May 24
The climb I'd been dreading
The Tourmalet from the west is just a number until you're on it. Four hours up, eleven minutes down, and a sandwich that tasted like victory.
A slow bicycle journal from Lisbon toward the Caucasus, written from whatever café has a plug and a roof.
The Tourmalet from the west is just a number until you're on it. Four hours up, eleven minutes down, and a sandwich that tasted like victory.
I mailed a box of "essentials" home from Bordeaux. The bike feels like a different machine. Lesson learned, again.
Two days of grinding into the wind along the coast, rescued each evening by people who insisted I stay for dinner.