I woke up this morning on just 4.5 hours of sleep. Sometimes when I overdo it, I can’t sleep. I lay awake for hours, frustrated, until I finally took the French version of NyQuil—Jessica’s suggestion. It knocked me out, but my alarm was set for 5:15. Miraculously, I woke up in a good mood. I felt positive. I wanted to ride.
We had a two-hour bus ride before we could get on the road, so I packed extra food from the breakfast buffet: a French baguette with cheese and meat. The forecast called for light rain, so I layered up—rain jacket, cycling rain pants I bought years ago and never wore, booties for my shoes, arm warmers, and ear warmers. The temperature was expected to drop to 14°C.
When we arrived at the start, the weather was exactly as predicted. With each kilometer, it got colder. I had hoped today’s flat stage would be a recovery ride, but freezing rain had other plans. I tried to hang on to someone’s wheel, but everyone around me was riding fast to stay warm. I was dressed well enough, so I made the decision to prioritize my health: ride easy, stay consistent, keep my heart rate low, and don’t stress the body. 180 km is still a big ride—even on a flat stage.
Jen came up and started chatting. She’s younger, stronger, and incredibly kind. She pulled in front and let me ride her wheel. She could’ve been up front with the fast group, but she stayed with me, giving me shelter from the wind. The trade-off? Road spray from her wheel flicked into my face. A small price to pay for the break she gave me.
Then the rain intensified. It got colder. Suddenly, it felt like gravel was hitting my face—tiny stings like electric zaps. I looked up. It wasn’t gravel. It was hail.
We caught up with another rider, Aaron, and rode together, commiserating about the weather. After over an hour, I needed a bio break. I called out and pulled over near some trees. My brakes squealed from the water on the discs. When I got back on the road, I was alone.
There are many groups here—riders supporting each other, sharing the load. But I’m alone. I came with Jessica, but she’s doing her ride, and I’m doing mine. I’m here for all 21 stages. Pacing myself is the only way I’ll make it.
Despite the cold and the solitude, my mood was good. My body was warm. I was riding pain-free, and my cold wasn’t getting worse. But I knew this kind of riding, in this kind of weather, wasn’t going to be restorative.
In the distance, I saw a rider coming toward me. Odd. It looked like one of us—and it was. It was Jen. She realized I wasn’t behind her anymore. Matt had told her I’d dropped off. So she turned around, in this awful weather, and came back for me.
She didn’t have to. There were riders behind me. The rescue van was nearby. But she did. There are people who are nice, and then there are people who are kind. Jen is both.
I thanked her. She said, “Nobody should ride in this weather alone.” I’ll never forget that moment. It brought tears to my eyes.
We rode on together, laughing occasionally when gusts of wind wobbled us. It was gross out, but I was enjoying the ride. I wasn’t dry, but I was warm enough, and my legs felt strong.
At the first food stop, I grabbed my day bag and changed into warmer gear—winter shoe covers, gloves, another jacket. Most riders ducked into a cute little shop for coffee. I had a hot chocolate, downed it in three gulps, and headed back to my bike.
Jen had left with her group, as she should. I would’ve slowed her down. Jessica called out for me to wait, so I did, standing in the rain while she filled bottles and got sorted. She didn’t have nearly as much cold-weather gear as I did. Her tour is only 10 stages—no Alps or Pyrenees—so she hadn’t packed for this.
We set off, nearly the last riders on the road. Within minutes, Jessica picked up the pace. She was freezing. Her speed kept increasing. My heart rate and watts were well above my comfort zone. I suggested we ease off, but the look in her eyes told me something was wrong.
Taff, another rider, caught up, huffing and puffing, impressed by our pace. He joined us, sitting on Jessica’s wheel. She was setting the agenda: produce power, produce heat, stave off hypothermia.
It was too fast for me. I was burning too many matches. I’m sick, riding in freezing rain. I needed to pace myself if I was going to finish this tour. I dropped back and watched them disappear into the distance.
I rode alone for 90 minutes. I like riding alone—but not in this weather. It felt dangerous. I wished Jen was still with me, but she was long gone. I could’ve waited for riders behind me, but I didn’t want to linger in the cold.
At the next food stop, riders were shivering, drinking hot coffee. Jessica appeared and apologized for leaving me. She was in survival mode. Hypothermia is real. I had no issue with what she did. I just wished I could’ve helped her stay warm.
Jessica, Taff, and I set off together, rotating at the front to share the load. We reached the lunch stop at 3:30. I had more warm clothes in my day bag—cold-weather leggings and a windbreaker. I offered them to Jessica, and she gratefully accepted. We ate standing up, dancing to stay warm. We still had 60 km to go, and it was still raining.
For the first time, I felt like I was part of a team. We worked together. I’ve been solo so much, I’d forgotten what that felt like. I envied the big groups—sharing the work, riding 30% easier in the draft. There are so many strong riders, but few like me—a woman, riding at my pace. Not slow, but not quite fast enough to hang with the big groups.
At the last food stop, I oiled my chain—it was squeaking and grinding from the rain and road grime. We set off for the final 27 km. Piece of cake, I thought.
I felt great. Still warm, still strong. I’d paced myself all day and had power left. I took the lead, giving Jessica a break. She was struggling after being cold for so long. The final 16 km were into a headwind, and she needed help. I’ve been on her wheel plenty this week—it was my turn. I was happy to do it.
We arrived at the hotel. I skipped the group dinner, ate leftover lunch, washed my gear, and took cold medicine to help me sleep.
Tomorrow is the hardest day of the tour so far: over 4,500 meters of climbing, wind, rain, and freezing temperatures. A massive challenge for any cyclist—let alone one with nine stages in their legs, sleep-deprived, and fighting a chest cold.
I’m praying for a miracle.
x
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