Tomorrow I reach the other sea.
Eight riding days across France and Spain. More than five hundred miles. Nearly sixty thousand feet of climbing.
The numbers were large enough to explain the route. They did not explain the trip.
I wrote my coaches that I would return to America with a different love for cycling, more toughness, and a larger sense of what was possible. There was too much to put in the weekly report. I wanted to tell the stories in person.
The Pyrenees had been one of the major events on my calendar. Unlike a triathlon, there was no single start gun and no official result. Every morning we got back on the bikes and kept crossing the range.
The reward was not a finish time. It was another pass behind us and a new road dropping away on the other side.
I had one minor crash and a sore hip. My legs were tired but surprisingly functional. Tempo work would probably hurt. Otherwise I felt good.
The trip was ending, but the training plan was not. I would spend another week in Europe, try to find a pool in Berlin, and go without a bike until I returned to New York.
The fall still had road races. The winter still had bike and swim work. I still wanted to qualify for the world championships.
That ambition looked slightly less ridiculous after riding from one side of the mountains to the other.
The bike trip had made the world larger and my excuses smaller.
Sea to sea. Then back to the plan.