A Dog With A Bone

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.

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