Where Peaks Meet Tides

Some projects come along because they’re convenient. Others because they’re a natural

next step. But coming back from six months off the bike after back-to-back injuries, I knew

my first project had to be different. It had to mean something. I wanted it to reconnect me

with my roots, with who I am as a rider, and with the places and experiences that shaped

me. That’s where the idea of riding from the highest bikeable peak in Europe, the Aiguille de

la Grande Sassière at 3,747 meters, all the way down to the sea in Finale Ligure, began to

take hold. Two places that couldn’t be more different, yet both have been cornerstones of my

journey. The Sassière, my first taste of true alpine riding, where fear and possibility collided.

Finale, a place that has welcomed me back year after year with its trails, its culture, and its

community. Linking them in one continuous ride felt like the perfect way to step back in.

The night before the challenge, I bivvied at the summit of the Grande Sassière. Getting up

there with my bike and gear had been its own effort, but when I finally set camp and the sun

began to drop, I found myself in one of the most peaceful moments of my life. The sky lit up

in ways words can’t capture, and for the first time in months, I wasn’t thinking about injury, or

weather windows, or the endless logistics. I was simply there, above the Alps, watching the

world turn gold. It was calm before the storm, and I needed it. That night, as I lay in my bivvy,

I thought about the road it had taken to get here: the setbacks, the rehab sessions, the doubt

that had crept in as the season slipped away.

Starting was the hardest part. After months of building toward this, the “what ifs” had begun

to pile up. The weather window was closing, my body was still a question mark, and I knew

one crash could undo all of it. I was on the razor’s edge between belief and fear. When

you’ve been sidelined with injury, you live with a different kind of uncertainty. You know it’s

fine until it suddenly isn’t. Every decision felt like a balancing act: trusting my ability while

staying calculated enough to manage the risk. The weight of that was heavy. Eventually, you

clip in, you turn the pedals, and more often than not, doubt gives way to rhythm.

From the summit, the exposure was immediate. Rough alpine rock, no margin for error,

every movement magnified. It was the kind of terrain that doesn’t forgive mistakes, and it

demanded everything from me. Soon, the landscape began to shift, from meadows and

singletrack to old military roads, farm tracks, and stretches of canal path. The sheer diversity

was staggering. Each section carried its own character, its own challenges, its own rhythm.

One moment, I was fighting to hold a line on loose alpine chunder, the next I was flowing

through trails I’d ridden years ago, now with the perspective of everything that had led me

back here. There were lows, moments when exhaustion hit like a truck, when the voice in my

head questioned why I was out here at all. Those moments strip you bare. They force you to

confront yourself honestly, and in those spaces, I found my “why.” I reminded myself of the

privilege it is to even attempt something like this, of the people who helped get me here, and

of the simple love of riding that started all of this in the first place. There were highs, too,

flashes where everything clicked, where the landscape seemed to open up just for me, and

where I felt more alive than I have in a long time. Those moments made every struggle worth

it. After 14 hours and 54 minutes, the line ended where the mountains gave way to the

Mediterranean. Standing there at sea level, the contrast couldn’t have been sharper. From

3,747 meters to zero. From snow to sand. From doubt to gratitude.

On the surface, it was a solo effort, but no one truly does something like this alone. Behind

me was a web of support that made it possible: medical professionals who guided me back

to health, my coach Matt Miller, who had the tough job of steering me through constant

setbacks, and partners like Ergon and Deviate Cycles who believed in the project as much

as I did. Beyond that, it was the countless interactions along the way, the kind words, the

shared excitement, and the little nudges of encouragement that all add up to something

bigger. This wasn’t about one person chasing a line. It was about a community of people

whose energy I carried with me.

Finishing wasn’t about relief. It was about trust. Trust in my body, after months of wondering

if it would hold. Trust in the process, as messy and frustrating as it was, and trust in myself,

that even in the lows, I could keep moving forward. This journey was more than the ride

itself. It was a reminder that growth doesn’t happen when things are easy. It happens when

you step into uncertainty, when you risk failure, and when you choose to keep going anyway.

If there’s one thing I want people to take away from this, it’s this: if you want something, go

after it. Don’t wait for the perfect time; it doesn’t exist. Map it out, take small steps, and build

something sustainable. It won’t happen overnight, but if you keep showing up, you’ll get

there.

For me, this was much more than the biggest descent in Europe; it was, more importantly,

the climb back to believing in myself.