedal, coward.”
2. Every stage feels like a coin toss
You know that feeling in the Tour when a break goes and you think, “They’ll be caught in 40km, and then Pogačar will win again”?
La Vuelta says: “Sure, the break has 11 minutes and no one’s chasing, because the GC guys are too busy attacking each other while riding sideways through a crosswind in 38°C.”
Anything. Can. Happen.
Entire GC dreams are shattered on random Tuesdays because someone misjudged a roundabout.
3.The climbs are disrespectful in a beautiful way
Alpe d’Huez? Romantic.
Col du Tourmalet? Glorious.
Angliru?
Rude.
La Vuelta’s climbs aren’t just steep. They’re personal.
We’re talking gradients that make Froome run, bikes spin backwards, and grown men weep while wearing €3,000 of carbon.
No switchbacks. No rhythm. Just pain walls with names like “Los Machucos,” “La Camperona,” and “That One Where You Question All Your Life Choices.”
4. The heat is the fourth category
The Vuelta doesn’t need Belgian rain or Alpine snow. It weaponises sunlight.
Riders don’t just battle gradients — they battle:
- Melting tarmac
- Dehydration hallucinations
- That weird moment when your gel turns into jam in your pocket
- Sunburn through your jersey
By Stage 10, half the peloton is 30% salt.
5. The chaos factor is delicious
Remember the time a fan with a giant flag accidentally took down a breakaway? Or when a random stray cow joined the race? Or when a moto blocked the Angliru?
That’s the Vuelta.
It’s reality TV on bikes. The production value is slightly shambolic. The crowd control is optimistic. But the entertainment? Chef’s kiss.
6. The GC battle is often spicier
Let’s be honest: the Tour usually has a heavy favourite. Pogačar, Vingegaard, Froome. There’s a narrative arc.
In the Vuelta?
- One week in: “He’s got it.”
- Week two: “Oh no he doesn’t.”
- Week three: “Who the hell is this guy in red??”
There are surprise leaders, implosions, and riders you’ve never heard of until suddenly they’re five minutes up and everyone’s Googling “is this guy real?”
7. The Spanish fans are unhinged in the best way
French fans? Classy. Reserved. A little scared of gendarmes.
Spanish fans? Chaotic neutral.
They’re on the barriers in flip-flops, waving frying pans, wearing capes, sprinting up 20% slopes just to scream “VAMOSSSS” an inch from someone’s face.
They’re the energy gel of spectators.
And we love them for it.
8. The Vuelta loves a plot twist
- Chris Horner winning at 41? Iconic.
- Roglič crashing out from the lead? Classic.
- Jumbo vs Jumbo in 2023? A Shakespearean play on wheels.
It’s never just “this guy wins.”
It’s “this guy wins unless a rogue dog, an untimely bonk, or his own teammate says no.”
No scriptwriter could make up the endings La Vuelta casually delivers every year.
9. It’s pure cycling, no fluff
The Tour is a global media circus, and don’t get us wrong, it’s amazing. But it also comes with drones, helicopters, suits, and sponsors who want narrative arcs.
The Vuelta?
It’s just about bikes. Riders. Heat. Mountains.
And the occasional farmer who doesn’t move his sheep in time.
No ceremonial laps. No Eiffel Tower. Just 21 days of “hope you ate enough rice, son.”
The people’s Grand Tour
La Vuelta may not be the most famous. It may not have the biggest crowds or the prettiest podium. But what it does have is chaos, heart, suffering, and unpredictability — in the purest, most glorious way. It’s the weird little brother who grew up wild and never stopped fighting. And when you find yourself screaming at the TV as someone named Jesús attacks from 11th on GC with 30km to go, in 39°C heat, with a bidon down his shorts, you’ll realise:
This is cycling.
