The air was thick with exhaustion and disbelief as the peloton approached the final climb. The UAE Team Emirates riders were silent, their eyes fixed on one man—Tadej Pogacar.
Tim Wellens would later admit that what happened next changed how he viewed cycling forever. “I’ve raced with legends,” he said, “but I’ve never seen anything like this.”
That day, during the final 15 kilometers of the Dauphiné stage, Pogacar’s chain slipped mid-climb. For a brief moment, the team thought their leader’s hopes were over. But he didn’t stop.
Instead, Pogacar dismounted, fixed his chain with his bare hands, and—without waiting for mechanical support—leapt back on the bike. He attacked the climb as if possessed by fire.
Wellens, just meters behind, remembered the disbelief in everyone’s eyes. “He was bleeding from his knuckles, his gloves torn, but his expression didn’t change. He just kept going.”
Within minutes, Pogacar not only rejoined the breakaway but overtook them—one by one. The crowd on the mountain exploded, chanting his name as if witnessing something divine.
The radios in the UAE team car crackled with tension. “Hold position! Hold position!” the director shouted. But Pogacar ignored the command, his voice steady: “I feel fine. Let me race.”
Tim Wellens admitted he almost cried when he heard that. “That wasn’t arrogance,” he said softly. “It was pure instinct. He races not for glory—but for love of pain.”
By the summit, Pogacar had gained thirty seconds on the entire pack. The team followed in stunned silence, no words exchanged—just awe. The Slovenian crossed the line alone.
“He didn’t raise his arms. He didn’t scream,” Wellens recounted. “He just looked back, nodded once, and whispered something I’ll never forget: ‘That’s for the boys.’”
Later, when the footage spread across social media, fans around the world called it “the moment Pogacar became immortal.” Even his rivals messaged congratulations, calling the feat “superhuman.”
But inside the UAE camp, there was something deeper than pride—humility. “We weren’t just teammates that day,” said Wellens. “We became witnesses to something extraordinary.”
During the cooldown, Pogacar walked to the mechanics’ tent, his hands still bloodied. He thanked every staff member, from the bus driver to the masseuse, before sitting silently on the curb.
“He didn’t talk about the win,” Wellens said. “He asked if everyone was okay, if we had eaten, if the bikes were fine. That’s when I realized who he really is.”
For Wellens, a decade-long veteran of the pro peloton, that small gesture meant more than trophies. “The heart he has—that’s worth more than any yellow jersey,” he said.
The following morning, as journalists swarmed the team, Pogacar kept his usual calm. “It was just a ride,” he told them, smiling faintly. “Everyone hurts the same. I just kept going.”
Behind him, the UAE riders exchanged glances. They knew it wasn’t “just a ride.” It was a glimpse into the mindset of a man built from willpower and grit.
Tim Wellens later revealed that the moment reshaped the team’s chemistry. “From that day on, we didn’t ride for contracts or rankings. We rode because Pogacar reminded us why we began.”
Analysts said his performance defied logic, while sports scientists scrambled to explain his recovery rate. “You can’t measure heartbeats like his,” one physiologist said. “You can only feel them.”
Even rival teams acknowledged the magic. “He’s terrifying because he never breaks,” one rider admitted. “But off the bike, he’s the first to smile and shake your hand.”
As night fell over the camp, Wellens sat beside Pogacar by the bus. Neither spoke for several minutes. Then Pogacar turned and said quietly, “Tomorrow, we do it together.”
That simple line echoed louder than any anthem. For Tim Wellens, it was the day he realized why the world calls Pogacar not just a champion—but a phenomenon born once in a generation.
And as the season rolled on, every time Wellens clipped into his pedals, he remembered that climb—the blood, the silence, and the moment the whole UAE Team fell in love with cycling again.
