Stage 18 – Queen Stage

This is the stage everyone fears. The Queen Stage. Three brutal mountain climbs. Big mountains. Hard mountains. The kind that test your spirit as much as your legs. The goal: reach the summit of Col de la Loze before nightfall.

We set off after a 90-minute transfer to the start, rolling out at 8:30 a.m. In a perfect world, we would’ve started at 6:00 a.m. to give ourselves more time for the climbing. But we work with what we have.

To my surprise, I felt great. My legs were fresh, showing little to no fatigue. My saddle sores were nagging, but manageable—just background noise. I now have blisters on my feet, though they haven’t popped yet. Today, I tried something new: applying chamois cream to my feet. A clever tip from my friend and fellow cyclist, Celeste. (Chamois cream is usually for saddle sores, but desperate times…)

The first climb came early: Col du Glandon. The day would be a relentless rhythm of up and down. Glandon is 21 km long, and it’s stunning. Surrounded by towering peaks—some still snow-capped—I felt like I was riding above the treetops. The deeper we rode into the valley, the more awe-inspiring it became. This is why I’m here. The Alps. The beauty of these mountains is overwhelming. I found myself saying “wow” out loud, over and over.

About 16 km into the climb, we passed Lac de Grand Maison, a glacial reservoir with aqua-blue water. The contrast of the lake against the green slopes and deep blue sky was breathtaking. A man-made dam, yes—but a natural wonder in its own right.

The rest of the climb was equally beautiful—and equally punishing. Many riders climb for the thrill of the descent. Not me. I find descending intimidating. Narrow roads, sharp turns, traffic, and other cyclists all contribute to my cautious pace. My hands ached from braking. I’d release the brakes for a moment of relief, only to feel my speed surge to a level that made me question my ability to handle the next hairpin. I don’t climb to descend. I climb for the joy of the effort—and the reward at the top.

At the bottom, a short flat section led to Food Stop 2. I passed through quickly, pacing myself for the next beast: Col de la Madeleine—19 km long, averaging 8%. It was past noon, and the heat was intense. A group of us left together, but we all climbed at our own pace. We did stop briefly at a water fountain to cool off—water over the head, a small mercy.

The start of the climb was steeper than expected—over 10%—and my legs had stiffened from the descent. It took time to find my rhythm again. I put on music, got into my headspace, and focused. I was proud of my progress. I was on track to finish what would be the hardest day I’ve ever had on a bike.

The climb dragged on. I passed through ski villages clinging to the mountainside. Midway up, I had to stop and reapply chamois cream to my feet—they were burning too much to pedal. Two cyclists passed me, probably wondering why my shoes and socks were off. They didn’t ask. They were deep in their own pain caves.

I kept eating and drinking, pacing myself for the final climb. But about 2 km from the summit, something changed. My vision blurred—the center line on the road doubled. I felt lightheaded. Maybe the altitude? But I’ve climbed higher before without issue.

I reached the top, took a photo with the summit sign, and headed to the food stop for lunch. I grabbed a plate and sat down, hoping food would help. But I felt nauseous. The vertigo returned. I told one of the Le Loop staff, and they loaded my bike into a truck. I was driven down the mountain for safety.

There were four other riders in the van, each with their own story. By the time we reached the bottom, I was in a full panic—shaking, dizzy, and utterly drained. It was shocking how fast I went from feeling strong and positive to feeling like I’d run a double marathon without food or water.

I know I fueled properly—eating every 45 to 60 minutes, drinking plenty—but I guess my body is still recovering from that awful chest cold. I think it just couldn’t take any more.

The doctor met me at the hotel. He checked me over, prescribed medication for vertigo, and sent me to bed. I tried to eat, but I was too dizzy. I’m not allowed to ride tomorrow—the medication makes it unsafe.

Oddly, I’m not upset. I just want to feel better. And I will enjoy tomorrow, because I’ll still be in the French Alps. On the bike or off, it’s a great place to be.

Stage 17: A Flat Day That Was Anything But

After a quick transfer—just an hour by coach—I set up my bike. It’s become routine now: check the tires for air, snap the Garmin (charged the night before) into its holder, attach the rear light, and slot the filled bottles into their cages. Then, the inevitable search for a place to pee—usually a bush, shared with a hundred other riders doing the same. Sometimes there are facilities nearby, but more often, not. It’s all part of the Tour. We signed up for this.

I was actually looking forward to today. On paper, it was a flat stage—just 167 km—and after yesterday’s mammoth effort on Mont Ventoux, I welcomed the idea of a “recovery ride.” But the Tour organizers are sneaky in their design.

Stage 17 of the 2025 Tour de France runs from Bollène to Valence, cutting through the Rhône Valley. It features only two categorized climbs—Col du Pertuis and Col de Tartaiguille, both minor—but the real challenge wasn’t elevation. It was the wind.

The Rhône Valley is infamous for its crosswinds, especially in the afternoon. The Mistral, a strong northwesterly wind, funnels down the valley and wreaks havoc on riders. We were warned in advance: find a group, take turns at the front, and protect yourself. So I did. I found a group early and rode comfortably for the first 40 km to the food stop.

But I couldn’t believe the wind.

My idea of a recovery day blew away—literally. We pushed hard but couldn’t gain speed. The route trended north for most of the day, straight into the gusts. The sun climbed higher, the heat intensified, and the two “minor” climbs reminded us that flat never really means flat on the Tour.

Everyone was frustrated. Swearing was constant. The mood was grim. There were few highlights to report—I was too focused on the wheel in front of me to enjoy any views. We passed through farmland, more sunflower and lavender fields. At one point, the scent of lavender hung in the air, and for a brief moment, it lifted my spirits. That was my highlight.

Our group grew as the kilometers ticked by, picking up solo riders desperate for shelter. At one point, our echelon was so long I couldn’t see the end of it. When we finally reached the hotel, the consensus was unanimous: everyone hated this stage. Many said they would’ve preferred another mountain day like Ventoux. Fighting wind is draining in a way that’s hard to describe—it zaps your energy and your morale.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow is the Queen Stage—the hardest of the Tour. Nearly 6,000 meters of climbing await us. And after today, we all feel a little robbed. We expected a break. Instead, we got a battle.

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Stage 16 - Climbing Mont Ventoux: A Farewell to the Giant

What a day. So many emotions.

I first climbed Mont Ventoux in 2018, and it changed my life. It crushed me – physically, mentally, emotionally. I was forced to reassess everything I thought I knew about myself. The arrogance I carried, believing I was ready for this mountain, was stripped away. I thought I was an athlete prepared for the challenge. I wasn’t. Ventoux brought me to my knees.

In the seven years since that humbling day, I’ve cycled the Tour de France route (in 2019, just a year later)—the very reason I signed up in the first place. That journey, too, became a mirror. So many hours alone on the road gave me space for deep self-reflection. The rhythmic nature of cycling can be meditative, and in that solitude, I got to know myself more intimately than ever before.

After that 2019 tour, I made some big decisions. I changed my business – something I’m not sure I would’ve done without those three intense weeks in the cycling bubble. I also made personal changes, like choosing to live an alcohol-free life. I credit Ventoux for being the catalyst. She cracked me open and planted the seeds of a healthier, more intentional lifestyle. I’m now fitter than I’ve ever been. I turn 60 next year, and as I reflect on my 50s, climbing Ventoux stands out as the defining moment.

And today, I climbed her again.

But this time, it wasn’t at the start of the day with fresh legs. No, today’s climb came after 175 km in the heat. When I reached the base, it was 4:30 in the afternoon, and the sun was relentless. My husband Drew was waiting for me, dressed in cycling gear, standing beside a rental bike. He didn’t have to ride. He could’ve hugged me, offered encouragement, and sent me on my way. But he knew what this mountain meant to me. He knew who I had become since that first climb in 2018.

So we climbed it together.

Yes, she’s still a beast. We stopped a few times in the shade to cool down, eat, and catch our breath before tackling another 12% grade. It was relentless. Ventoux is known for its toughness. I was exhausted, I was 180 km into the ride, the heat oppressive – but surprisingly, it was easier than 2018. This time, I could smile. I could joke with Drew. I could enjoy the views and even welcome the wind.

When I reached the summit, I half-expected the clouds to part, a sunbeam to shine down, and some majestic fanfare to play. But there was none of that. Just a quiet sense of calm. A feeling of maturity. A deep respect for this mountain. I whispered a thank you to her. And then, I said goodbye.

I believe this was my last climb of Ventoux. I don’t feel the need to return. There are more lessons in life to learn, but from her, I’ve found closure.

Mont Ventoux Summit, 2018

Mont Ventoux Summit, 2025

At the summit, we lingered and took in the spectacular views with its lunar-like top. I said goodbye to Drew. I marveled at his strength and his willingness to endure this climb with me. He descended the way we came, back to the home he rented with a pool and a vineyard view. I went down the other side, the cold wind biting after the heat.

I didn’t want to leave him. I felt like I was done with this 2025 tour. I’ve gone through a rough patch – a nasty chest cold that derailed me for a few stages – but I’ve made peace with it. I came here to do what I needed to do. I climbed Ventoux. And now, I feel like I have nothing left to prove.

Heading down the other side

I almost turned back later that day. Leave the Tour and be with Drew. But I knew I’d regret that decision.

I started this, and I need to finish it.

There are five more stages to complete and eight more mountains to climb before I’m done with this tour. There are still lessons waiting for me on the road ahead. Maybe they’ll challenge me in new ways. Maybe they’ll simply remind me of how far I’ve come.

Either way, I’m not done yet.

Today, I said goodbye to Ventoux. But I’m not saying goodbye to the journey.

Not just yet.

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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.

Stage 14 - Another Letdown

I'm in beautiful France on "vacation," doing what I love. Yes, I’ve hit a bump in the road. Yes, this isn’t how I envisioned this epic, and possibly final, attempt at the Tour. But I’ve been pushing on and making the most of it.

This morning, I woke up and my world was spinning. I knew immediately: vertigo. It comes and goes without rhythm or reason, like thunder on a clear day. I’d gone to bed early, drank plenty of water, and had an easy-ish ride yesterday. But I’m still a little sick and very fatigued. It feels like drifting through fog with your eyes open but your mind asleep. Each step lands, but you don’t remember taking it. The world moves around you, but you’re not part of it, more like a shadow cast by someone else.

I got dressed in my cycling kit on autopilot, moving slowly, trying to ignore the voice in my head screaming, “Not now.” I didn’t move my head, only my body, because if I turned too quickly, the room would spin. I told Jen, my roommate, that I thought I had vertigo and hoped it would pass. She just looked at me with quiet sympathy. What could she say?

At breakfast, I ate a lot, preparing for the huge day ahead. Afterward, I dropped off my gear at the vans and checked my bike. I pumped one tire, and that’s when I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I bent over to attach the pump, and when I stood up, the world spun. I was still standing by my bike, trying to center myself, when one of the doctors came over.

“Hey Carmen, how are you feeling this morning?”

I paused too long. I was preparing to lie. I thought if I could just get on my bike, my happy place, everything would be fine. He asked again, more firmly this time, like he could read my mind. I burst into tears. Again.

I told him I had vertigo. Another doctor, Anna, came over. I tried to downplay it: “It’s not that bad. It’ll go away.” But then he asked, “Do I need to make this call?” I nodded. “You’re done — you can't descend with vertigo, and there's a lot of descending today,” he said.

I couldn’t believe it. Another missed stage, and not just any stage.

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Stage 14: Pau to Superbagnères — The Queen Stage

Today’s route was one of the most anticipated of the Tour:

• Start: Pau

• Finish: Luchon–Superbagnères

• Distance: 182.6 km (205 km for us LeLoopers)

• Elevation Gain: Nearly 5,000 meters

This was the Queen Stage — a brutal day in the Pyrenees featuring four legendary climbs:

1. Col du Tourmalet (HC) – 19 km at 7.4% - The 89th appearance of this iconic climb.

2. Col d’Aspin (Cat 2) – 5 km at 7.6% - Short but sharp, a quick sting after the Tourmalet descent.

3. Col de Peyresourde (Cat 1) – 7.1 km at 7.8% - A steady grind.

4. Superbagnères (HC) – 12.4 km at 7.3% - The final climb to the ski resort summit, with ramps up to 10% in the last 1.5 km.

It’s the first time the Tour has finished here in 36 years.

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A Change of Plans

Instead of riding, I spent the afternoon in the LeLoop luggage van, heading straight to the hotel — 200 km away. We made one stop at a Decathlon store, where I stocked up on €73 worth of carb bars for the remaining seven stages. I’m still optimistic. What else can I do? I’ll take each day as it comes.

When we arrived, the LeLoop crew unloaded over 100 pieces of luggage into the hotel lobby. My bike came off the truck, and Richard,  a 29-year-old Scottish mechanic (his birthday is tomorrow) immediately noticed it.

He asked to take a photo. My bike is a bright pink Pinarello F12, a commemorative edition gifted to Tao Geoghegan Hart for winning the 2020 Giro d’Italia. Only about 12 more were made, and I have one. 

I bought it used from a Pinarello store owner, he rode it once in Italy, then put it on his showroom floor for two years before selling it to me. It turns heads everywhere. It’s been to France with me three times now, and every time, someone says it’s the “best bike on the Tour.”

One of the riders here is a Pinarello ambassador. In 2022, he lined up a few bikes along a brick wall at a food stop and took a photo. He told me that the image ended up in a few Pinarello ads. I haven’t seen them yet, but I hope he sends them to me.

Richard cleaned my bike like it was brand new, chain, cassette, wheels. Then he stopped. He focused on my rear tire and cringed. “I’m glad you didn’t ride today,” he said. “Especially descending. Your tire was about to blow.” A deep cut in the rubber made it almost inevitable.

Maybe I’m lucky after all.

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Evening Reflections

It’s 5:30 p.m. now. I’m watching the first of the 100 riders pass by our hotel on their way to the final climb. It’s raining. They look exhausted. When they finish, they’ll circle back to the hotel. The first rider should arrive in about two hours, filled with pride after an unforgettable day.

I’m happy for them. And, if I’m honest, a little jealous.

The doctor said the cold, fatigue, and likely dehydration triggered the vertigo. Bad luck — or maybe good after all. Who’s to say?

I got my room key and found out I have the best room in the hotel — a suite with a private elevator. It’s huge. I’m relaxing now. Dinner is soon. And tomorrow, if the stars align, I’ll be riding again.

Stage 13 - Time Trial Day in the Mountains

 

Time trial day — but not your typical one.

Most time trials I’ve watched or ridden during my LeLoop adventures in France have been flat, fast, and honestly… a bit boring. I used to treat them as rest days. But not today.

Today’s route was a different beast: a mountain time trial finishing at the iconic Peyragudes Altiport, famously known as Altiport 007 thanks to its cameo in the James Bond film Tomorrow Never Dies.

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The Day Begins: Eat, Coach, Ride, Repeat

We kicked off with a two-hour coach transfer — par for the course on this kind of trip. The old cycling mantra “eat, sleep, ride, repeat” has evolved into something more like:

eat → coach for 2 hours → ride → coach again → sleep → repeat.

Our journey across the Tour route has taken us through the north of France, along the west coast, into the Pyrenees, and soon, the Alps.

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The 2025 Tour de France: A True French Tour

This year’s Tour is special — it’s the first in five years to be held entirely within France. That’s notable, as many editions include stages in neighboring countries like Belgium, Spain, or Italy.

Route Highlights:

Start: Lille Métropole (Hauts-de-France)

Finish: Paris, with a final stage around Montmartre

Route Flow:

• North (Lille, Normandy)
• West (Brittany, Pays de la Loire)
• Southwest (Occitanie, Pyrenees)
• Southeast (Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur, Alps)
• Central-East (Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes)
• Ending in Paris

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Stage 13: Loudenvielle to Peyragudes

We started today’s ride in Loudenvielle, a peaceful lakeside town. The first few kilometers were flat, but soon the road tilted upward — and stayed that way.

The climb was steady, with gradients ranging from 7% to 12%. I kept my heart rate in Zone 2 — for me, that’s like a brisk walk. Manageable, but still a workout.

It was a beautiful climb — peaceful at my pace, but for the pros, this will be a brutal test. The final kilometer ramps up to 16% on the Altiport runway. But we made a right-hand turn and climbed for 3 more kilometers instead — a far more manageable ascent, but only because we weren’t allowed on that side of the mountain. It’s an actual runway, after all, and not open to the public.

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Lunch at the Summit

At the top, we were treated to a simple but satisfying lunch: soft, fresh bread with ham, cheese, lettuce, and mayo — kind of like a French Subway sandwich, but better. Dessert was a chocolate éclair, but I traded mine for potato chips and a peach. I’ve been eating so many sweets lately that my body is starting to protest. I need the sugar for the rides, but I’m definitely craving something salty and real.

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What’s Next?

Tomorrow is Stage 14, one of the biggest days of the Tour. Only Stage 18 is tougher. I’m excited — and a little nervous. But that’s what makes this adventure so unforgettable.

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Rest Days (Tues + Wed)

 In the Tour de France, there are two official rest days. This year, the first one came after Stage 10, the very stage my body denied me the chance to complete. Bad luck, plain and simple. You have to be in exceptional shape to even attempt one stage, let alone all 21. Catching a chest cold at the wrong time has derailed this journey for me.

After deciding I couldn’t complete Stage 10, I wasn’t prepared for the flood of emotions that followed. I had trained seriously for nine months, more consistently and with more dedication than ever before. My mission was clear, and I had no doubts I would do exactly what I set out to do.

To outsiders, this might seem silly. Easy to say, “It’s no big deal, you’ll get back on the bike another day.” But for me, it felt like I had given up. Like I had done something wrong, something stupid or avoidable. I knew it was illogical to feel that way, but I couldn’t shake it. So I spent the rest day reflecting on why I, and so many of us, are so hard on ourselves. Why is it so difficult to be kind to ourselves, especially when we need it most?

I kept telling myself I had nothing to prove. I’ve done this before. But this time, I had a clear goal, and now it’s gone. What now? Do I create a new goal? Should I even care anymore? In a world filled with so much darkness and pain, my little failure feels meaningless. “First world problems,” as my daughter would say.

But then I asked myself: why do we set goals in the first place?

For me, it’s because every time I strive to do something that scares me, I learn something new about myself. And this was no different. A lesson to learn. A corner to turn. A look under the hood. A moment to grow from.

So I sat for hours in my room, resting, reading the kind and supportive messages from friends, family, and colleagues who’ve been following my journey. Many of them made me cry. Their words nudged me toward a new perspective. This wasn’t just a missed target, it felt like a personal failure, a loss of control, even though I did everything right.

But I’ve decided to acknowledge the disappointment rather than rush through it. I’m reframing the narrative. Instead of shrinking under the weight of failure, I’m choosing to grow from it. I’m learning not to be so hard on myself. I’m celebrating what I have done: I showed up. I tried. And that’s worth honoring, no matter the outcome.

Resilience. Adaptability. Self-compassion. These are the lessons I’m taking with me. And above all, I’m learning to value the journey, not just the destination.

When I woke up the morning of Stage 11, my gear was laid out from the night before. But I still felt rough, coughing, shaky. I made the tough decision to take another rest day. I didn’t want to. Every part of me wanted to ride that flat stage on this gorgeous summer day in France. But instead, I chose to clean my bike, stretch, and sleep.

Tomorrow is another day. Another stage. A mountain stage. I want to enjoy it, and not harm my already fatigued body. Maybe tomorrow there will be no cough. For now, I’m taking it day by day. Doing the best I can. Guilt-free.

“Sometimes what feels like a setback is really just a setup for a deeper kind of growth.” 

— Brianna Wiest

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