“If I had time to train…”

This is the universal mantra. If we just didn’t have full-time jobs, kids, dogs, mortgages, creaky knees, or an insatiable need to watch Netflix every night – we’d be right up there with Pogačar.

I mean, I personally train hard – two Zwift sessions a week, a Sunday café ride, and regular strength workouts consisting of carrying shopping bags up the stairs. Surely that’s enough to conquer the Alps?

And let’s not forget the ultimate justification: “I just don’t have the time to recover properly, otherwise I’d smash it.” Yes, Dave. Sleep is the only thing standing between you and yellow.

Crushing that local segment

Every cyclist has that one segment they absolutely obliterate. It might only be 200 metres long and have a howling tailwind, but it’s THEIR moment of glory.

Last week, I KOM’d a flat segment near Lidl at 45km/h while drafting a recycling truck. Felt unstoppable. Tour de France mountains? Pfft. Same thing, just longer… right?

And let’s be real, every group ride ends with someone sprinting for an imaginary line yelling, “AND HE TAKES THE STAGE WIN ON THE CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES!” We’ve all done it. Some of us twice in the same ride.

Watching every stage makes us pros

We’ve all sat on the sofa in bib shorts, eating spaghetti straight from the pan, watching Eurosport commentators dissect watts per kilo and thinking, “Yeah, I could totally do that.” After all, tactical knowledge is half the battle. The other half – the fitness – is just details.

Plus, we know exactly when to attack. Usually right after the bakery stop when everyone else is digesting almond croissants. Pure strategy.

The bike is worth more than the car

It’s science: the lighter the wallet, the faster the bike. Between the carbon frame, Di2, and aero wheels, our bikes are basically pro-level. Sure, the engine (legs) might wheeze uphill like an asthmatic goat, but at least we look Tour-ready in photos.

And let’s not ignore the moral boost from £200 shoes and a matching helmet. Marginal gains, right?

We can suffer… briefly

The Tour is about suffering, and we’re experts. Just last Sunday I held 300 watts for 10 minutes before seeing stars and dry-heaving into a hedge. Multiply that by 40 and I’m basically Demi Vollering. That’s how maths works, right?

Besides, pain is just weakness leaving the body. Or in my case, it’s last night’s pizza leaving my stomach at the roadside mid-interval.

Because dreams are free

At the end of the day, we’re all the same: lycra-clad dreamers, believing that with just a bit more training, a few gels, and the perfect marginal gains, we’d be on that Paris podium, spraying champagne and waving to adoring fans.

Until UAE Team Emirates calls, I’ll keep wearing yellow socks for morale, chasing Strava segments behind buses, and telling anyone who’ll listen:

“Honestly mate, if I went full gas, I’d drop Pogačar. Easy.”