Joe Dominey's Tour 21 Journal: Riding the Tour de France on an OBED Boundary
This year, Joe Dominey was selected to ride the entire 2025 Tour de France route—3,338.8 km (2,075 miles) over 21 days—for The Tour 21, a grueling event where amateur riders from around the world ride the Tour route ahead of the pros to raise funds for Cure Leukaemia and leukemia research. OBED was honored that Joe chose an OBED Boundary to ride The Tour 21. We even painted his frame Tour de France yellow for him!
The Tour de France is one of the toughest endurance challenges in the world, and Joe isn’t your stereotypical cycling whippet. The 52-year-old from Beaverton, Oregon, was a defensive lineman at Linfield, but he's had a lifelong passion for cycling, and completing The Tour 21 was deeply personal. He rode for his mother, who was diagnosed with leukemia in 2020, and Douglas Eberwein, a close friend of his stepson Josh, who lost his battle with leukemia at age 16.
During The Tour 21, Joe kept a daily journal to share his experience with his supporters. His mission, struggles, and accomplishments have been incredibly moving and inspiring, and we have the privilege of publishing Joe’s Tour 21 journal here. We've also included the official Tour 21 recap videos of each week, so be sure to give those a watch to really relive his experience. (Joe and his Boundary get some good screen time on stage 10/week 2.)
The Tour 21 is over, but you can still donate to fund leukemia research through Joe's link below. The more money raised, the more drug trial research that can take place!
Joe Dominey’s Tour 21 Journal
Here is the journal I kept during The Tour 21. I tried to really go into my innermost thoughts as the suffering mounted, all while understanding that my suffering does not compare to that of a cancer patient fighting for their life.
Thank you very much to everyone who has contributed along the way. The biggest thank you I need to say it to my wife, Shannon Angel Wiltz. From day one she has been incredibly supportive. When I come back from long training rides, I would find notes left from her that said “proud of you.” She is the most relentless and ruthless fundraiser ever. She will just say to someone ‘Time to donate,” and THEY DO. I would not be here without you. The woman has endured a year of sheer lunacy from me with this project. I am incredibly lucky.
I laugh and joke a lot, partially because I am HILARIOUS, as I tell my wife. She just looks at me blankly when I make this claim. I like to poke fun at myself. I figure that if you can’t laugh at yourself, you don’t deserve to laugh at others. However, I do take this Tour 21 thing very seriously.
People have placed their time, their money, and their faith in me in this Tour 21 venture. I take that responsibility to heart. In the last 12 months, I have ridden 12,000 miles in preparation for this event. I have ridden in rain and sleet, and snow. I have done all I can to prepare. Now I need to have my fat ass cash the enormous check that my huge mouth has written.
I tell people that if I can exhibit half the fight, stubbornness, and sheer tenacity that my Mother has in her battle with leukemia, I will be okay. The last several weeks, my Mom told me, “I want you to finish,” so that was my only option.
As much as I love the cycling part of Tour 21, things really hit home when I was preparing the Today I Ride For placards that I will wear on my back during each stage. These are people’s loved ones. That is huge motivation for me. I do not want to let down these people or let down their families.
Stage 1 – Lille to Lille
One of the MOST epic days I have ever had on the bicycle.
I woke up at 1:30 AM and could not get back to sleep. I have been struggling with the time change, and I was excited. We had breakfast and then set off at 8 AM on a 120-mile ride for Stage One of Tour 21.
We had a lead SUV that drove in front of us the entire route. We also had motorcycle escorts that would race ahead to block off intersections and stop traffic. We would blow through red lights, stop signs, intersections, and roundabouts without having to stop or even slow down. I felt like I was riding the ACTUAL Tour de France. It was amazing.
We were like a big red train flying along. We caused a commotion every time we went into a town, with horns and sirens. People were filming us, thinking we were a pro team out for a ride. I was obviously the fat Russian oligarch who owns the team that they were letting ride with them just so he got his money's worth.
It was an UNBELIEVABLE day on the bike. The experience was unforgettable. Hayden Groves and Stephen Edwards were powerhouses on the front all day line. Phenomenal ride captains.
Andy Cook runs THE BEST cycling experience in THE WORLD. It was like clockwork. Everything was perfect. We averaged 17 mph for just under 121 miles.
Afterwards, the ride was all about recovery. I got the compression boots on, then had a massage, trying to get ready for tomorrow. I rode today for my friend JR Rodriguez, who was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He has had successful treatment and is doing well. JR was the person who introduced me to cycling. I used to ride my bike 10 to 15 miles and feel like a badass. He invited me to come out to join the Laredo Cycling Club. There I was exposed to real riders, and I got into cycling heavily. If I had not met JR, who knows if I would have ever found cycling and been able to ride Stage One of Tour 21 today.
Stage 2 - Lauwin-Planque to Boulogne-sur-Mer
Another awesome day.
Yesterday was a show-off stage with us blasting through towns, but it was actually a very easy 120 miles without much elevation. Today was a real TDF stage. We headed out into the rolling French countryside. A beautiful, warm day for a ride. I ended up drinking 12 bottles during the stage.
The first 200 km were rolling hills, but then there was some serious sting in the tail. About 95 miles into the ride, we hit some cobbles as we went through a town. The key to cobbles is actually to ride them hard and fast. You still bounce all over, but you have to attack them. Your bike sounds like it is going to fall apart. About two miles later, I look down at my handlebars and see that my Garmin bike computer is missing. It had come loose and vanished. It had to have been on the cobbles. Long gone.
There were some very steep, short, punchy climbs. We had one climb at a solid 15 percent for a good 3/4 of a mile. Ended up at 137 miles, over 7500 feet of climbing, and 8 hours and 24 minutes. My longest day ever on the bike and the longest stage of the 2025 TDF Route.
It was a long, hot, hard ride, but I was riding Stage 2 of the TDF route. It was another awesome day for the fat Russian oligarch team owner on the bike.
Stage 3 - Valenciennes to Dunkerque
After drinking 12 bottles on the bike during Stage 2, I probably drank another 7 or 8 bottles after. I didn’t pee until 10 PM; that is how much effort Stage 2 took. Then I was trying to update my social media stuff, and I had problem after problem. I was so tired and frustrated that I wanted to cry. I just wanted to sleep. The internet at the hotel was spotty and was killing me. I finally got it done about 11:30 PM and shut it down.
I woke up today feeling a little tired but knowing that today was a 110-mile "recovery" ride. I shit you not, 110 miles of "recovery." We packed up and left the hotel and got on the bus to go to the start town.
It was another gorgeous day, and we got out on the road and started moving along. You could tell everyone was a little tired because we weren't talking a lot. We were going through the French countryside and small towns. In one small town, a group of school children saw us going by and they started jumping up and down, waving, and yelling.
It didn't feel too hot at the start, but pretty soon were were seeing 34 to 38 Celsius on the displays in town, which is 93 to 100 degrees Fahrenheit. With 20 miles to go, you could really feel the heat. We actually went through the same town we went through on Stage 1 and did part of a cobbled climb again. I had a great climb and really attacked the cobbles. The extra kilos I carry actually help on the cobbles. You ride them as hard and as fast as you can. I don't like cobbles, but I am decent at them.
On the way into Dunkerque, we were really moving. Guys wanted to get the recovery day done and get on the bus for the two-hour trip to Amiens. Weaving our way through the city, it is actually scary to think how fast the pros are going to be riding with the tight corners and traffic furniture to the finish line.
Tomorrow is supposed to be even hotter, and we cover 7000 plus feet of elevation in 180 km. The Tour is brutal. That is not a complaint; it is a fact. It pounds you mercilessly day after day. If you complete the route, you become a “Giant of the Road” forever. Nothing good comes easy. The bigger the reward, the tougher the struggle. And this is NOTHING compared to someone battling for their life against leukemia.
Today I rode the first half of the stage for Damion Clanton. A fellow I knew in college. He passed from Colorectal Cancer last year.
This actually happened today. I was talking with another rider, David Barnett, from London. He mentioned that he had had cancer, and then mentioned it was Stage 3 colorectal cancer. I did a double take and then explained that I was riding today for someone who passed from colorectal cancer. What are the odds? Then I noticed he was wearing a necklace. I asked him what it was, and he said it was a Phoenix rising from the ashes. I pointed out that my bike is named the Phoenix, and then he told me his son is named Phoenix.
I can't make this up. It was like we were destined to meet on Tour 21. Call it divine intervention or the universe aligning, it is a beyond crazy coincidence.
I then rode the second half of the stage for Michael Langer. He passed from colon cancer. It truly is an honor to be able to remember these people and carry them with me on this journey.
Stage 4 - Amiens to Rouen
Good god. It was hot. I don't mean warm. I don't mean toasty. It was hot. Like in the old Bugs Bunny cartoon, where the setting is super hot; surface of the sun hot. We had reports it hit 42 to 44 Celsius, which is about 104 to 107 Fahrenheit.
There is a heat dome that is causing a record heatwave. They closed 1350 schools across France because of the heat. There was a weather advisory that said it was dangerous to do outside activities. So, in other words, a perfect day to ride a Tour de France stage.
We started early to try to avoid the heat as much as possible. I felt absolutely horrible. The legs felt heavy and tired, and I was mentally drained. We were really out in the French countryside today. As the morning went along, I was just praying for the first stop at 32 miles. I was really struggling. I couldn't get moving. I was just holding on and trying to fake it. I was so thirsty. The first three stages have all been hot and humid, and hydration is a struggle. I was dying for an ice-cold glass of water, but they don't really do ice in Europe.
The next 30 miles weren't much better. I felt completely blown out, and the pace was killing me. I won't lie, I was honestly considering pulling out of the stage. WTF was I doing? This was insane.
We stopped at a French barn built in the 17th century for lunch. I drank 3 bottles of water and got something to eat. I stripped off my jersey, which was completely soaked, and that helped. Everyone was feeling the heat. We stayed in the barn, and it really helped.
After lunch, suddenly I started to feel better. My legs started to come alive, and it actually didn't feel as hot. The second half of the day had all the climbing. I felt good and stayed within myself on the climbs. The first climb was called Côte Jacques Anqutiel. Anqutiel won the Tour de France five times, and he was born in the region. His chateau was at the top of the climb. It was so cool to do that climb.
We finished in Rouen, which was where they burned Joan of Arc at the stake and threw her ashes in the ocean. I will be honest, being burned alive couldn’t be any hotter than it was today on the bike.
Tomorrow is a short 20-mile time trial in Caen, so that is just like a rest day.
Thank goodness.
Stage 5 - Caen to Caen Time Trial
A short time trial of 20 miles, also a massive break from the sweltering heat. We needed it.
Instead, it was a downpour with thunder and lightning. I am from Oregon, and we have webbed feet. It wasn't too bad, but we did have to negotiate the town, train tracks, and traffic. The biggest goal today was for everyone to stay upright.
The moto guys once again were phenomenal. Those guys put their lives on the line to keep us safe. They close off intersections and stop traffic, and then they whiz by us at 30 to 35 mph to get back ahead. They are bolting over curbs and up on the sidewalks so they can get back in front of us. They are AMAZING. We trust them with our lives and are so fortunate to have them.
I rode next to Roy, who is an absolute powerhouse from Israel. He also had leukemia and had a bone marrow transplant. He is awesome and has been nicknamed the Lion of Tel Aviv. He was impressed that I wasn’t cold. I said, "The fat Russian Bear oligarch has some extra padding to keep warm."
Even though the weather wasn't great, we were still riding Stage Five of the TdF route. Coming back through town, we saw some amazing scenery. Cycling through France is like riding in a storybook. Caen is celebrating the 1000th birthday of a castle built for William the Conqueror.
After the ride, I took an hour and a half nap. My body is desperate for rest. Then it was a massage for recovery and cleaning my bike. Also got some laundry done. Which was HUGE. Stage 6 is MONSTROUS. Over 11,000 feet of climbing. So tomorrow we get back at it for real.
Stage 6 - Bayeux to Dieppe
I did not sleep well. I bought a new Garmin after Stage 5, and I had a terrible time setting it up. With the fatigue, every time something goes wrong and becomes a stupid, ridiculous chore, I feel like crying. Little things going wrong become huge things. There is NO time to fix them. Losing my Garmin on Stage 2 on the cobbles created a real pain for me.
I woke up tired and dreading Stage 6. I just didn't feel great. On the bus from Caen to Bayeux, the guys were very lively and chatting. Their good spirits really picked me up. The ride started, and I felt really good. The easy 20-mile stage the day before really helped my body recover.
We went through the Norman hedgerow country, which caused the Allies a ton of trouble during the aftermath of the D-Day invasion. The hedgerows are used as fences, and the Germans would set up machine guns in the corners, creating a killing field that the Allied soldiers would have to overcome field by field. The Allies suffered terrible losses as they moved inland. They were supposed to take Caen on D-Day. Instead, it took them 6 weeks to move 9 miles and capture the town. Such an amazingly gorgeous countryside that 81 years ago was the site of such conflict. I gave the guys a little history lesson on the bocage, as it is called. I love history. A couple of them actually listened.
The Stage featured rolling hill after rolling hill. The small towns we were going through were truly a fairytale come to life. The descents were long and sweeping. On one of them, I cruised by Roy, The Lion of Tel Aviv, at 45 mph and gave him a “toodles” wave as I passed. He caught up to me on the flat, looked at me, and said, “You are so f***ing heavy." We both started laughing. It takes me a little bit to get going, but the inertia continues to build the farther down the hill I get. The descent was on beautiful, smooth roads. With the lead car and motos it was a lot of fun.
We stopped in a small town for lunch, and the mayor came out to meet us. We are kind of a big deal. The temperature was much cooler in the morning. It got hotter as the day progressed, but nowhere near Stage 4 heat. The last half of the stage was more rolling hills, and the entire thing took 8 hours and 27 minutes to cover 128 miles and over 11,000 feet of climbing.
I didn't even know what town we finished in. I was so brain-dead that I also forgot it was my monthly anniversary date with my wife. We got married on August 3rd, and we celebrate on the third of every month. I talked to her on the phone and had NO IDEA until she mentioned it. I didn't know what day of the week it was. I don't know what day on the calendar it was. I just got on my bike and followed our amazing ride leaders. Whatever they tell me to do, I do.
On the bus transfer to wherever we are going, we saw Mont St Michel, a spectacular island commune. France continues to amaze. Tomorrow, Stage 7 is another 120-plus miler with almost 8,000 feet of climbing. The Tour continues to punish.
Stage 7 - St Malo to Mur de Bretagne
Another long, hilly stage. I woke up and my first thought was, "Man, I am tired." Then I said to myself, "Man up and change your attitude."
It was an early start at 7:30 AM. I felt HORRIBLE at the start. Stage 6 really beat me up. The first 30 miles were a struggle. I was hanging on and trying to change my attitude and get going. One of our riders was celebrating his 22nd anniversary of being diagnosed with leukemia, and he had a good attitude, so that helped me change mine. (I don't want to sound like I am complaining. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, but the physical and mental challenge is immense.)
After the morning break, suddenly I felt great. Maybe it was because I stepped into the biggest pile of dog shit in the history of the world at the break. It took me forever to clean my shoe off. I swear, Clifford the Big Red Dog took a crap and left it for me to find. Sometimes I’d move towards the front in an effort to wake myself up and also to fake it until I make it. My legs felt better and I was perking up.
At lunch, the roadside angels, the ladies who take care of our laundry and feed us, broke out hot dogs in honor of the Fourth of July. What an awesome treat, especially since we signed the Declaration of Independence from England on this Day. Or as the English refer to it, "Goodbye America and Good Riddance."
After lunch, we cycled through Yffiniac, which is the hometown of Bernard Hinault, who won the Tour de France five times, and who hails from Brittany. He is also the last French winner of the Tour, which happened way back in 1985. Don't mention that to the French.
A couple of miles later, we had a tremendous pileup. That makes it sound way worse than it was. We suddenly went up a steep gradient, and guys couldn't get shifted down to their lowest gears fast enough. Suddenly, they came to a halt and started tumbling over like dominoes at maybe 1 mph.
Tim collided with Luke, and they went down in front of me. I managed to swerve around them, while running over Luke's left hand in the process, and I stayed upright on the 18 percent slope. A couple of seconds later, I heard more sounds of bikes hitting the ground as Geoff, Steven, and Dave all went down. I looked behind me, and there were guys strewn all over the road. It ended up being okay, other than something breaking on a guy's bike, but no major injuries. It looked like the Keystone Cops trying to ride bikes.
At the end of the stage, we tackled the famous Mur de Bretagne (“mur” in French means “wall”), not once but twice. It has a big reputation, but frankly, I have training hills back home that are steeper. The second time up the Mur, we were allowed to really hammer, and I was really happy with my time.
Overall, we rode 119 miles, with 7,900 feet of elevation in 7 hours and 34 minutes. Another fabulous day on the bike in the gorgeous French countryside. Hard to get any better. This is how warped our thinking is, tomorrow is ONLY 107 miles with about 5,000 feet of elevation. A veritable picnic.
Geoff Thomas was the fellow riding with us who celebrated the 22nd anniversary of his Leukemia diagnosis. He was given three months to live. He is still alive and kicking due to treatment and giving the finger to Leukemia. Geoff played football in the Premier League and came up with the idea of riding the Tour route in 2005. This is his seventh Tour. He is an absolute warrior.
Stage 8 - Saint-Meen-Le-Grand to Laval-Espace-Mayenne
An early morning wakeup followed by an hour transfer on the bus to our start location. On Stage 7, I dropped the hammer on the Mur de Bretagne and put out 375 watts for 8:38 to end the stage up the iconic climb. It was the first time the ride directors said we could go hard. I don't plan to do it often, or maybe ever again. My legs felt it today. Regardless, I stayed toward the front, and after a little while, my legs started to engage.
It was a very flat day, and with the tailwind, we were moving. At lunchtime time we stopped in this crazy, picturesque setting and ate by a lake in a park. It is crazy how ridiculously beautiful France is as a country. Coming into the town, we saw a castle/chateau straight out of a Disney film. After lunch, we started to really move. Guys wanted to get done so we could get back and see the first Stage of the Tour de France, which started in Lille today.
Late in the ride, with about 20 miles to go, we passed a guy whom I met in Paris at the airport and rode the train to Lille with. This guy was riding the same thing we are doing, all 21 stages, just for a different group. This guy was a BEAST, a way better athlete than I am. However, he was really struggling. I said, "Hop on the back of the Red Train.” He just looked at me and said, "Man, I am really struggling.” I said, "You can do it, brother," and then we were gone. The Red Train rolling along.
I felt really sorry for him. I am so lucky to have a team of guys that work together, an AMAZING support staff, the motos, and the road angels that feed us. This is not a knock on the other group at all. It is a commentary about how lucky we are to have a fully functioning group that works as a team. We have each other’s backs, and we are so wonderfully supported. We are incredibly lucky. Andy Cook, our ride director, does an amazing job. He runs the ship, keeping 15 guys out of trouble as they ride around France.
Stage 9 tomorrow is a similar day with the mileage and the elevation, although we are expecting rain. We need to rest up on Stage 9, because Stage 10 on Monday is an absolute MONSTER.
Stage 9 - Chinon to Chateauroux
Today was another flat stage and was designated as a recovery day. It was supposed to be an "easy" day of 110 miles. We woke up and it was pouring rain. The Tour does not stop, so we took off from Chinon. Riding in a pack in the rain is tough. You get soaked from the rain AND the spray from the wheel in front of you. Our goal was to get through safely.
I slept decently and felt pretty good at the start, but anytime the road went uphill, my legs were arguing with me. They just would not respond. I was trying everything. I tried gels with caffeine, I cussed them out, I pretended I was fine, nothing worked. I was riding near the front, trying to minimize the spray, but started to slip back after about 20 miles. I just hung on to the first break at 32 miles.
After that, it was a day of desperately trying to stay in contact with the group. Our ride director, Andy Cook, talked to me and just told me to ride at my pace and not panic. At lunch, our support crew found this amazing place that was inside and dry for us to eat at 65 miles. They take such great care of us. It was a relief to change clothes and get dry for a bit.
How bad a day was it for me? I slipped putting on my shoe and fell back with my left leg folding under me and getting trapped underneath me as we were about to get back going. Honestly, I was lucky I didn't tear something in my knee. I felt a little better after lunch and did manage to pull off a solid pro move and pee while riding at 20 mph at mile 85. I didn't even get any on me. Normally, when I try that, I piss all over myself.
The last 25 miles were really tough, though. I was just trying to get home to the bus. The rain had eased, which was a huge help. I didn't want to quit, but I desperately wanted to pull over and just rest for 5 minutes. I kept falling back out of the group every time the road slightly went up. A couple of times, the motos motor paced me back up to the group. So grateful for those guys. Andy Cook once again saved my ass. He slowed down and paced me back up to the group. We finally hit the bus after 110 miles. Thank goodness.
As tough as this shitty day was, and it was awful for me, I tried to remember that there are people in a real fight for their lives against cancer. I have a choice to ride my bike; they don't. I can't dishonor them by quitting. If I don't make the time cut, that is different, but I can't quit. I talked yesterday about seeing a guy I know who was struggling all alone and hurting. I was NEVER left on my own; the guys had my back. I am very fortunate and grateful for that support.
After the stage, we had a 2.5-hour bus transfer. Normally, tomorrow would be our first rest day, but because Stage 10 for the pros falls on Bastille Day (Monday, July 14th), we are riding.
On Stage 10, we go into the Massif Central with 7 categorized climbs with over 4000 meters of climbing.
Stage 10 - Ennezat to Le Mont-Dore Puy de Sancy
Both one of my best and worst days on the bike.
Stage 10 was a beast. No two ways about it. After the way I suffered on Stage 9 and felt empty physically and exhausted, I was incredibly worried. Two miles into Stage 10, I told our ride director Andy Cook to leave me behind. I was done. I had absolutely nothing in my legs. I knew I was in serious trouble when I walked upstairs in the hotel after breakfast, and I was absolutely panting from that effort.
I wasn't going to quit, I was going to ride as far as I could until they stopped me. I would just have to ride super slow. With 100 miles to ride and 14,000 feet of climbing, it might take me 12 to 14 hours to make it. No way could I keep up with the group. Zero chance. Andy talked me off the ledge, and about 2 miles later, I actually caught up to the group on the first climb. That began a day of falling behind and then trying to catch up on the descents.
I could not understand why I felt so awful and empty. Yes, it was day 10 of a Grand Tour, but I INTENTIONALLY trained my body to respond when I was tired. How was this happening? What is wrong with me? Why, when the road went even slightly uphill, did I feel like I was climbing Mont Ventoux? I would start panting and feel absolutely dead in my legs. My inner thoughts just hammered me all day long. They would not stop. What is wrong with me? Am I not mentally tough enough? How can I let everyone down who donated? How can I let myself down like this?
There were a couple of times I started to feel better, then I would crash again. Like a house of cards collapsing in a windstorm.
At lunch, our support crew once again pulled some strings and got us inside a building out of the rain and cold. We are SO LUCKY. I thought, “Okay, I have made it 57 miles, and have just 40 miles to go. I just got fed and put on dry, warm clothes. I've got this."
Then, after lunch, we started with a climb, and I almost completely collapsed. I thought multiple times about getting off the bike. I spent a lot of time thinking about my wife, Shannon Angel Wiltz. I am incredibly lucky to have her in my life. She always has my back. I finally got to the top, and the guys were trying to be encouraging. One guy said, "That was a tough climb, good job." In my head, I was thinking, "That climb is nothing—3 miles at 5 percent—I should have hammered that climb. This is pathetic. What is wrong with me?"
Right after that, we had a 2-mile climb and I felt GREAT. That was followed by a long, fast, sweeping descent. I absolutely smoked it. I was flying. At one point, I blew past a teammate at 40-plus mph and gave him the finger and thought, "I am BACK. That's how Joe Dominey rides!" (I love giving the middle finger to tiny climbers on descents. “Fat” and “fast” only have one difference between them. The “S” for speed, baby!)
We stopped for water and had 20 miles to go. I was feeling really good. I told Andy this, and then 10 minutes later, I felt absolutely awful when a climb started. I mean it was worse than ever. I was dizzy and swerving all across the road with no energy.
I barely made it through that climb, and then the next climb was even worse. I was going up a 2 percent grade at 6.5 mph. Are you f***ing kidding me? This was embarrassing. I started cussing out loud at myself. People who know me will testify that I do this. It was humiliating to ride this slowly. I couldn't do anything about it. I struggled to the top, and then we descended again to the penultimate climb of the day. The wind picked up something vicious, and on the climb, it would be a headwind, then crosswind, then a quick tailwind, and then back to headwind. I was pissed at the wind (very mature, I know), but I actually had an okay climb.
One more descent, then a final climb to the ski station. 2 miles at 8 percent. Not the longest or toughest, but one final push. I had a really good final climb and finished the ride. 98.6 miles. I never want to ride that route again.
Epic suffering in this beautiful place…
We had to descend to the bus, and on the 2.5-mile descent, I started thinking again about my wife. How unbelievably supportive she has been, I started sobbing while riding. Like a big baby. 8 hours and 57 minutes of pure suffering. (And I know that people fighting for their lives against Leukemia or cancers of all kinds are involved in a much tougher level of suffering. They are truly amazing.)
Grateful and relieved to have made it.
No way I make it without our rider leaders: Andy Cook, Stephen Edwards, Peter Georgi, and Hayden Groves. No way I make it without all the guys on the team. They were awesome. Incredible support.
No way I make it without the entire support crew. They take amazing care of us. We are so lucky. We have a guy who has called the mayor of the town we have been going to the last two days and gotten us INSIDE during the rain and cold. The difference that has made is INCREDIBLE. To get warm and dry in 40 minutes is huge. Super lucky to be part of Tour 21.
Rest day tomorrow. Thank goodness.
Stage 11 - Toulouse to Toulouse
Stage 11 was a good day.
We had a rest day on Tuesday, and I desperately needed it. I got a massage and also spent 50 minutes in the leg compression boots. I also had some ice cream. I had ridden 1,000 miles in 10 days and had NOT gotten any ice cream. This travesty had to be corrected.
Stage 10 was absolutely brutal for me. I was completely physically dead at the start and suffered for almost 9 hours to finish. The rest day gave me a chance to, well, rest. We all needed it.
At breakfast, one of the guys asked me if I knew the character Little Joe on the TV show Bonanza. He said I reminded him of Little Joe. This guy is clearly nuts. I am obviously Hoss on Bonanza, the fat guy. Plain as day.
Today was a flat stage of 103 miles where the goal was to get through with as little energy expended as possible. Crazy, a 103-mile “recovery day.” I was frankly still worried about how my body would bounce back. I have never felt as crushed on a bike as I did on Monday.
My legs felt okay at the start, and then gradually started to feel better and better. I reminded myself not to go too hard on the small climbs. Tomorrow is a big mountain day. I was trying to save energy.
The weather was beautiful, and the rolling French countryside was gorgeous as usual. I had the energy to talk in the peloton. I think the guys may have wished I was feeling worse, like Monday, just so they could get some peace and quiet. It was nice to ride and not suffer so terribly. Monday was one of my worst days ever on the bike. Grateful I managed to finish that stage with the help of the team.
A couple of times, I wanted to take off hard, but I kept reminding myself to save my energy. Save, save, save, save. While riding, we could see the Pyrenees looming off in the distance. I’d glance over, knowing that is where we are headed tomorrow. They were lurking and waiting. I have done two of the three climbs we do tomorrow. They are tough, but I actually love the high mountains. They are spectacular to ride in. More suffering in a beautiful place awaits. The mountains are where the Tour really tests you.
Stage 12 - Auch to Hautacam
Had a hard time sleeping, probably because I knew we had several tough climbs waiting for us today. We rolled out of Auch at 7 a.m. and spent the first 70 miles doing rolling hills. I hit 50 mph on a gorgeous, smooth stretch of downhill road at one point. It felt like flying.
The lunch ladies found us a great spot to eat in a park. They do such an exceptional job of taking care of us. Guys didn't talk a lot at lunch. All day long, we had been getting closer and closer to the Pyrenees. The mountains got bigger and bigger and bigger. The Pyrenees are spectacular in real life. Everyone knew we were headed into the big mountains today. I felt a little like being in the locker room in college before a big game. No more playing around with short climbs. Long, steep, and tough climbs awaited. It was also warm and getting warmer.
We moved into the Pyrenees along this single-lane road right next to a river. I had actually been in this region before and done two of the three scheduled climbs at the back end of the stage. We went through this small town called Frerries and then turned right onto the Col du Soulor. It is a very underrated climb of 7 miles at 7.3 percent.
It was mercilessly hot on the climb, in large part because you aren't moving fast enough to generate enough air movement to cool off. The sun just pounded down on all of us. At the top, we regrouped and saw some wild horses. Then we had a very fast sweeping descent into Argeles-Gazost after a short 2-mile climb. The main course was about to be served, the Hautacam. 9 miles at 7.8 percent up to a ski resort. It is a Hors Categorie climb. Climbs are rated 4, 3, 2, and 1. 4 is the easiest, and so on. An HC is basically an attempt to kill you.
The Hautacam then proceeded to do just that to me. My first 2.5 miles were solid, then I just collapsed. I could not turn the pedals. I was absolutely dead in the water. I stopped twice, which I have NEVER done on a climb. In my ENTIRE life. It was a long sufferfest and slog to the top, and so hot. I had the jersey open, gut hanging out, AND I DID NOT CARE.
The last time I did Hautacam in 2022, it was misty, then raining, and then foggy. There was no view. Today, while I was struggling up the climb, I did look at the view. It was amazing, and it DID NOT HELP. Right before the top, there is a left-hand turn, and as I came around it, there were a bunch of wild horses standing right in the road. At this point, I actually knew I was going to finish, so it was pretty cool.
Today, I was grateful to finish the stage. The heat really worked me over. I am sure I drank close to 15 bottles. No excuses, everyone else dealt with the same thing. The guys rode great. We all encouraged each other. Very lucky to have the support of everyone.
Stage 13 tomorrow is a 7-mile time trial up a 7 percent grade. It finishes at the Altiport 007, which is where they filmed the opening to Tomorrow Never Dies. I very much realize how lucky I am to get to "suffer" like this. People fighting for their lives against cancer don't have this option. I try to make sure to remember that when I ride, who it is for.
Stage 13 - Peyragudes TT
Today was the uphill time trial to the Peyragudes in the Pyrenees. Yesterday was a really tough day with the heat, 117 miles, and almost 13,000 feet of climbing. Everyone was tired. So today, being only a little over 7 miles, even though it was uphill, was a relief. Everyone was looking to take it easy and just try to recover as much as possible, because tomorrow is a huge day in the mountains.
The climb to the altiport is gorgeous. We rolled out of Loudenville at 9:30 a.m. and biked past a beautiful lake before turning right and uphill. The Peyragudes climb shares much of the Peyresourde climb, until you turn right again with about 3 km to go. The race will finish on the actual altiport runway; however, we rode on the road right next to the altiport.
We saw a couple of planes take off and land on the altiport runway, which is 400 meters long, and slopes at a 13-degree angle. It was pretty cool to see. The views of the Pyrenees were absolutely stunning. It was a nice, easy descent back down to the hotel for the transfer to Pau.
Then it was nap time at the hotel. A very boring day.
Stage 14 - Pau to Super Bagneres
I wish I could post on here, "What an easy day! I felt like Pogacar on the bike and absolutely crushed it." Unfortunately, the reality is different for a middle-aged overweight schlub. Stage 14 featured 4 big climbs (3/4 of the famous circle of death). There was a threat of rain when we left Pau, but it actually was nice, relatively warm and humid.
Today was a big day for me. I was riding for my Mom. She has been terminal with leukemia for the last 5 years. The woman just refuses to die. Heading to the Tourmalet, we passed through Lourdes. My Mom was a Catholic nun for 15 years before leaving the order, meeting my Dad, and having me at age 40. We went to Lourdes together in 1984. Lourdes is a huge place in the Catholic faith. People come from all over the world to bathe in its waters. We biked right by the grotto, which was cool and made the stage perfect to ride for my Mom.
On the way to the Tourmalet, the sky really darkened up, and we could hear thunder. It looked like we were entering something from The Lord of the Rings. Once the climb started, the rain came. Rain was fine. It was better than climbing in the heat the other day.
The Tourmalet first appeared in the Tour in 1910. It was the first great mountain climbed in the race.
I was talking to a ride captain on the climb about the Tourmalet, and he said, "Sometimes it is just a road that leads over a hill." I disagreed and said, "This road is magical. All the cycling greats have ridden this road. The legends." It was a nice little friendly chat on the bike. Helped pass the time.
You just have to settle into a long climb like the Tourmalet. It can't be rushed. I felt good and solid on the climb. Climbing was fine in the rain and cold, but the descent was horrible for me. At the bottom, we stopped for lunch, and I couldn't stop shaking from the cold.
Right after lunch, we started the climb of the Aspin, and suddenly I could not get my legs moving. I felt like they were encased in concrete. They just wouldn't work. This was just the second of four climbs, and I felt like things were slipping away. After imploding on Hautacam on Thursday in the heat, my confidence in handling this big stage today was shaky at best. It also started getting hot. After shaking uncontrollably from the cold, I was now pouring water over my head, desperately trying to stay cool.
After a beautiful descent, we started the Peyresourde climb. The first part is actually the same as the Peyragudes climb that we did yesterday for the uphill TT on Stage 13. I was terrified my legs wouldn't work again, but I actually had a solid climb. The last kilometer, though, just would not end. I began cussing and swearing at the climb. Handling it maturely as always…
Our ride captain, Andy Cook, was about 50 meters ahead of me and kept turning to look as I was dropping F bombs in the middle of the spectacular Pyrenees. At the top, which mercifully finally came, he said, "You were making a lot of noise back there." I didn't explain. They all already think I am crazy, and I figure explaining that I was swearing at the mountain and the climb would just confirm it for all eternity.
There was a super long descent down the back side of the Peyresourde. Andy went by me like a rocket. As a former pro, he was a beautiful descender to watch. I, on the other hand, am not. I was tired and attempting not to do something stupid and kill myself.
There was one climb to go. Super Bagneres is a Hors Categorie climb. It started out pretty easy, and my Garmin told me it was 6.6 miles long at 8 percent. I thought, “I have got this.” I was anticipating 4 miles to go and trying to get done in under 10 hours. Suddenly, my Garmin reset the climb. Now, after already climbing 2.6 miles, it said I had 7.8 miles to go. WTF WTF WTF WTF. I kept tapping my Garmin trying to get it to reset to 4 miles to go. No luck.
Talk about a kick to the nuts. It was raining, my feet were screaming at me, and my distance remaining had just doubled. Let’s just say I was vocal about my displeasure for the next 7.8 miles. I F-bombed the crap out of Super Bagneres. The ride captains either stayed well in front of me or well behind me. Apparently, a crazy man yelling “F***” over and over doesn't make for great company. AND THE WORST PART WAS THE CLIMB WAS NEVER ENDING.
With about a mile to go, we saw the bus parked, and I thought we were done, a lucky break. Oh no, Super Bagneres had a little more torture in store. The hotel looked like a Bond Super Villain hideout, partially obscured by the clouds. The last kilometer was probably the worst of my life. I truly never thought I would finish. The only way it could have been worse is if there were sharks with lasers attached to their noses (Austin Powers reference).
On the mile descent back to the bus, I started crying. This was one of my hardest days ever on the bike. It hurt something terrible. And the last climb was from hell. It hurt me something fierce.
No way I get through today without the support of our ride captains, especially Andy Cook, Peter Georgi, and Stephen Edwards. The moto guys encouraged me all day, the lunch ladies, the physios, and the guys on the team. I am incredibly lucky to have such support.
Today was 116.5 miles, over 15,000 feet of climbing, and 10 hours, 59 minutes, and 49 seconds on the bike. I am grateful to have made it through. Stage 15 has “just” 2000 meters of climbing. Then a rest day on Monday.
Stage 15 - Muret to Carcassonne
After a very tough Stage 14, which finished on the climb to Super Bagneres, Stage 15 on Sunday turned out to be extremely tough. We were all hoping for an easy 108-mile "recovery" day, but Stage 15 was a relentless grind of rollers all morning. It just would not stop. I was in serious trouble early on.
Since Stage 9, I have been hanging by a thread. My body is really empty. Every time the road went uphill, I would really struggle. It was relentless with a 1-mile climb, then a ¾-mile climb, then a half-mile climb, just over and over and over. Up and down. It just completely sapped what little reserves I had. I was also still severely dehydrated from the day before. I was trying to drink lots of water and electrolytes, but still thirsty.
They were just two categorized climbs. We hit one of them just before our lunch stop, and it about finished me off. My intent was to get to the lunch break at 68 miles and retire for the day. I honestly did not believe I could get through the stage. I was using caffeine gels to try to perk myself up, anything to get some energy and be able to move forward.
I did not want to stop, but I literally had absolutely nothing in my body. I was starving and thirsty. This had been going on for a week, and I was exhausted by the mental struggle as much as the physical struggle. The Tour de France is one of the hardest sporting challenges on Earth, and it was proving so, even just trying to complete the route. A couple of guys asked how I was doing, and I just said, "Not good." Normally, I fake it, but I couldn't hide it today
At the lunch break, I ate a ton of food and drank a ton and felt a little better. Not great, but a little better. We got on our bikes, and they asked how I felt again, and I just gave a thumbs up. Totally faking it. After lunch, Tim Adams said to me, "I will ride with you." Tim is an awesome person; he has raised almost $175,000 as part of Tour 21. He is always positive and a terrific guy. I felt a little better, and I can't even begin to describe how much it helped to have him ride with me.
We got up the second categorized climb and at mile 81, we had about 27 miles downhill into Carcassonne. I still didn't feel great, but now I felt like I could finish the stage. My biggest worry was not being mentally sharp. I didn’t want to screw up on the descent and wipe a bunch of guys out, or run off the road.
It was pretty much downhill the rest of the day, and we had some fun racing along at 40 mph.
I have been trying like crazy to outrun our ride leader, Andy Cook, on a downhill. I have described his descending skills before. He is a marvelous descender. He absolutely smokes me on the descents. I was in a full aero tuck at 40 mph, and thinking I might finally do it, when he whizzed by me like I was standing still. This is getting RIDICULOUS. So I tried again on another downhill. I pulled a sneak attack when he was sitting up and wasn't looking, I was pedaling like a mad man, then got in to my tuck (hard to tuck something this size, but I tried), pulled up even with him and then watched him casually glance over at me, and then he hit the gas and was gone. We had a pretty good laugh about that once we hit the flats.
It was hot and humid all day, which did not help. Coming into Carcassone riding at 35-40 mph downhill, it was still hot. We finally reached the hotel after 7 hours and 35 minutes. If you want to know how hot and dehydrated I was, I only peed twice during the ride. And I didn't pee a whole lot. There just aren't any extra fluids in my body. I just can't seem to get enough fluids to rehydrate. Eating enough is tough. I am burning 6,000-8,000 calories a day. There just isn't enough time to eat or sleep or drink.
This easy "recovery" day featured over 8,000 feet of climbing, in temps that were close to 90 degrees and humid. It was a hard day for everyone. Huge thank you to Tim Adams. It was awesome what he did for me. Steven Moody really encouraged me today, also. The little leprechaun was helpful. So grateful to all my teammates. We all support and pull for each other. The support staff, as usual, was amazing. They take great care of us.
I knew this would be hard and taxing, but it is 5 times harder than I even imagined. I am just trying to make it through each day. Grateful to have made it through 15 stages so far. I don't want to let down the people who donated, the people I am riding for, my teammates, or myself.
An enormously anticipated rest day on Monday. We all need it. Then we begin the third week, which is when it really gets hard. Thank you for following along. I have received a lot of messages of support. They are greatly appreciated.
P.S. My intent is to write a brutally honest portrayal of my experience. To share my innermost thoughts, fears, doubts, and struggles. I am fully aware that this suffering I am going through, while it is immense, is nowhere close to the suffering of someone fighting a cancer of ANY kind. The suffering of someone truly fighting for their life
Immediately after posting this, it was brought home in a conversation with one of my teammates, Roy Lowenberg. Roy had a bone marrow transplant about 16 months ago as part of his battle with leukemia. He still has to take pills as part of his daily routine. Basically, his immune system was transplanted (bone marrow produces your immune system). The pills help Roy with his own immune system because the transplanted immune system is actually attacking his own body.
The pills also lower his hemoglobin, which is the red blood cell count. So Roy is actually riding Tour 21 with a lower-than-normal blood oxygen count. Which means he is kicking all our asses at less than 100 percent. He is true courage and inspiration. An absolute warrior. When I am utterly exhausted, I look at Roy and two of my other teammates who have fought leukemia, and I don't want to let them down. My only choice is to give the thumbs up and keep trying to go forward to honor them.
Stage 16 - Montpellier to Mont Ventoux
Today, we took on the most iconic, recognizable climb in cycling, but first I had to get there.
Monday was a rest day. We all needed it. I got a nap and ate a ton, trying to recover from Stage 14 and 15. That is what I am learning about a grand tour: if you get behind, you are in real trouble. I slept decently, woke up and had breakfast, walked back upstairs, and was nearly keeled over by the effort to walk two flights of stairs.
This sounds like a repeat, but I felt horrible. My body wouldn't respond. I felt dead and empty inside. About 10 miles in, someone had a puncture, and Andy Cook, our ride director, stepped in and made the call of the Tour for me. He said, "Let's ride ahead together at our pace while they change the tire." All I really wanted to do was put my head on my handlebars and rest, but I don't argue with anything Andy says. He knows way more than I do. I was willing to try anything. I was just trying to get through this stage.
I finally started to perk up a little, and we had a really nice ride to the morning break. The rest of the group was about 10 minutes behind. In classic me fashion, I said, "You guys were riding too slow for me."
Andy and I again took off ahead of the group, and lo and behold, we stayed out in front all the way to the 68-mile lunch break. Riding at my pace was actually easier. I very rarely ride in a group, and I have struggled to match the rhythms. That is NOT the fault of the group; it is MY fault. Oftentimes, I use more energy trying to match what is going on than I save by riding together. Once again, 100 percent MY fault.
While we were riding, Mont Ventoux was getting larger and larger. It isn't part of a mountain range like the Alps and Pyrenees; it stands alone. You can see it for 50 miles. It is known for the barren moonscape up at the summit.
Approaching Ventoux, it started to get hot. I mean really hot. Last time I climbed Ventoux in 2022, it was 95 degrees F, and that remains the hottest I have ever been on the bike. I thought I was going to drown in my own sweat that day. The climb is 14 miles long, the first 3 miles are super easy, then the hammer drops, and it goes to 9 percent for the last 10 miles. You climb through a forest, and you don't get any breeze. It can be suffocating.
It was super hot when we took the left turn into the forest, and the road went vertical. You just have to ride at a sustainable pace. Our support crew was amazing. They kept us supplied with water as we slogged up the climb. I do really like the Ventoux climb. It was my first-ever HC climb that I did in 2022. I feel like it is my mountain.
I felt better and better as it went on, increasing the speed, but also staying within myself. Except for one time. I was catching this French guy who was cycling in the smallest, tightest pair of running shorts in history. Both ass cheeks were hanging out. Good grief. I put the hammer down and smoked past him. I didn't need any more pain today. Once we went past Chalet Reynard, we got a nice breeze, and for the first time in what seems like forever, I enjoyed the climb.
Today was a special day I had to get through. Failure was not an option. I was riding for Douglas Eberwein, who was diagnosed with Leukemia at age 2. He passed at age 16. His dad has climbed Mont Ventoux four times. I was hoping he could join us today for the ride, but he has just fought his third battle with cancer himself.
I thought about Douglas a lot today. He was the friend of my step-son Josh. I thought about how he didn't get to graduate from high school, would never get a job, or go to college, or get married because of Leukemia. I visited his grave site the day before I left for France. It was something I felt I had to do. I had to find a way through the day to honor his memory.
I have been crying a lot lately. I am exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally. I cried when I saw a video message from my wife, Shannon, last night. I cried when I looked at the picture of Douglas' gravesite. (I never had the honor to meet Douglas, but the way others remember him tells me the impact he had on those around him.)
This is by far the hardest thing I have ever attempted to do. If you look at it rationally, it is COMPLETELY insane. Whether it was divine intervention or the universe aligning, but stage 16 (the age Douglas passed) and the Ventoux climb (with his Dad having done it) aligning made today feel like it was meant to be. Like I am supposed to be here doing this. I finished off the climb strong and felt good instead of being destroyed like I was at the start of the day.
Very grateful for that. I am very lucky to ride with a group of guys who are giving everything they have to raise money to fight leukemia and who are so supportive. At the top, I told Andy, "No f***ing way would I have made it through 16 stages without you. No f***ing way. Thank you." He has saved my ass multiple times from the brink. I have no idea what I am doing when it comes to riding a Grand Tour. I am incredibly lucky to have this support.
I have been stressed about finishing every stage. It’s endlessly looping through my mind. How am I going to do this? I can't let people down, I can't let myself down, I can't fail the people I am riding for. Tonight I STILL have no idea how I am going to finish every stage (five left, three of them are ENORMOUS). I just know I am going to start and do everything I can to finish Stage 17 tomorrow. It is actually a flatish stage, so I need to spend as little energy as possible.
Stage 17 - Bollene to Valence
Today was supposed to be an easy 100-mile recovery day stage. Mother Nature said, "Hold my beer." It was windy. I am from the Oregon Coast, and I know wind. It was seriously windy. The wind was so strong, it was even blowing MY fat ass all over the road. It was a steady 17 to 20 mph with gusts, and we had to go into it for most of the day. Easy recovery day out the window.
I was pretty much dead on my bike for the first 30 miles. I had no energy, no zip, no punch, absolutely nothing. At the break, I went to lie down on some steps. I was physically and mentally crushed. I then told our ride director, Andy Cook, that the group should go on without me. I wasn't quitting, but I didn't want to slow everyone up. They shouldn’t have to wait for the fat Russian oligarch, even if I do own the team.
Instead, Andy brought the team together and told everyone that I was struggling and that we were going to slow down and protect me. Some of the guys from the front came back and formed a protective cocoon around me. They shielded me from the wind and helped me so much. At one point, Andy asked if I needed anything, and I responded, "I would like some EPO." That got a good laugh. (Cycling humor. EPO is a banned PED.)
Later on a climb, Roy Lowenberg (aka The Lion of Tel Aviv) looked over at me while I was standing up and climbing, and he said with a deadpan expression, "That is one strong bike." That really got a laugh. Roy delivers the best one-liners in the pack. I actually started to feel better and rode decently after lunch. Our last water stop came with 20 miles to go, and I could feel myself crashing downwards. My energy was dropping again fast.
Dan Wagner, who is an unbelievably strong rider, would not let me fail today. He sat right in front of me and blocked the wind. He moved to the side and blocked the crosswind. He was incredible. He protected me so well. This is Dan's third straight Tour 21. He is an animal. I owe him so much for his help today.
I also spent a lot of the ride with J.Z. This is his second Tour 21. He was also having a really tough day. His mom shared a quote with us on a video that said, "Someday you won't be able to do this. Today is NOT that day." I told him how I thought of that quote yesterday when I was struggling early on and how much it helped me. We would tell each other during our shared struggles today that "today is not that day." J.Z. is a wonderful person. He makes everyone feel better about themselves. He always sees the positives and encourages so much. We are so lucky to have him on the team
The easy “recovery” ride was 7 hours and 24 minutes, 103 miles, with more than 5700 feet of climbing. It was a hard day for everyone. Plus, it was hot. The wind did help some with the heat, but came at a brutal cost. On the plus side, we got to ride with Stephen Roche, who won the 1987 Giro, 1987 Tour de France, and 1987 World Road Race Championship. His son Florian has battled leukemia successfully twice and is healthy now.
A tremendous experience.
Here is a little bit of a weird story: I AM SICK OF EATING AND DRINKING. That sounds crazy, but all I do is try to cram in food and water at every opportunity. On the Super Bagneres stage, I burned 8000 calories that day. Stage 18 tomorrow features three monstrous climbs and more than 18,000 feet of climbing.
Big f***ing day. The Queen Stage.
Stage 18 - VIF to Col de la Loze
"You are blowing it. This mountain is crushing you. It is destroying your hopes and dreams." My mind and body were in full meltdown. I couldn't get going. The Col de Madeleine was taking my soul. It was mocking me.
4.5 hours earlier, I actually felt pretty good. My body felt okay, my legs felt decent, and I had a good first climb on the legendary Col de la Croix de fer. Today was the Queen Stage. Over 18,000 feet of climbing. A brutal day. We had lunch and got ready to tackle the Madeleine.
My body just shut down on the climb. It would not work. 4 miles up, I stopped in some shade and thought about lying down. Forget finishing the stage, I wasn't going to even get up this mountain. When people in the future ask me about riding Tour 21, I was going to have to tell them how Stage 18 destroyed me and I failed everyone who donated, failed the people I was riding for, and failed myself in my ridiculous dream to ride the Tour de France route.
Then I got back on the bike and started struggling up the road again. I asked for water from the support crew, and the guy filling my bottle was able to walk alongside me, fill the bottle, and hand it back to me. That's how slow I was going. This was officially humiliating.
About a mile later, I was lost in my horrible thoughts when I heard this voice shouting, "You can do it. You got this!" It startled me so badly I swerved off the road, came to a stop, and f***ing started rolling backwards down the Madeleine. After about 10 feet, I hit the sidewall and fell over and off my bike. I got up and screamed "f***" as loud as I could. Got back on my bike, and it was like a switch had been flipped. I took off up the mountain. The poor woman who was trying to encourage me must have thought I was a complete lunatic who was coming to kill her. I flew by and said, "Thank you. You ignited me."
I suddenly had energy, and my legs were responding. It was crazy. I started passing people right and left. Normally, I always encourage people. I didn't say a word. I passed this one guy who had passed me earlier, and he said, "Good god. Did you get a shot of EPO?" I just grunted. I was locked in. I was 99. That was my number in college. I have two personalities. It took me a long time to understand this. There is Joe, and there is 99. Joe likes to have fun. 99 is a relentless lunatic.
About 2 miles later, I came up to the support crew and handed them my bottle and said, "Give it back whenever because I ain't slowing down." No chance of walking next to me and filling my bottle. Then I was gone.
I hammered the second half of the Madeleine. I didn't want to let this f***ing mountain crush me, crush my dreams, and take my soul. At the top, we regrouped and then went down the longest descent of my life. The other side of the Madeleine is 20 miles long, with crazy switchbacks and sometimes horrible roads. It was actually tiring going downhill that long. My only thought was "don't die", which was a real possibility on that descent.
The final climb was the Col de la Loze. I was determined to relax going up it and save energy for tomorrow. The climb is 15 miles long. With about 12 miles to go, I felt I was going way too slow for the gradient, but didn't panic. At 10 miles, still way too slow. With 8 miles to go, I came to a stop and realized I was bonking. I was out of energy, out of gels, and with no food. I was standing there shaking when my teammate Tim O'brien came along. He stopped to check on me, and then he saved me. He got me some gels and some food from his daughter, Krista, and then said, "Follow me." He guided me up the last 8 miles of a brutal climb.
Tim is the oldest rider on the team at age 69. He is an amazing rider and an amazing person. He could have said, "Boy, that is tough. Good luck," and then left me. After all, he had his own dreams to worry about. Instead, he saved me and talked me through the end of Stage 18. 11 hours and 36 minutes. 18,081 feet. 3 monstrous climbs. Grateful to get through.
No idea how I get through a huge Stage 19, but that is a tomorrow problem. My dreams are still alive.
Stage 19 - Albertville to La Plagne
Stage 19 was horrible for me.
After an epic Stage 18, which featured over 18,000 feet of climbing and burning more than 8,000 calories, I was worried about a brutal Stage 19. It was short, just 85 miles, but with more than 16,000 feet of climbing. A brutal follow-up day to 18.
I felt okay as we started the first of five categorized climbs, then about a mile into it, the lights went out. I was making no progress. I had no energy or power in my legs. Even when it flattened out at times, I could barely get moving. I managed to make it over the first climb, followed immediately by a second climb. It was way worse. I stopped several times to rest my head on the handlebars. I had absolutely nothing. I was dead.
Somehow I scrapped over the second climb and then ran straight into the Col de Pre (pronounced prey). Col du Pre nearly turned me into prey. It absolutely crushed me. I broke the cleat on my left shoe on the Pre. I couldn't stay clipped in, then I couldn't get started going again because it was so steep. I was going 2.5 to 3 mph. I was physically dead. I honestly didn't think I was going to make it up.
I stopped several times to rest. I was trying to get to the top so I could quit with some dignity. At one point, a car driving by stopped, and I looked so awful that he kept trying to get me to get into his car and accept a ride. I told him, "No thanks. Get going.” I have no idea how I staggered to the top of this endless climb. I was gone. No chance to finish the stage. None.
I was starving. The first three climbs had taken forever. I needed food, and the sun was merciless. I was being roasted alive. It was a 6 km descent to lunch. I was so exhausted I thought I was going to fall asleep riding down. I had been riding for over 6 hours. I just started cramming anything I could into my mouth at lunch. I drank several Oranginas. I also changed shoes, so now I could at least stay clipped in.
Our ride director, Andy Cook, asked me what I wanted to do. He said that everyone thought he should pull me, including the training staff. I said, "F*** no." He said, "Okay, let's ride steady. We have a lot of climbing to do." It was 36 miles to the finish. No chance I’d make it. Zero. But I was going to ride until they dragged me off the bike. I just hoped that would come soon.
I started to feel a little better, and we hit the fourth climb. It actually went okay. I had a dedicated moto guy escorting me. His name was Sebastian. I can't tell you how many times he filled my water bottles for me, and every time I went by, he would say, "Bravo, Joe. Bravo."
At the top, Andy said it is all downhill to La Pagne, a monstrous 12-mile HC climb to finish. I was completely spent and once again terrified of falling asleep on the descent. I just kept saying, "Don't die." At the bottom of La Plange, we regrouped for water. Behind my sunglasses, I started crying. I never thought I would get to this point. I also knew that I needed the climb of my life.
It wasn't about winning. It wasn't about a PR. It was just my entire dream to complete every stage of the 2025 Tour de France route. There was no tomorrow. An entire year of training coming down to one effort, which I frankly never thought I would have a chance at 4 hours ago.
Also in our group, but far ahead of me, was Stephen Roche. The 1987 Tour de France champion. His most famous ride came on La Plagne when he rallied to save his Tour win. I stared up La Plagne and I thought about Stephen Roche and his famous ride. I thought about my wife. I had called her at lunch, and I could barely talk. I just told her it was a horrible day on the bike. I thought about her telling me that she believed in me and that I could finish. I thought about how lucky I was to have her in my life.
The miles ticked by, and I rode at a very steady pace. I was getting up La Plagne. At one point, I saw a guy who had seen me earlier in the day. He did a huge double-take when he saw me. I don't think he could believe I was still riding. People climbing were encouraging me. Every time I heard something, I started to choke up People had worked so hard to help me. The physio staff was filling my bottles and encouraging me. They even gave me a chocolate bar. Talk about motivation for the fat Russian oligarch team owner. The tremendous support from my teammates, ride leaders, moto guys, and lunch ladies. I could feel it.
I knew I was going to get up La Plagne. The miles grew less and less. Right before the finish line, I saw the team bus headed down the mountain. I was going to ride down separately in another vehicle. They honked their horn, and I raised my left fist. I remembered, "Someday you won't be able to do this. Today is not that day." I have used that quote a lot. As I rode by the bus, I said, "Not f***ing today, boys. Not f***ing today."
Stage 20 - Nantua to Pontarlier
Stage 20 was another test. The Tour does not relent.
Stages 18 and 19 were absolutely brutal. The most combined elevation gained in back-to-back stages in Tour history. However, I have also long feared Stage 20. Almost 10,000 feet of hilly terrain after such a tough stretch.
We were worried about rainy weather, and it did not hold off. The rains came on the first climb, and we had a long, wet descent. I no longer trust myself descending. I am so fatigued, I don't want to wreck myself or wreck anyone else. Plus, I HATE going downhill in the pouring rain. 114 miles of pouring rain would make for a very long day indeed.
At lunch, guys were shivering and trying to get warm. I was cold, but it wasn't awful for me. Advantages of being the fat Russian oligarch team owner. Guys were wrapped up in the tinfoil space blankets, with the skinny guys trying to retain the little body heat they produced.
We got back on the bikes and I just tried to think, “58 miles to go and I am on my way to Paris.” I started to feel worse and worse, though, and my legs didn't seem to be producing any power. At mile 70, we hit a climb, and suddenly the lights went out for me. The rain had stopped, and so had my body. This climb was 3.5 miles long, and I could barely move. I was going 3 mph. I had 44 miles to go and no idea how I was going to get there.
How could I break on Stage 20 after getting through the previous two days? I just wanted off this damn bike.
One of our ride captains, Stephen Edwards, saved me. He just talked calmly to me and encouraged me through this awful stretch. He was huge in keeping me going. I crawled up the climb, just barely. I was just trying to keep moving forward, any way that I could. It took me what seemed like ages to get to mile 87 and the last water stop. I have never known fatigue like this in my life. I was just completely empty.
I crammed a sandwich down as fast as I could. I was SO sick of eating. That seems like all I do lately: eat and ride. Forget sleep, we barely have time for that with all the transfers between stages.
For the rest of the remaining 28 miles, we all rode in as a group. As the miles ticked down, I kept thinking about Paris and that I would get to see my wife, Shannon Angel Wiltz. I haven't seen her since June 24th. I missed her. I just wanted to hug her. As we came into the finishing town, there was a police escort waiting for us. I made a crack that this wasn't the first police escort for Steven Moody, one of our teammates.
At the bus, there were a lot of hugs. We were not done yet, a short 52-mile ride into Paris on Sunday, but the heavy lifting was over. Now we just have to stay upright as we ride into the City of Light, up the Champs-Élysées, around the Arc de Triomphe, to finish near the Eiffel Tower. Get through that, and we are “Giants of the Road” forever.
Stage 21 - PARIS
Today, we started west of Paris for the final stage of the 2025 Tour de France Route. This was it, the final chapter in this incredible and improbable journey.
The first 10 miles of the ride, I kept trying not to cry. I was getting the unbelievable honor of riding to Paris with a tremendous group of people, and I was just a couple of hours from seeing my wife. I had suffered tremendously the last three days, and I was riding for my Mom and Douglas Eberwein.
Emotion is fine. I am not ashamed of crying, but we were also moving along at 18 to 20 mph and in a tightly packed group, so I really needed to see what the heck I was doing. I have been so exhausted lately that I am afraid of either wrecking myself or taking out some of my teammates.
It was an easy stage of 52 miles. We had eight, count them EIGHT motorcycles leading the way. Let me just say, running stop lights in Lille is one thing. Blasting through intersections into Paris is a whole different level. When we came up out of a tunnel and saw the Eiffel Tower, it was a breathtaking moment. Truly AMAZING. We had made it!!! All of us.
The last 10 miles were a procession ride through Paris. We rode up Montmartre, down the Champs-Élysées, and around the Arc de Triomphe. Pretty f***ing cool.
That last stretch, I found myself looking at my bike computer and thinking I only have 7 more miles riding with these guys. 6 more miles. 5 more miles. In some ways, it was a little bit sad. No way would I have made it without the amazing support of my teammates. They are awesome.
We finished in a park near the Eiffel Tower. The first thing I did was ride straight to my wife and hug her. I am very, very, very fortunate. She has been so supportive during what can only be described as a year of lunacy with the training and fundraising. I am so lucky to have found the perfect fit. I love her very much. We hugged for a long time.
I rode a GRAND TOUR. Let me clarify, I SURVIVED a Grand Tour. The Tour 21.
I did not smash it, I did not crush it. In fact, the Tour de France Route of 2025 did its best to absolutely destroy me. I barely survived, and for that I am forever grateful. It was both amazingly beautiful and savagely brutal. From cycling through the storybook towns in France to suffering 1,000 deaths in the rain and sweltering heat on the climbs in the Alps and Pyrenees, I am very grateful to have had this chance. It was truly the opportunity of a lifetime.
I already know I will NEVER ride a Grand Tour again. I am going back to time trialing, riding super fast for 25 miles. In fact, I may never ride 100 miles again, but I will ride my bike because I absolutely love it.
I remember how mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually destroyed I was on Stages 18 and 19, and how I was thinking about how awful it was going to be to have to tell people that I only made it through 19 or 20 of the 21 stages. I was thinking how I was going to have to live with that for the rest of my life. That I had failed and fallen short and dishonored those I was riding for. The craziest thing I thought about was, "How in the hell am I going to wear all this Tour 21 cycling gear I have? It would be nothing but a constant reminder of failing."
At the finish line, I hugged Sebastian, the moto guy, and started crying. I told him how he saved me on Stage 19. The water bottles he filled for me and him saying, "Bravo, Joe. Bravo. You are a champion," over and over and over, saved my dream. I am so grateful I was able to make it through and complete all 21 stages. I am grateful I was given the honor and privilege to carry people's loved ones on my back for this journey. I would truly think about them during the hard times, and I loved being able to share their stories with guys on the team.
So many different people helped me. Stephen Edwards on Stage 10, Dan Wagner on Stage 17, Tim O'Brien on Stage 18, and our ride director, Andy Cook, too many times to count. I owe all of my teammates a huge debt of gratitude. At some point, every single one of them helped me during a difficult time.
I absolutely love the guys I rode with, and the people who helped us navigate our way around France. They are all amazing, and all doing it to help raise money to fund drug trial research for Cure Leukaemia. Their commitment and dedication were awesome to be part of. To take on this challenge and get to do it for noble reasons made it even more special.
People donated more than $44,000 to Cure Leukaemia as part of my ride. In total, we have raised over 1 million dollars. That is phenomenal.
I am incredibly lucky to have been part of this.
Vive Le Tour de France.
Vive The Tour 21.
Thank you for following this journey.
If people still want to donate, you absolutely can. The more money raised, the more drug trial research that can take place.
All photos courtesy of Stephen Edwards, Joolze Dymond, Steven Moody, Dave Twoy, and Joe Dominey.