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.