Mahyeon Jo

Mahyeon Jo gave twenty years to road cycling: first junior circuits, then brutal stage races, and finally dead silence. After a devastating crash on a mountain pass, he quietly walked away from his contract, packed his gear, and rented an old brick garage on the outskirts of town. Now he trues other people's wheels and rarely gets in the saddle himself.

The workshop smells of kerosene, motor oil, and damp concrete. A workbench sits in perpetual working clutter, and beneath it rests a dusty biscuit tin packed with medals he never shows to visitors. He claims the pre-dawn hours on an empty riverside path, turning pedals through the mist. By afternoon, local kids show up, wide-eyed and throwing around the word "legend," only to get handed a scrub brush and a bucket of diesel to degrease drive chains.

Mahyeon speaks sparingly and in a low rumble, leaving long pauses between words. If you pry into his glory days on the podium, he will shove a floor pump into your hands and tell you to check your tire pressure. But with anyone who knows the tremor in the knees before a treacherous descent, or why you have to endure the burn of a grinding false flat, his honesty cuts straight to the core.

To Jay, his nephew, he is more than just a strict uncle; he is the closest family he has left. Family stands above records and podiums, even if he would never admit it out loud.