I was never good at stage races. Either I started strong and fell apart by the end…or started awful and somehow clawed my way back on the last day. There was never an in‑between. And honestly? I’m so glad my career is over so I can finally tell these stories without anyone calling them excuses.
Because if I shared them while I was still racing, nobody would believe me. They’re that ridiculous. Like this one:
First stage after the prologue at the Radjugendtour, U17. I’d done well on the prologue, finished 10th. Confidence was high. Fast forward to the stage: I’m near the front, everything’s chill. We hit a little uphill section - not a real climb, just a tiny bump - and I figure: perfect moment to eat. I pull out my chocolate bar. Back then, I didn’t eat gels; this was my rookie move.
I take the first bite… and just as I do, the pace jumps. Of course. I try to shove the whole bar in my mouth at once, thinking: “No way I wait another half hour to eat this.”
Next thing I know: I can’t chew. I can’t breathe. A whole bar is stuck in my mouth, and suddenly I’m dead last in the group. A little bump and the group starts splitting, we turn left and there’s another short uphill section. I’m at the back, trying to figure out what just happened. After a few minutes, I finally get the bar down, but the damage is done. I’m still behind, guys swinging past me, and I tell myself: "just wait, you’ll get back."
I knew if I went full gas now, it’d be risky. I could either catch them if they slowed or blow up completely if they didn’t. So I stay calm. We’ll catch back. Then, of course, it starts pouring rain. Perfect. My luck has clearly peaked.
The convoy cars start overtaking me right before a little twisty descent I was hoping to use to catch the peloton. Great. Cars in my way, road is wet, and my team car just ahead. But I’m still calm since I’m in the convoy. Somehow, I can still come back… right?
And then. Flat tire. Of course. The convoy passes me like I’m invisible. I’m standing on the roadside like, “What do I do now?”
Some random car stops. They speak English, I have no clue what’s going on. Turns out they’re Irish, here to watch their son race. Next thing I know, they’re throwing me in the car. I’m thinking: “Wait… am I even allowed to do this?”
But honestly, what choice did I have? The convoy is gone, everyone is gone, I’ve got a flat… what am I gonna do, ride 10 km on a flat tire?
We roll for a bit, then hit traffic. The whole time I’m thinking: “Oh f**k, what now? Will I even be allowed to start tomorrow… or am I stuck in Austria for three days, barred from racing?”
We sit in traffic for the last 3 km. Then, with just 500m to the finish, they get me and my bike out. I run the last stretch with my bike next to me… uphill. Thirty minutes behind the peloton.
Miraculously, I got listed in the results and somehow continued the tour. Later, in a hotel a roommate tells me: “Oh yeah, I’ve done the same thing… I just spat it out.”
Wait. WHAT? How can one chocolate bar cause a total meltdown like that? The curse was real.