Then there was stage six, Pagacha. I love this moment because Pagatoa, we all know him as, you know, maybe the most complete bike rider of a generation, maybe of all time. Predominantly known for his crazy climbing ability, unleashes a perfectly timed, tactically devastating sprint that the best sprinters would have been proud of. This wasn't look. This was a rider who can do seven watts plus per kilogram, choosing the exact moment to detonate the field. The sprinters didn't see it coming. Analysts were left scratching their head. This was a GC writer sending a clear message, early deliberate, and dominant. It was an inflection point and a statement of dominance to a prequel to this GC battle that would unfold over the course of the next 3 weeks. Netflix didn't show this. It's like why? And the answer to that actually quite simple because they couldn't. UAE team Emirates didn't grant them access. They asked for editorial input and Netflix said no. So, the defining rider of this tour to France erased, not by accident, by omission, by a failure to nurture the relationships needed to make this show successful before the camera ever started to roll. And when that happens, it's not just a bad documentary. It's a betrayal of the very sport they were entrusted to capture. Netflix got it wrong, so badly wrong. And I don't just mean in execution, but in philosophy. Cycling isn't like other sports. It doesn't run on conflict. It runs on code. There's no locker room trash talk. No dugout tantrums, managers kicking water bottles, no viral sideline spats. What makes cycling gripping isn't chaos, it's cooperation under extreme pressure. It's why when one teammate gives up his own stage shot to lead out another teammate, we call this beautiful. It's why when one teammate gives up his own stage shot to lead out another, we look at this and we call it beautiful. It's why echelons are so mesmerizing to look at, not because they're wild, but because they're silent, choreographed dance in the crosswinds. Netflix tried to manufacture tension between riders. But the tension in cycling, it's not personal. It's existential. It's can I hang on to this wheel for another minute at 480 watts? Can I descend 80 km an hour with full trust on the rider in front of me? They looked for a reality TV show drama, and they missed the real drama of this sport entirely. Because here's the thing, cycling doesn't have drama. It's just not a sport that fits into that kind of script. It's a sport where one puncture can destroy three weeks of strategy in a year of training buildup and undermine altitude camps. Where domestic suffer in silence to make their leader shine. Cycling's full of pain, strategy, and sacrifice and emotion. But to see it, you have to know where to look. And Netflix never learned how to look. This isn't football where fans tune in once a week, check the score, and then move on with their day. Cycling doesn't give you a highlight reel. It gives you hours of live footage. Every second is dripping with tension. Every pedal stroke is part of a larger strategy that unfolds AC across the course of 3 weeks, 3,000 km, and five mountain ranges. Cycling fans, they're fanatics. They memorize route profiles. They know the gradient of the call to Gibby. They know the wind wind patterns for the day if we're going up the call to perude. I know the different grays of cobbles from sector 1 to sector 10 across Paroo Bay. They wake up at 6:00 a.m. if they're in the wrong time zone to catch the early breakaway being established. And then they refresh mid-stage to see those realtime updates. They know the details. They're in the weeds. They track power data, hydration strategies, and they argue about marginal gains like it's a religion. They don't just watch the sport. They live the sport. They see beauty in the suffering, poetry in perfectly timed attack. They see spirituality in the sacrifice of a domestic burying himself to an absolute standstill till he can hardly turn a pedal anymore on a climb just so somebody else can win. A quick word from today's sponsor. A few years ago, I came out of my local coffee shop after a long winter spin to find my cafe lock on the ground sliced clean in half. My Pride and Joy bike, it was gone. Just like that, a small fortune in kit. And frankly, part of my identity as a cyclist, it disappeared in seconds. If you've ever had that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, even imagining your bike getting stolen, wrecked, or damaged mid travel, you know it's not just a possession.