Stage 21 – Paris: The Final Ride

Before I dive into the final stage, I want to take a moment to reflect.

This journey—this epic, emotional, exhausting, and exhilarating journey—has been years in the making. Riding the Tour de France stages with Le Loop has become a defining part of my life. It’s not just about the kilometers or the climbs. It’s about resilience, community, and pushing beyond what I ever thought possible.

This was my fourth time riding with Le Loop, and each year has its own story:

• In 2019, I completed all 21 stages (with a few wild detours—explained in my blog from 2019).

• In 2022, I signed up for the full tour again, only to be sent home after Stage 9 with COVID.

• In 2023, I returned for a partial ride—my daughter was getting married, and that came first.

• And this year, in 2025, I came back to finish what I started in 2022.

It hasn’t been easy. There’s been illness, vertigo, exhaustion. But I kept showing up. I gave it everything I had—and I have no regrets.

This ride has also always been about something bigger. I’ve been raising funds for charity through Le Loop, and I’m still a few hundred pounds short of my commitment. If you’ve been following along and feel moved to support, here’s the link to my sponsorship page. Every bit helps.

Now, let me tell you about Stage 21—the final ride into Paris.

I woke up with a familiar heaviness pressing down on me—the kind that whispers, don’t move. The kind that makes you question if this will be the day you don’t make it.

If I sat up and the world spun again, I’d know the vertigo was still with me—and that I’d miss the final stage of the Tour de France. The grand finale. The ride into Paris. Around the Arc de Triomphe. I couldn’t bear the thought.

So I lay still and bargained with my body. Please, not today.

Eventually, I whispered to myself: Move.

I sat up. No spinning. Just stillness. I turned my head side to side—still nothing. Relief washed over me.

I could ride.

And it felt like a gift.

After sitting out the last two stages because of vertigo, I was finally back. That was the hand I’d been dealt, and I played it the best I could. Today, I would ride—and I couldn’t have been more grateful.

We had a two-hour transfer to the start in Mantes-la-Ville. The forecast promised rain—and it delivered. I layered up in rain gear. It was cold, wet, and raw, but I didn’t care. We rode through it for nearly two hours before the skies began to clear.

My legs felt fresh—thanks to the forced rest—and I was all smiles, pushing harder than I had all tour. I didn’t wear my heart rate monitor. I didn’t care about numbers. Today wasn’t about metrics or pacing. It was about presence. And I felt like flying.

I rode with the fast groups—the ones I usually only see at the start line. The ones already showered and halfway through their second beer by the time I roll in. But today, I was with them. I was keeping up with ease.

The route was 111 km, winding through the outskirts of Paris. We passed quiet farming villages, sleepy towns, and busy roundabouts before reaching Versailles, where tourists were already spilling onto the steps. I snapped a quick photo—no time to linger. I was headed toward the Côte de la Butte Montmartre: a 1.1 km cobbled climb at 5.9%.

The pros weren’t thrilled this was added to the Tour this year—it’s there thanks to last year’s Olympic route. They’ll have to do it three times, but the road will be closed for them. One loop was enough for us.

It was chaos. The streets were packed with pedestrians. The cobblestone climb was steep, uneven, and long. We must’ve looked ridiculous—a dozen riders in matching Le Loop jerseys threading through a sea of tourists. Like blue salmon swimming upstream.

I climbed faster than I would have alone, pulled along by the group. At the top, a woman shouted, “Bravo, Madame!” as I crested the hill, gasping for air. I laughed. For a moment, we felt like the pros, with fans cheering us on.

That feeling evaporated the moment we hit Rue Lamarck.

It’s a charming, winding street with views of the Sacré-Cœur—but today it was jammed with people. Too dangerous to stay fully clipped in. We all unclipped one foot and half-pushed, half-rode through the crowd. Tourists swarmed around us, muttering in French. I didn’t need a translation. We were a nuisance on wheels.

If I’d been alone, I would’ve walked. But I didn’t want to lose my group. We moved as a unit, taking over the lane, holding back cars trying to squeeze past. We weaved through traffic, ran red lights (not my idea), and ignored bike lanes when they didn’t suit us.

I hated it.

And I loved it.

It was terrifying and electric.

I pulled off moves I didn’t know I had in me—balancing at intersections, unclipping one foot while staying in motion, ready to spring. When the pack moved, I clipped in and chased—darting through traffic, sharp turns between cars, sprinting, braking, dodging.

We even shot through a tunnel—I’m still not sure it was legal. But we rode like we owned the city.

I’ve been riding for over 15 years, and I’ve never ridden like that. But now I know I can. Today, I leveled up. My pink Pinarello was an extension of me. I thought, and it responded. No hesitation. She was me. I was her. Fluid. Fearless.

I got dropped three times.

Once by traffic.

Once by hesitation.

Once by sheer bad timing.

But I kept fighting back.

The last time I lost the group, I was near the top of the Champs-Élysées—the legendary 2.5 km stretch that leads to the Arc de Triomphe.

I slowed, picking my way through traffic. Vulnerable, alone.

Then I turned the corner. And there it was—the Arc, distant but unmistakable. The French flag billowed at its center. Emotions surged.

I paused. I didn’t want this to end.

A year of training. Three weeks of riding. Every high and low.

I had just 2 km left. But I needed a moment to breathe.

To feel it all.

Was I happy? Sad? Mad? Proud?

Maybe all of it.

I was just glad to be alone for this part.

I took my time, rolling gently in the bike lane, focusing on the Arc as it drew closer. No cars. No chaos. Just me and the monument, welcoming me home. The 70-foot flag waved above the tomb of the unknown soldier—twisting, curling. Magnificent.

This Tour wasn’t perfect. I completed more stages than I missed. But a brutal chest cold, followed by vertigo, nearly derailed me. It was hard—physically, emotionally, mentally. I gave it everything I had.

I reached the infamous roundabout circling the Arc. It’s wild—cars darting with no rules. I paused, looking for a break. A bus honked behind me. I jumped aside. It pulled through the chaos, blocking traffic.

A perfect path opened.

I slipped in behind it—my own private victory lap.

And then—I heard it.

Applause.

To my right: Le Loop riders, staff, families. And Drew.

They were cheering. Yelling my name.

Tears filled my eyes. I’ve circled the Arc before—back in 2019—but this was different.

As the cheers faded, I whispered to myself, “Well done, girl. Well done.”

Not just for today, but for all 54 stages since 2019.

I think I needed to hear that. In case I started judging myself for not doing it all. I’m proud of what I’ve done—every year, every loop, every struggle.

Fifty-four stages.

It’s been an incredible journey.

The Tour de France is designed to break 20-year-old elite male athletes. Le Loop isn’t a race, but the route is the same as the pros—sometimes harder. We ride extra miles to and from hotels. No recovery buses. No massage teams—just ten-minute slots if you’re lucky. Meals are nutritious, but there’s no guidance on how to fuel. We figured that out ourselves.

I averaged 5–6 hours of sleep. Spent 9 hours a day on the bike. Battled back, shoulder, and hand pain. Saddle sores. Blisters. A chest cold. Vertigo. Extreme fatigue. Freezing rain. Scorching day. Wind. Swollen lips. Heat rash. Bug bites. Muscles aching. By day’s end, it felt like I was sitting on broken glass.

I was depleted.

I was exhausted.

Every day after I got sick, I swore I’d never do this again.

Someone asked me on Stage 12, “Have you scratched the itch, Carmen?”

I said yes. I meant it.

I’ll miss the bonds—with people I barely knew.

I’ll miss the laughter, even in pain.

I’ll miss the finish line relief after a brutal day.

We chose this.

We could’ve quit. Some did. I almost did.

Drew offered to pick me up when he heard the frustration in my voice during our calls.

But I held on. I hoped the vertigo would pass.

And I’m so glad I didn’t quit.

Drew hugged me and said, “I’m so proud of you. You inspire me.”

And just like that, my brain went from “never again” to “maybe just one more.…”

Days of swearing I was done—gone. All the bad moments? Erased in an instant.

It was incredible.

Maybe success really is sweeter when it follows struggle.

Do I have plans to sign up again?

No.

Because doing this kind of thing? This thing that breaks young men? This thing that tests every part of you?

It’s absolutely nuts.

And absolutely worth it.

xx

Vertigo.

If you’ve ever had it, you know. The spinning, the nausea, the way the world tilts just enough to make you feel like you’re not safe in your own body. My doctor was clear: Don’t ride. The meds help, but when they wear off, the symptoms return, and that’s not just dangerous for me, but for everyone around me.

He gave me the usual warnings. But it was one comment that stopped me cold:

“Imagine crashing, needing surgery, and spending months recovering, like the rider from Stage 1. He’s still in hospital in Lille. Three surgeries. A cane for at least a year.”

That was it. I didn’t need to learn that lesson the hard way. When your body speaks, you listen.

So, I stepped off the bike. Not because I wanted to—but because I had to.

I’ve spent the last couple of days in the van that collects the course arrows. It’s slow, repetitive work. But I’m not alone. Other riders are here too, some injured, some just spent. Most admit they didn’t train enough. Their bodies simply can’t recover anymore.

I’m in a different place. I trained hard. I’m strong. I want to ride. But this dizziness has me grounded.

Still, I’ve found meaning in the pause. I’ve seen the Alps from a new angle—through the van window. 

Tiny villages clinging to the hillsides. Roads so narrow they barely fit a single car, let alone a peloton. It’s stunning. And strangely peaceful.

Yesterday, a kind French Le Loop mechanic took me on a mini tour through the Cormet de Roselend. He stopped often, urging me to take photos. A gentle soul. A quiet gift.

At one food stop, I helped make sandwiches. A woman sat beside me and said, “I’m done. I hate every moment of this. But I can’t tell my husband, he loves it. I’m just a weekend rider. This is too much.”

She opened up. About her grief. Her family. The inheritance battle after her last parent died. She cried. And I listened. A stranger, yes, but also a fellow cyclist. Part of the same tribe.

It’s incredible how deep people go out here. Maybe it’s the miles. The fatigue. The solitude. Maybe endurance sports attract people who are searching, for healing, for meaning, for proof that they matter. That they’re enough.

We all carry something. Joy. Pain. Hope. Regret. And sometimes, we just need someone to sit beside us and say, “I hear you.” Yesterday, I got to be that person. And that was enough.

Day Two of Vertigo.

The morning began with sunshine and blue skies. But by the time we reached the start line, the weather had turned. Rain. Cold. Relentless.

Riders rolled out—some in full rain gear, others in little more than a windbreaker. The rain was harsh, but manageable. It was the cold that broke people. By Food Stop 2, some riders quit on the spot. No shame. Just survival.

I had warm gear I wasn’t using. Two riders needed it.

One young woman a recipient of my clothes, couldn’t feel her hands. I helped her dress. The other—Matt—was in the van, shaking uncontrollably. The doctor told him to stop. But he refused.

I gave him my rain pants and gloves. Others pitched in, another jacket, a foil blanket cut into strips to wear under his kit. We wrapped him in layers like armor.

The climbs would warm them. But the descents? Brutal, freezing and dangerous.

Still, they set off. Determined. Unshakable. I wasn’t surprised. I’ve been in that headspace. When the only thing that matters is finishing. When the pain doesn’t matter. When the voice in your head that says “stop” gets drowned out by something louder.

I saw it in Matt’s eyes. That fire. That don’t even try to stop me look. It’s rare. And unforgettable.

At the next food stop, Matt saw me. He jumped off his bike and ran toward me.

And then—he hugged me.

Not a polite thank-you. Not a quick squeeze. A full-body, soul-deep hug. The kind that says, “You helped save me.”

He was soaked. Shivering. But alive with purpose. He leaned in and whispered, “Thank you.”

That hug held everything: the storm, the struggle, the second chance. It wasn’t just gratitude, it was connection. Between two riders. One grounded by vertigo. One nearly stopped by hypothermia. Both still in the race, in different ways.

That moment will stay with me forever.

The rain passed. The sun returned. And I looked around at this incredible group of riders, men and women, mostly in their 50s and 60s, pushing through every kind of weather, every kind of terrain.

I didn’t ride that day. But I was part of the team.

And now, I’m looking ahead to Stage 21. The final ride. The ceremonial loop through Paris, down the Champs-Élysées, toward the Arc de Triomphe.

I hope the doctor clears me.

I want to ride it.

I need to ride it.

x

Stage 18 – Queen Stage

This is the stage everyone fears. The Queen Stage. Three brutal mountain climbs. Big mountains. Hard mountains. The kind that test your spirit as much as your legs. The goal: reach the summit of Col de la Loze before nightfall.

We set off after a 90-minute transfer to the start, rolling out at 8:30 a.m. In a perfect world, we would’ve started at 6:00 a.m. to give ourselves more time for the climbing. But we work with what we have.

To my surprise, I felt great. My legs were fresh, showing little to no fatigue. My saddle sores were nagging, but manageable—just background noise. I now have blisters on my feet, though they haven’t popped yet. Today, I tried something new: applying chamois cream to my feet. A clever tip from my friend and fellow cyclist, Celeste. (Chamois cream is usually for saddle sores, but desperate times…)

The first climb came early: Col du Glandon. The day would be a relentless rhythm of up and down. Glandon is 21 km long, and it’s stunning. Surrounded by towering peaks—some still snow-capped—I felt like I was riding above the treetops. The deeper we rode into the valley, the more awe-inspiring it became. This is why I’m here. The Alps. The beauty of these mountains is overwhelming. I found myself saying “wow” out loud, over and over.

About 16 km into the climb, we passed Lac de Grand Maison, a glacial reservoir with aqua-blue water. The contrast of the lake against the green slopes and deep blue sky was breathtaking. A man-made dam, yes—but a natural wonder in its own right.

The rest of the climb was equally beautiful—and equally punishing. Many riders climb for the thrill of the descent. Not me. I find descending intimidating. Narrow roads, sharp turns, traffic, and other cyclists all contribute to my cautious pace. My hands ached from braking. I’d release the brakes for a moment of relief, only to feel my speed surge to a level that made me question my ability to handle the next hairpin. I don’t climb to descend. I climb for the joy of the effort—and the reward at the top.

At the bottom, a short flat section led to Food Stop 2. I passed through quickly, pacing myself for the next beast: Col de la Madeleine—19 km long, averaging 8%. It was past noon, and the heat was intense. A group of us left together, but we all climbed at our own pace. We did stop briefly at a water fountain to cool off—water over the head, a small mercy.

The start of the climb was steeper than expected—over 10%—and my legs had stiffened from the descent. It took time to find my rhythm again. I put on music, got into my headspace, and focused. I was proud of my progress. I was on track to finish what would be the hardest day I’ve ever had on a bike.

The climb dragged on. I passed through ski villages clinging to the mountainside. Midway up, I had to stop and reapply chamois cream to my feet—they were burning too much to pedal. Two cyclists passed me, probably wondering why my shoes and socks were off. They didn’t ask. They were deep in their own pain caves.

I kept eating and drinking, pacing myself for the final climb. But about 2 km from the summit, something changed. My vision blurred—the center line on the road doubled. I felt lightheaded. Maybe the altitude? But I’ve climbed higher before without issue.

I reached the top, took a photo with the summit sign, and headed to the food stop for lunch. I grabbed a plate and sat down, hoping food would help. But I felt nauseous. The vertigo returned. I told one of the Le Loop staff, and they loaded my bike into a truck. I was driven down the mountain for safety.

There were four other riders in the van, each with their own story. By the time we reached the bottom, I was in a full panic—shaking, dizzy, and utterly drained. It was shocking how fast I went from feeling strong and positive to feeling like I’d run a double marathon without food or water.

I know I fueled properly—eating every 45 to 60 minutes, drinking plenty—but I guess my body is still recovering from that awful chest cold. I think it just couldn’t take any more.

The doctor met me at the hotel. He checked me over, prescribed medication for vertigo, and sent me to bed. I tried to eat, but I was too dizzy. I’m not allowed to ride tomorrow—the medication makes it unsafe.

Oddly, I’m not upset. I just want to feel better. And I will enjoy tomorrow, because I’ll still be in the French Alps. On the bike or off, it’s a great place to be.

Stage 17: A Flat Day That Was Anything But

After a quick transfer—just an hour by coach—I set up my bike. It’s become routine now: check the tires for air, snap the Garmin (charged the night before) into its holder, attach the rear light, and slot the filled bottles into their cages. Then, the inevitable search for a place to pee—usually a bush, shared with a hundred other riders doing the same. Sometimes there are facilities nearby, but more often, not. It’s all part of the Tour. We signed up for this.

I was actually looking forward to today. On paper, it was a flat stage—just 167 km—and after yesterday’s mammoth effort on Mont Ventoux, I welcomed the idea of a “recovery ride.” But the Tour organizers are sneaky in their design.

Stage 17 of the 2025 Tour de France runs from Bollène to Valence, cutting through the Rhône Valley. It features only two categorized climbs—Col du Pertuis and Col de Tartaiguille, both minor—but the real challenge wasn’t elevation. It was the wind.

The Rhône Valley is infamous for its crosswinds, especially in the afternoon. The Mistral, a strong northwesterly wind, funnels down the valley and wreaks havoc on riders. We were warned in advance: find a group, take turns at the front, and protect yourself. So I did. I found a group early and rode comfortably for the first 40 km to the food stop.

But I couldn’t believe the wind.

My idea of a recovery day blew away—literally. We pushed hard but couldn’t gain speed. The route trended north for most of the day, straight into the gusts. The sun climbed higher, the heat intensified, and the two “minor” climbs reminded us that flat never really means flat on the Tour.

Everyone was frustrated. Swearing was constant. The mood was grim. There were few highlights to report—I was too focused on the wheel in front of me to enjoy any views. We passed through farmland, more sunflower and lavender fields. At one point, the scent of lavender hung in the air, and for a brief moment, it lifted my spirits. That was my highlight.

Our group grew as the kilometers ticked by, picking up solo riders desperate for shelter. At one point, our echelon was so long I couldn’t see the end of it. When we finally reached the hotel, the consensus was unanimous: everyone hated this stage. Many said they would’ve preferred another mountain day like Ventoux. Fighting wind is draining in a way that’s hard to describe—it zaps your energy and your morale.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow is the Queen Stage—the hardest of the Tour. Nearly 6,000 meters of climbing await us. And after today, we all feel a little robbed. We expected a break. Instead, we got a battle.

x

Stage 16 - Climbing Mont Ventoux: A Farewell to the Giant

What a day. So many emotions.

I first climbed Mont Ventoux in 2018, and it changed my life. It crushed me – physically, mentally, emotionally. I was forced to reassess everything I thought I knew about myself. The arrogance I carried, believing I was ready for this mountain, was stripped away. I thought I was an athlete prepared for the challenge. I wasn’t. Ventoux brought me to my knees.

In the seven years since that humbling day, I’ve cycled the Tour de France route (in 2019, just a year later)—the very reason I signed up in the first place. That journey, too, became a mirror. So many hours alone on the road gave me space for deep self-reflection. The rhythmic nature of cycling can be meditative, and in that solitude, I got to know myself more intimately than ever before.

After that 2019 tour, I made some big decisions. I changed my business – something I’m not sure I would’ve done without those three intense weeks in the cycling bubble. I also made personal changes, like choosing to live an alcohol-free life. I credit Ventoux for being the catalyst. She cracked me open and planted the seeds of a healthier, more intentional lifestyle. I’m now fitter than I’ve ever been. I turn 60 next year, and as I reflect on my 50s, climbing Ventoux stands out as the defining moment.

And today, I climbed her again.

But this time, it wasn’t at the start of the day with fresh legs. No, today’s climb came after 175 km in the heat. When I reached the base, it was 4:30 in the afternoon, and the sun was relentless. My husband Drew was waiting for me, dressed in cycling gear, standing beside a rental bike. He didn’t have to ride. He could’ve hugged me, offered encouragement, and sent me on my way. But he knew what this mountain meant to me. He knew who I had become since that first climb in 2018.

So we climbed it together.

Yes, she’s still a beast. We stopped a few times in the shade to cool down, eat, and catch our breath before tackling another 12% grade. It was relentless. Ventoux is known for its toughness. I was exhausted, I was 180 km into the ride, the heat oppressive – but surprisingly, it was easier than 2018. This time, I could smile. I could joke with Drew. I could enjoy the views and even welcome the wind.

When I reached the summit, I half-expected the clouds to part, a sunbeam to shine down, and some majestic fanfare to play. But there was none of that. Just a quiet sense of calm. A feeling of maturity. A deep respect for this mountain. I whispered a thank you to her. And then, I said goodbye.

I believe this was my last climb of Ventoux. I don’t feel the need to return. There are more lessons in life to learn, but from her, I’ve found closure.

Mont Ventoux Summit, 2018

Mont Ventoux Summit, 2025

At the summit, we lingered and took in the spectacular views with its lunar-like top. I said goodbye to Drew. I marveled at his strength and his willingness to endure this climb with me. He descended the way we came, back to the home he rented with a pool and a vineyard view. I went down the other side, the cold wind biting after the heat.

I didn’t want to leave him. I felt like I was done with this 2025 tour. I’ve gone through a rough patch – a nasty chest cold that derailed me for a few stages – but I’ve made peace with it. I came here to do what I needed to do. I climbed Ventoux. And now, I feel like I have nothing left to prove.

Heading down the other side

I almost turned back later that day. Leave the Tour and be with Drew. But I knew I’d regret that decision.

I started this, and I need to finish it.

There are five more stages to complete and eight more mountains to climb before I’m done with this tour. There are still lessons waiting for me on the road ahead. Maybe they’ll challenge me in new ways. Maybe they’ll simply remind me of how far I’ve come.

Either way, I’m not done yet.

Today, I said goodbye to Ventoux. But I’m not saying goodbye to the journey.

Not just yet.

x

Stage 15 - A Return to the Road!

After days of battling a chest cold, today felt like a rebirth. The lingering dry cough was the only trace of the illness that had sidelined me for several stages. But this morning, I woke up with energy in my legs and gratitude in my heart. I clipped into my pedals feeling lucky — lucky to be in France, lucky to be well enough to ride, and lucky to be part of this journey again.

I’ve rarely been sick, and never this sick. I didn’t know what to expect once I hit the road. Would my body hold up for over seven hours in the saddle? Would the fatigue creep back in? But as the kilometers ticked by, I realized: today, I was back.

 

Stage 15 was a hilly one, 175 km with two climbs toward the end. The final climb, a Category 3, stretched 15 km with a brutal 3 km section at 12%,  a true test for the tired legs of this Tour. 

But it was also spectacular: a narrow, winding road, densely lined with trees that cast a cool, dappled shade all the way to the summit. I rode in near silence, soaking in the beauty and the effort. Only one rider passed me, most were taking it easy after yesterday’s mammoth stage. I had missed that one, so I felt fresher than most. A little guilty, even. But mostly grateful.

I pushed harder than my coach’s prescribed Zone 2. With a rest day tomorrow, I gave myself permission to let it rip. And rip I did. I rode with groups I’d never been strong enough to hang with before, riders faster and more powerful than me. But today, I had premium fuel in the tank, and they were tired. It was the perfect storm.

 

When I rode alone, I still felt strong. I sang out loud to my music, flying down quiet roads with barely a car in sight. Despite being in a foreign country, guided only by arrows every few kilometers, I felt safer than I do at home. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s true.

 

I blew through every food stop like it was a race — only lingering at the last one because there was a lake. Some riders jumped in for a swim. I, however, just wanted to keep riding. For seven and a half hours, the power in my legs never faded. I hit over 48 km/h on the flats and felt like I was floating. My heart rate did creep above my coach’s limit, but I didn’t care. Today wasn’t about rules. It was about freedom.

 

I rode like it was my last ride. I felt alive. I felt strong. I felt free of the illness that had weighed me down. And others noticed. Riders I usually only see at breakfast or dinner commented on how strong I looked, how happy I seemed. I even raced a few on a straight descent, tucked into an aero position, grinning as I passed them — only to be overtaken again, of course. A pink bike is hard to ignore. My Garmin confirmed what I felt in my legs, my fastest 40 km ever.

 

When I rolled into the hotel, I was among the first ten riders of the day. It’s not a race, I know. Most were taking it easy. But I’m choosing to believe I beat them all. Today, I was a rockstar.

 

Looking Ahead

Tomorrow is a rest day in Montpellier, where we’ll roll out the following day for Stage 16,  a mountain stage, 200 km long, featuring the legendary “Beast of Provence”: MontVentoux.

 

I first cycled Mt. Ventoux in 2018, on vacation with Drew. That climb shattered the image I had of myself as an athlete and a person. It humbled me. It changed me. It launched a journey of self-reflection and growth that brought me here, to this moment.

Now, seven years later, I return. Drew is here in France, ready to ride it with me. This isn’t just a climb,  it’s a pilgrimage. A reunion with the version of me who first met the mountain. I can’t wait for me, my husband and my bike to touch the base of Mt. Ventoux again. I can’t wait to see who I am now, compared to who I was then.

The mountain shaped me. Tomorrow, I ride to honor that.