I was in the process of putting my five-month-old down for a nap as Tour de France riders navigated the valley between the Col de la Croisette and Plateau de Solaison on stage 15. I thought I had enough time to step away from the live feed, get my child to bed, and return before the final climb, where fireworks seemed imminent.
And then my brother texted me. So sad, he said. He’s out.
With a sleeping child in my arms, I rewound the stream, and saw it at speed: a fast corner, a wheel sliding out, a crash, a few riders down, and one rider – Jonas Vingegaard – staying down.
There is something about seeing one of the best endurance athletes alive reduced to the slim, slight figure of a 130-pound man wearing a sling beside an ambulance. You see him as human then, don’t you? I did. I saw him, barely larger than a branch stripped off a tree, blinking back tears, looking up at the sky, and stepping into a car and out of the greatest cycling race in the world. He seemed almost like a boy in that moment – fresh-faced and chasing a dream, helmet still strapped on, after crashing down the only hill in the neighborhood. I wanted to reach through the screen and tell him it would be okay, even if I wasn’t sure it would.
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