In the wake of his Tour, Worlds and European Championship triumphs, Pogačar’s voice trembled, carrying exhaustion that even his godlike performances couldn’t hide. Glory felt hollow, shadowed by something darker gnawing inside.

He admitted the pressure had grown monstrous, creeping into his sleep, twisting every pedal stroke with invisible weight. Winning everything made losing unbearable, and the prospect terrified him more than rivals ever could.

Though hailed as cycling’s unstoppable force, Pogačar felt caged by expectations. Fans expected dominance, teams expected miracles, and nations expected history. That relentless hunger made him question what happiness truly meant.

The tears came not from weakness but overwhelming conflict. He was proud yet burdened, victorious yet wounded, adored yet misunderstood. Greatness had a cost he never imagined when he first touched a bike.

Then he spoke about the three “ghost races” haunting him: Milano-Sanremo, Paris-Roubaix, and the Vuelta. Wins he lacked, dreams unfinished, shadows attached to every achievement like echoes he couldn’t silence.

Each time he lined up for those races, he felt a strange tightness in his chest, as though destiny resisted him. They weren’t simply events; they were almost curses stitched to him.

His domination elsewhere only sharpened the sting. Fans never understood how those three races tore at him. They seemed small in the grand scheme, yet they carved deep invisible scars.

Pogačar revealed he wasn’t just chasing results; he was chasing meaning. Conquering every other race left him staring at the void of incomplete dreams, nightmares whispering he was still not enough.

The interview shifted when he mentioned a hidden family secret, the first time he spoke of it publicly. His voice lowered, trembling with vulnerability no audience had witnessed before.

He spoke of his grandfather, a forgotten local racer who crashed during Paris-Roubaix decades ago, abandoning his dream. That unfinished story lived inside the family like a quiet, painful ghost.

Milano-Sanremo also carried family weight, linked to an old promise made before his grandfather died. Pogačar felt bound to finish what previous generations couldn’t. The burden grew heavier every spring.

The Vuelta had its own story. It was the race his father admired most, a childhood memory tied to late-night television and whispered wishes. Pogačar felt destined to bring that dream home.

But destiny became pressure. Pressure became fear. Fear became obsession. And obsession began swallowing his joy, even as fans celebrated him as the greatest rider of his era.

The world applauded his power, but no one saw the emotional fractures beneath. Every victory widened them. The louder the cheers grew, the deeper the silence afterward felt.

He admitted that after Europe, he sat alone in his hotel room, medal still around his neck, wondering why the triumph felt empty. The question terrified him more than any mountain summit.

In that moment, he realized he wasn’t chasing joy anymore; he was fleeing disappointment. The missing races became ghosts of all the emotions he refused to face.

Yet as he cried during the interview, something softened. He said he still believed in rediscovering meaning, in rewriting family stories, in fighting for dreams that shaped more than palmarès.

He insisted he wasn’t quitting, despite the haunting thought. He simply wanted to remember why he started, why cycling once felt like freedom instead of weight.

The world watching him break didn’t see defeat; they saw humanity. A god touching the ground, grounding himself in truth rather than myth, became more inspiring than any of his victories.

And when the interview ended, Pogačar wiped his tears, breathed deeply, and whispered that he would ride again—not for trophies, not for pressure, but for the broken dreams he vowed to heal.