Maybe it was better this way. Sure, a victory would have been the perfect send-off, but perfection was never Thibaut Pinot’s calling card, especially here at the Tour de France. Nothing ever ran smoothly in July. Instead, each Tour seemed to bring only more friction between his hopes and fears, between his beliefs and doubts.
Pinot was blessed with the potential to win the Tour de France but doomed never to do so. Deep down, he might have suspected as much from the outset, but he never refused his burden. Time and again, he lifted himself to tilt once more at the windmill, cycling’s most relatable champion. You must go on. I can’t go on. I’ll go on.
