And rest assured, I’ve read the blogs. I’ve read the forum posts. I’ve stared at graphs and gone down Twitter rabbit holes and buried myself in haematocrit levels and
watts per kilo up the Plateau de Beille and listened to a podcast in which Pogacar explains in frankly unwelcome levels of detail how many liquid carbs he can take on per racing hour before he has to *** himself. And fair play if this is what gets you off, if this is the level of commitment deemed necessary to be a Good Cycling Citizen.
But frankly, none of it has ever remotely interested me, and not out of an indifference to science or sporting morality but because to reduce Pogacar to a soup of numbers and chemicals is really the narrowest and most boring way of appreciating him; the most boring way of appreciating sport. Not to mention the fact that much of the cynicism relies on constructing a kind of alternative reality of his career, based on a bare minimum of hard facts and letting nudges and winks do the rest.
Perhaps the reality is that around every great athlete grow two fictions: an elegant and an inelegant version. And which we prefer, which version makes more sense to us, says something about how we process our world. Are we fated to be profane and fearful, to live in suspicion and mutual vigilance, wary of one another? Or is there still a beauty beyond corruption, a hope beyond futility, a wonder beyond cynicism, a clean break to win the world championship from 100km out? I don’t have the answers, and nor do you.
But I know what fiction I’d rather live in.