The sun is a vengeful orb. The road is made of melting treacle. Your jersey is glued to your spine, your bidon is the temperature of miso soup, and your Garmin says it’s 37°C but your soul says closer to the surface of Mercury.
It begins with a text in the group chat. “Heading out at 7am tomorrow. Long one, steady pace, maybe a coffee stop.” You read it while horizontal, half-submerged in a puddle of your own August-induced lethargy, and instinctively type the sacred two-word spell.
Pro cycling is fast, brutal, and full of spectacle. For the fans, it’s thrilling. For the riders, it’s often just pain, pressure, and a thousand different ways to lose. Every stage is a test of endurance, but also ego. And when exhaustion meets pride, it…
Let’s be honest: every cyclist – yes, including you, me, and Dave from accounting with his squeaky hybrid – secretly thinks they’d win the Tour de France.
