Fitness Adventure

It was a cold, wet February morning. The grey sky hung low and heavy as I drove to work. I’d skipped my usual bike commute—after weeks of battling a lingering sinus infection, the weather wasn’t helping.

I was feeling sorry for myself. Claustrophobic, even. Maybe it was the oppressive sky, or maybe just the routine, but I felt it: I needed an adventure. Something to prepare for—not just physically, but mentally. Something to look forward to. Something other than this.

That’s when I remembered the invitation from earlier in the year. My friend Kevin had asked me to join a cycling trip—riding some of the most iconic climbs in the French Alps.

These were the climbs. The ones we’d watched during Tour de France broadcasts, riders grinding up impossibly steep roads through a sea of screaming fans. I’d dreamed of riding those roads myself—long before the days of Lance Armstrong.

And yet, when the chance finally came, I hesitated.
“Maybe it’s too long to be away from the office.”
“Maybe I’m not fit enough.”
“How much will it cost?”

All the usual excuses. But that morning, something shifted.
I grabbed my phone and texted Kevin:
“Hey, are you still going on that France trip—and if so, am I still invited?”

He replied right away:
“Dude, I’m just finalizing the arrangements now—and you’re the last guy.

Nice.
“I’m in.”

As I started to feel better, it was clear I needed to get back on the bike. My fitness began to return, but I knew I’d need one big ride—something to harden the legs, and maybe the mind too.

So, one early Sunday morning, I rolled out. My plan was to ride from my home in the South Bay up to Yerba Buena Road, just past the Ventura County line.

Yerba Buena is a beautiful, remote, 7-mile climb that cuts deep into the Santa Monica Mountains. It’s quiet, challenging, and perfect for thinking.

Riding along with nothing but my thoughts (and my tired, still-recovering legs), I began to reflect—not just on the Alps, but on the meaning of adventure itself.

Challenging adventures often begin with a single question:
Why on earth am I doing this?

And I was definitely asking that now—pedaling solo up the Pacific Coast Highway, on my one day off, while my family was warm and asleep at home.

But it’s in these exact moments—when comfort calls the loudest—that we remind ourselves why we do it.

Because pushing through discomfort now keeps us fit enough, and mentally ready enough, to keep saying yes when the next adventure comes along.

I arrived in France two days after all the other guys. I was jet lagged and unfamiliar with the roads that I rolled out onto for my first ride in the French alps. We were to ride up a climb to the village of Notre Dame. The sky was heavy and overcast, and the road,
about as wide as a Fiat Cinquecento, switched-backed up the mountain with stretches literally carved into the side of the mountain. And when that wasn’t possible, they simply tunneled through the rock.

It was in the second tunnel of the climb that we had our first adventure. As we entered—more cave than tunnel—it became immediately clear that it was completely dark. Pitch black.

Kevin, just ahead of me, called out to watch for a hole on the left—just as I unclipped my left pedal and planted my foot directly into the same hole he’d just crashed into.

We fumbled for our phones to light the tunnel, and, without injury, gently rode out the other side, continuing the climb.

Of course, what goes up must come down.

By now, the heavy skies had opened into a steady rain. As we began the descent, I tucked in behind Gavin—a 27-year-old recently retired pro cyclist, still living in France.

Following a professional cyclist down a 20-mile descent in the Alps, in the rain—this was when my Alpine adventure truly began.

Toward the end of the week, with a few of the guys resting and others off on a long ride to the north, I decided to head south—alone—into the wild beauty of Parc National des Écrins. My destination: the tiny mountain village of La Bérarde.

The road unfolded in front of me, rising into a high alpine wonderland. An infinite blue sky stretched overhead, and snow-capped peaks framed the horizon in every direction.

As I climbed higher, I found myself thinking back to that cold, grey February morning—the one that first nudged me toward this trip.

Now, here I was. Healed. Out of the routine. Feeling expansive. Certainly no longer claustrophobic.

And then—La Bérarde. A quiet village, a single café. Time for an espresso, a perfect croissant, and a few moments to soak in the view.

Later, I rolled back down to the valley to meet Kevin, Henri, and James for a long, leisurely French lunch.

Every day ended in a kind of reverie—us sitting outside, laughing, sharing stories of the day’s ride, and planning for the next.

But here’s the thing: we don’t need to ride through pitch-black tunnels or descend rainy Alpine roads behind a retired pro cyclist to find adventure.

Adventure can be found just outside our door.

I think of Kathy, who runs a different route through the South Bay each Saturday, just to admire new houses and their gardens. Or Cheryl, who celebrated retirement by walking the entire coast of Southern California—one stretch at a time—over the past year. Or Deborah, who’s been working through a painful knee, choosing to keep moving, keep healing, and say yes to a future trip to Japan with friends.

So here’s the invitation:
Let’s remember that staying fit—while vital for healthy aging and longevity—also gives us something even more immediate.

It gives us the freedom to say yes to adventure, wherever it may find us. Big or small.