Imagine this: a cycling legend, draped in a shirt that reads 'Urksa's HAB,' standing roadside at the Tour de France Femmes, cheering on his fiancée like a groupie at a rock concert. It’s a scene that feels both absurd and oddly refreshing—a reminder that even the most dominant athletes aren’t immune to the quirks of human relationships. Tadej Pogacar, the five-time Tour de France winner, has spent years being labeled the ‘King of the Mountains,’ but at this year’s women’s grand tour, he’s playing a different role: the supportive partner, poking fun at media tropes while subtly reshaping how we talk about athletes’ relationships.
What makes this particularly fascinating is the subversive humor in Pogacar’s choice of words. The 'HAB' shirt—a playful flip of the media’s usual 'Wives and Girlfriends' labels—doesn’t just mock the idea of reducing female athletes to their male counterparts’ appendages. It’s a quiet rebellion against the way sports journalism often sidelines women by framing them through their relationships. Personally, I think this is a masterstroke. By turning the script on its head, Pogacar isn’t just making a joke; he’s forcing us to confront how deeply ingrained these gendered narratives are in sports coverage. Why do we still default to calling female cyclists ‘Pogacar’s girlfriend’ instead of Urska Zigart, the rider? It’s a question that lingers long after the laughter fades.
Zigart, recovering from a broken jaw sustained during the Tour de Suisse, was a standout at the Tour de France Femmes. Watching Pogacar cheer her on—whether in disguise or in plain sight—highlights a rare dynamic: a male star actively elevating his partner’s career without overshadowing it. This isn’t just about affection; it’s about visibility. In a sport where women’s races are often treated as side events, having a top-tier athlete like Pogacar show up as a supporter (even in a t-shirt) sends a message that these races matter. What many people don’t realize is how much symbolic weight such gestures carry. When a man of Pogacar’s stature chooses to stand beside his partner rather than above her, it’s a small but significant shift in the power dynamics of sports culture.
But let’s not romanticize this too much. Pogacar’s quips about being ‘dropped’ by Urska or the ‘difficulty’ of being her boyfriend reveal the absurdity of how relationships are framed in the public eye. The idea that a professional cyclist’s support is something to be ‘tried’ or ‘let go’ is ridiculous, yet it’s a reflection of how deeply we still conflate love with performance. This raises a deeper question: Why do we treat athletes’ personal lives as if they’re part of their competitive edge? It’s a relic of a time when sports stars were expected to be untouchable, and now we’re stuck with the awkwardness of seeing them as both competitors and partners.
Looking ahead, Pogacar’s focus on the Vuelta a España adds another layer to this story. If he wins there, he’ll complete a ‘triple crown’ of Grand Tours, a feat that would cement his legacy. But what’s fascinating is how this personal milestone intersects with his public persona. Will the media continue to frame his success through the lens of his relationship with Zigart, or will they finally start seeing him as an individual? I suspect the former will persist, but Pogacar’s antics at the Tour de France Femmes suggest he’s not one to be confined by expectations. His ability to laugh at himself—whether through a joke about being a ‘HAB’ or a playful tease about being ‘dropped’—is a reminder that even the most serious athletes have moments of levity.
In the end, this story isn’t just about Tadej Pogacar or Urska Zigart. It’s about the slow, incremental changes happening in how we talk about athletes, their relationships, and the narratives that surround them. The ‘HAB’ shirt may seem like a minor detail, but it’s a symptom of a larger shift: the growing refusal to let women be defined by their connections to men. What this really suggests is that the future of sports media—and perhaps sports itself—depends on our willingness to let athletes, and their partners, be seen on their own terms. And if that means a Slovenian cyclist in a funny shirt making us think twice about how we label people, then so be it.
