A Lesson in Slowing Down

by Jennifer Ward

On the morning of June 15, I found myself standing on the start line of the UCI gravel worlds qualifier in Millau, France. Usually, a European start line signalled a bucket-list event I’d been targeting for months. But not this time. 

“There’s a gravel race in France the weekend we’ll be driving through,” my partner, James, had texted me back in the spring while planning our summer trip to Europe. 

Some of you out there know that blessings of this sort are never to be taken lightly. So I signed up immediately.

I was still partly jet-lagged and definitely not recovered from my 35-degree, 5-hour road ride just days prior in Girona, Spain. I collected my rental bike feeling stiff from the long drive, and we checked into the B&B I’d booked, conveniently located where the race started the next morning.

Dinner that night—at the outdoor riverside cafe that was straight out of a Kinfolk magazine spread—went past 10. I couldn’t pull my son away from the impish French girls he’d befriended. So as the evening light filtered through the trees strung with mini lights, I sipped my second glass of rosé and pretended I wasn’t racing the next morning. 

Morning came. I quietly made my toast and coffee, snuck out of the cabin, and coasted down to the start line. I lined up in my corral, feeling a bit sheepish wearing an elite bib. (I’d upgraded my licence back in Canada, not really thinking about this race—oops!) 

The women took off HOT, tackling the first 10km and its 800 metres of elevation with gusto. I tried for about 5 minutes to keep up with them, and then basically gave up. I’m a pretty gutsy road racer, and it’s not like me to just stop caring. But sometimes it happens. 

The excuses started firing faster than my escalating heart rate: “This is the right decision–it’s going to be a long, hot day.” “Ride at your own pace, and see what happens.” “This is just for FUN, it’s not your A-race…” “You’re not an elite gravel racer, just be grateful you’re here!” 

I’m sure many of you are familiar with the mental battles this sport can stir up.

At the top of the climb, we exited the road onto singletrack, a ribbon carrying me into the woods and away from the chatter in my head. Suddenly it was just me, a body moving a bicycle through space and time. 

There in the forest, I made peace with my lacklustre fitness and waning ambition. I settled into a comfortable gear, and set out on what would be five hours of mostly solo riding. The world, and my thoughts, were getting quieter by the kilometre. 

The day was unexpectedly cool, with a brief, light rain adding an otherworldly feel.

We descended into La Roque Saint-Marguerite, a medieval village built into a cliffside on a road that seemed to have been built just for us. The 130-km route took us through the vast limestone plateaus of the Grands Causses Regional Park and was flowy, minimally technical, and superbly varied. Grassy double-track, pine-scented singletrack, loose descents that rattled me, and sandy, rocky climbs kept me distracted from the effort, and it all felt playful, as gravel riding should. We looped through Le Camp Militaire Du Larzac, eerie and desolate, the dirt underneath my wheels layered with history.  

Six hours later, I made it to the finish line, which was set up under the Millau Viaduct—one of the tallest bridges in the world. The imposing structure was draped in fog; I finished in a literal cloud, relieved and thoroughly happy. I wasn’t wrecked, as I often am after long races. I didn’t empty the tank. Instead, I filled it up.