The Strange Case of Tadej Pogacar and the French Cycling Crowd: Why Winning Isn’t Everything
There’s a peculiar paradox in sports: the more you win, the less you’re loved. Tadej Pogacar, the Slovenian phenom dominating the Tour de France, is discovering this the hard way. While his performances are masterclasses in tactical brilliance and physical dominance, the French crowds’ lukewarm reception—or outright hostility—reveals a cultural quirk that’s baffled outsiders for decades. It’s not just about jealousy or nationalism. It’s about a deeply ingrained narrative in French cycling lore: the cult of the noble loser.
The MJPP Principle: When Losing Becomes a National Identity
Let’s dissect this with what I call the MJPP principle—Mythical Jacques vs. Pathetic PouPou. Jacques Anquetil, the cold, calculating time-triallist, and Raymond Poulidor, the eternally thwarted everyman, became archetypes in the 1960s. Anquetil’s clinical victories felt sterile; Poulidor’s repeated near-misses made him a folk hero. This dichotomy isn’t just about cycling—it’s a reflection of how societies romanticize struggle. People don’t want flawless triumphs; they crave drama, vulnerability, and the bittersweet allure of almost.
What makes this fascinating is how the French psyche conflates athletic excellence with moral virtue. A dominant winner like Pogacar, who crushes rivals with robotic efficiency, feels like a disruption to this narrative. His UAE Team Emirates’ tactical ruthlessness—closing gaps, neutralizing attacks—reads as inaesthetic to fans who want to see grit, not gadgets. Even his charisma can’t offset the perception that he’s “too good,” too systematic. It’s the same backlash Michael Jordan faced in his early ’90s Pistons-destroying prime: greatness without suffering feels unearned.
The Indurain Exception: How to Win Without Annoying Anyone
Then there’s Miguel Indurain, the Spaniard who won five Tours in a row without sparking outrage. Why him? Because he apologized for winning. Indurain’s Banesto team let domestiques take stage wins while he hoarded time trials—a chessmaster’s approach that kept crowds engaged. He wasn’t just a champion; he was a curator of the sport’s drama. His unreadable poker face and team-first ethos let fans project their own narratives onto the race. In my opinion, Indurain succeeded because he understood the unspoken rule: dominance must be disguised as humility.
Compare that to Pogacar’s UAE squad, which operates like a Swiss watch—efficient, predictable, and emotionally sterile. Their playbook lacks the messy humanity that fans crave. When Thibaut Pinot launched his doomed 2023 attack, the crowd roared not because he’d win, but because he tried. It’s the same reason A-list actors campaign for Oscars: failure, when framed heroically, becomes its own kind of victory.
Doping, Suspicion, and the Moral High Ground
Post-Armstrong, the MJPP principle gained an ethical layer. Fans now demand not just entertainment, but moral purity. A winner must be clean, and more importantly, appear clean. This is Pogacar’s tightrope walk: his record is squeaky, yet his dominance invites whispers. Why? Because in a sport scarred by doping scandals, the line between suspicion and admiration is razor-thin. Alberto Contador’s clenbuterol case and Armstrong’s fall from grace taught fans to distrust perfection. Even if Pogacar is innocent, his clinical style triggers muscle memory of past frauds.
What This Means for the Future of Cycling
The bigger question is whether this French bias toward “valiant losers” will evolve. Globalization is diluting local traditions—today’s fans worldwide might prioritize excellence over aesthetics. But the Tour’s soul remains rooted in its home country. For Pogacar to win over the crowds, he might need to lose strategically: a dramatic attack here, a conceded stage there. He must become a storyteller, not just a champion.
Personally, I think this tension between dominance and drama is cycling’s greatest strength. Unlike team sports, where glory is shared, the Tour is a stage for individual narratives. And humans, for all our contradictions, will always cheer louder for the underdog—even when they’re objectively better. Pogacar’s challenge isn’t just physical; it’s existential. To become a legend, he might need to lose a little to win a lot.
