Julien Vermote sat in silence before the cameras, his voice trembling as he spoke. “I’m dying slowly on the bike,” he said. “No one wants riders like me anymore.”
Fifteen seasons of dedication, sweat, and sacrifice—all suddenly meaningless in a sport obsessed with youth. The Belgian veteran’s words cut through cycling’s polished façade like a blade.
Once a loyal domestique for world champions, Vermote was known for his selflessness. Yet now, as the peloton moves faster, his phone stays silent. No team calls, no contracts offered.
In the interview, he confessed nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if his career had already ended without anyone saying goodbye. “That’s the cruelest part,” he whispered.
His wife, Elise, revealed the toll. “He’s never been this fragile,” she admitted through tears. “Julien used to come home proud. Now, he just stares at his bike like it’s a ghost.”
The cycling community was stunned. Fans flooded social media with support, recalling his unforgettable rides for Quick-Step and Dimension Data. Many demanded teams give him a final chance.
Vermote’s pain echoes a larger truth in modern cycling: the relentless chase for young prodigies. Teams pour millions into Pogacar and Remco, leaving veterans cast aside.
Friends say his decline began after repeated injuries and mental burnout. He trained harder, slept less, trying to prove he still belonged in a generation built on data.
“Every morning, I rode until my legs screamed,” Vermote said. “But when you’re not 22 anymore, effort alone doesn’t buy you time.” His voice cracked as he looked away.
The “dark secret” he revealed wasn’t about doping or scandal—but despair. He confessed he once thought of walking away quietly, disappearing without a final race or farewell.
But that night, Elise stopped him. “You’re not done,” she told him. “You’re more than a statistic. Ride because you love it, not because they say you can.”
That conversation became his turning point. He returned to training, not for contracts, but for himself. “I ride now like it’s therapy,” he said. “The road still listens when people don’t.”
Support poured in from legends like Cavendish and Gilbert. “Julien carried us when no one watched,” one tweeted. “He deserves respect—not pity.”
Cycling journalists began questioning the industry’s obsession with youth. “Have we lost humanity in pursuit of numbers?” one headline asked after Vermote’s confession went viral.
Meanwhile, rumors spread that a smaller Continental team might offer him a comeback contract—a symbolic chance to end his career on his own terms.
Elise says hope has returned to their home. “He laughs again,” she smiled. “Not because he’s back in the peloton, but because he remembered who he is.”
For Vermote, redemption isn’t about podiums anymore. “If I can inspire one young rider to never forget why we ride, that’s victory enough,” he said softly.
As Paris-Roubaix approaches, fans wonder if they’ll see him one last time. Whether or not he races again, Julien Vermote has already crossed a finish line of courage few ever reach.
In a sport driven by speed and youth, his story reminds us that true strength lies not in watts or titles—but in refusing to let the world decide when you’re finished.
