For many of us, our first bike ride happens in childhood — a proud parent by our side, leading us to a local park, steadying us with a reassuring hand as we take those first wobbly turns of the pedals, before finally letting go and sending us off on our two-wheeled journey through life. Jorge Padrones shares this heartfelt tribute to his father, whose support not only sparked his passion for cycling but also guided him far beyond it.
This is the story of a humble man who loves his family and cycling. A man who never did wrong and who always saw the positive. He taught me a great deal of what I know and what he didn’t teach me, he gave me the tools to learn myself: my father.
Cycling has been part of his life since his youth. His own father was a cyclist back in the 1950s, when people rode what we now call gravel. It wasn’t called that then, nor did anyone know it would one day be fashionable. As a young man, he rode his bike to work, flying through his hometown of Valladolid in just a few minutes so he could train with his cycling friends after work - friends who stayed with him his whole life.
It was a passion he knew how to pass on to his family - even to his wife, who, despite being taught by an Olympic cyclist, could barely pedal, yet knew all the races and every rider. He instilled cycling in us from a young age - not just as a sport, but as a way of life and as the foundation of life’s values: effort, teamwork, loyalty. He taught me how to ride a bike when other children my age could barely stand. He encouraged me to race for the first time at just four years old, laying the foundations of what would later become my passion and would give me a wide range of values and tools for everyday life.
No one ever had a bike as spotless as his - carefully cleaned every afternoon, with equipment chosen with care, from another era: Campagnolo Super Record. He was proud to push a 54x12 gear, to ride 180 mm cranks and to enjoy group rides with friends. That shared passion gave me the chance to spend countless hours with my father - on the bike and off it - watching cycling, discussing races, analysing them. He was always at the finish line waiting for me, helping me prepare everything and training with me. I will always wonder whether he let me win the sprints when I was little and we rode together.
He taught me sacrifice, effort, hard work, discipline and joy - on and off the bike - as the pillars of a life. Like that afternoon when I thought he was still holding onto my saddle, but in reality, he had already let go and I was pedalling on my own. That’s what he always did: support me, then let me fly as far as I wanted. He taught me not to get dropped, to catch the right breakaway, to know when to give everything, to know how to position myself - not just on the bike, but in life.
I couldn’t be more grateful to this life for having had that father, that teammate, that friend with whom I shared so many kilometres - who retired early to dedicate himself to his wife and his bicycle, training like a professional until nearly 80 years old. He taught me that both in life and on the bike, there are moments when you have to grit your teeth, shift down a gear and hold on just a little longer until you reach the top and get through the hard part.
Today I write this as I hold his hand in a hospital room, while his heart - the one that so many times reached 180 beats per minute when attacking or breaking away - is refusing to keep beating.
Now, Paquito, shift to an easier gear, hold the tops of the handlebars, and take it calmly as you climb that final mountain pass - the one that will carry you above the clouds and beyond that rainbow of a world champion, that ascent that will take you to the sky. Your last climb.