Tucked deep in the Moors of Telemark lies a place where you’ve dreamt of riding. Except it’s one of those elusive dreams; the kind you can’t recall when you wake up in the morning.
It’s a place where ancient battles were won and lost. Where pilgrims made their journey for a thousand years. Listen to Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” and you’ll know the place. A hidden retreat on a tiny isthmus, surrounded by over 100k of legitimate, undiscovered, flawless singletrack. After a decade of meticulous planning, Norwegian adventurer Jan Fasting’s vision has culminated in the birth of this dream. A real mountain bike retreat.
“We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow.”
– Led Zeppelin, The Immigrant Song
In May of this year, I walked off the jetway in Sandefjord, Norway and into what I would soon discover was a singletrack Valhalla. Following a two-hour car ride among rolling hills, atop flawless pavement and down a rugged, 10-mile gravel road and I was on a bike. Jet lag had set in. My heart-rate was around 130. Excited, tired, a little nervous.
Granite domes the likes of which I’d only seen in the eastern Sierra were all around. Hundreds of crystal clear streams and small lakes akin to those found high in the Wind River Range of Wyoming sliced and dotted the landscape. The familiar strong scent of giant conifers that blanket the slopes of the Cascades of Central Oregon overwhelmed my senses. The trail crested a hill. And there, all alone in a tiny valley, was a collection of canvas, Mongolian style yurts. Colorful doors. Tiny oil lamps. A giant fire ring.
We shared saunas, drank beers, talked music, and brainstormed ideas. Ultimately, we rode. We dreamt. We planned.
My hosts for the week were renown adventurer, TV producer, epic storyteller and Canvas founder Jan Fasting and Vebjørn Haugerud, a local rider, trail builder, family man and Canvas Hotel co-owner. Of course, the cast of characters that I’d get to meet, ride, dine and dream with for that 10 days included a number of other passionate, talented folks: our professional photographer/in-house mechanic Thomas Svendsen, Canvas’s own reggae-jamming, Zimbabwean chef Desmond (he smiles 24/7 – probably in his sleep), and two new amazing friends from Trek Norway – Eivind Martensen and Knut Lonnqvist. I was introduced to families, and taken sailing. We shared saunas, drank beers, talked music, and brainstormed ideas. Ultimately, we rode. We dreamt. We planned.
Over the course of 10 days, with the help of my new friends, strong coffee, a full notebook and over a dozen rides, we stitched together a true Trek Travel mountain bike experience. Combining perfect, 18” wide singletrack and the charm and authenticity of my new Norwegian friends, with the Canvas Hotel at its heart, I boarded the plane back to the states with something we’re proud to share.
Tucked deep in the Moors of Telemark lies a place where you’ve dreamt of riding. Except it’s one of those elusive dreams; the kind you can’t recall when you wake up in the morning.
It’s a place where ancient battles were won and lost. Where pilgrims made their journey for a thousand years. Listen to Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” and you’ll know the place. A hidden retreat on a tiny isthmus, surrounded by over 100k of legitimate, undiscovered, flawless singletrack. After a decade of meticulous planning, Norwegian adventurer Jan Fasting’s vision has culminated in the birth of this dream. A real mountain bike retreat.
“We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow.”
– Led Zeppelin, The Immigrant Song
In May of this year, I walked off the jetway in Sandefjord, Norway and into what I would soon discover was a singletrack Valhalla. Following a two-hour car ride among rolling hills, atop flawless pavement and down a rugged, 10-mile gravel road and I was on a bike. Jet lag had set in. My heart-rate was around 130. Excited, tired, a little nervous.
Granite domes the likes of which I’d only seen in the eastern Sierra were all around. Hundreds of crystal clear streams and small lakes akin to those found high in the Wind River Range of Wyoming sliced and dotted the landscape. The familiar strong scent of giant conifers that blanket the slopes of the Cascades of Central Oregon overwhelmed my senses. The trail crested a hill. And there, all alone in a tiny valley, was a collection of canvas, Mongolian style yurts. Colorful doors. Tiny oil lamps. A giant fire ring.
We shared saunas, drank beers, talked music, and brainstormed ideas. Ultimately, we rode. We dreamt. We planned.
My hosts for the week were renown adventurer, TV producer, epic storyteller and Canvas founder Jan Fasting and Vebjørn Haugerud, a local rider, trail builder, family man and Canvas Hotel co-owner. Of course, the cast of characters that I’d get to meet, ride, dine and dream with for that 10 days included a number of other passionate, talented folks: our professional photographer/in-house mechanic Thomas Svendsen, Canvas’s own reggae-jamming, Zimbabwean chef Desmond (he smiles 24/7 – probably in his sleep), and two new amazing friends from Trek Norway – Eivind Martensen and Knut Lonnqvist. I was introduced to families, and taken sailing. We shared saunas, drank beers, talked music, and brainstormed ideas. Ultimately, we rode. We dreamt. We planned.
Over the course of 10 days, with the help of my new friends, strong coffee, a full notebook and over a dozen rides, we stitched together a true Trek Travel mountain bike experience. Combining perfect, 18” wide singletrack and the charm and authenticity of my new Norwegian friends, with the Canvas Hotel at its heart, I boarded the plane back to the states with something we’re proud to share.
Two years ago Julie Farrell was a self-described “non-enthusiast” with paddle pedals and a brand-new Trek Domane. This July she completed her first L’Etape du Tour. Follow along as she recounts the journey from training to the finish line in this raw and entertaining three-part series.
The Promised Land with an Order of the Phoenix Escort
No surprise. We were awake before our alarms. Leaving no detail to chance, our fabulous Trek Travel guides, Laura Lee and Celine, had arranged for Hotel Alpaga to open early to ensure that we riders were fully fueled before the race. Mason and I loaded up on our usual breakfast selections, but added a big serving of scrambled eggs for a protein boost.
Unlike the poor souls who had to stand inline with the other 15,000 race entrants the day before, our race bibs were delivered to our hands and our race placards mounted on our bikes. Mason and I managed to attach our bibs to our jerseys with the four safety pins without stabbing ourselves. We hoped this was a harbinger of a good day ahead.
Our group assembled at the meeting spot on time, slathered in sunscreen, our pockets loaded with Clif Blocks, gorp, and Chapstick. Several of the men were applying saddle cream to their hinter parts to stave off chafing. Mason decided to give it a whirl. The banter devolved to that of a men’s locker room. Everyone seemed to be in motion as the guides gave us their last snippets of advice. Not one of us was still as they spoke. We were rocking left-to-right with nervous anticipation, or fussing with some piece of apparel. Keep your line, pace yourself, stay with your riding buddy, finish both water bottles by the time you arrive at the next Trek Travel comfort station, and fuel-up when you get there. Watch out for wild men on the descents – you’ll see them again on the last climb. It will be a graveyard.
Huh. Graveyard. Those nasty headstone-shaped ascent signs loomed in my head. Our more seasoned friends had worked out a strategy for Mason and me. It followed the philosophy of the whole trip. This was about an experience of a lifetime. The goal was for everyone to finish – no individual heroics. We would employ the strategy during the first portion of the ride when the field was crowded, as well as on descents. The plan was to create an envelope of safety – primarily for me – to safely deliver the package to the finish line. I felt like Harry Potter being escorted by the Order of the Phoenix aurors. John’s biggest concern was that a crazy cyclist who was channeling Lance Armstrong would come charging down the descents and mow me down like an innocent squirrel crossing the road. Bam. Instant carrion.
I like riding by myself. I know exactly where I am going to be. I also like riding with Mason because I have no qualms about letting him know if he’s making me nervous by riding too close to me. I do not love riding in groups. Our friends know this, so they had forced me to practice riding in the damned envelope. It was a smart move. I had actually become fairly comfortable with it over the past few days. Yet the anticipation of riding with thousands of other riders who didn’t give a damn about my envelope was making my stomach rumble.
We rode the short distance from the hotel to the race start line. The town of Megève had transformed overnight to a seething mass of Lycra-entombed humans. Because Trek Bikes is the lead sponsor of the race, our group was positioned with the highly coveted first wave of 1,000 cyclists. We jostled about in our corral for about 20 minutes. Like any self-respecting woman, after I watched a dozen or so men relieve themselves in the bushes, I thought I had better make a pre-emptive visit to the port-a potty. The line couldn’t possibly be long; after all, only 5% of the entrants were female. Wrong.
After making my way to the single port-a-potty, I saw that the line was 10 deep. I watched the Start Clock tick away. The line did not move. It occurred to me that only one other woman was in line. My gosh, all of these men need to do their morning business, or else they would do what any self-respecting man would do: use the bushes. No way. I was not going to risk missing the start of the race to be asphyxiated in that putrid port-a-potty.
Returning to our group, I did my best to hold my spot against the tide of bikes and humans that were trying to edge their way closer to the start line. At last the gun fired and we were off. Praise God I was not clipped-in. It would have undone me. I stayed right on Mason’s wheel, like a six-year-old terrified of losing sight of her mother in a crowded mall. I dodged a water bottle that came flying off someone’s bike. As we made our way out of town, blood began to return to my fingers. I relieved my death grip on my handlebars as I became increasingly comfortable with my safe little envelope.
The first climb was col des Aravis, which we had climbed just two days prior. I honestly have very little memory of it. The exhilaration of being in the race, amidst thousands of riders, combined with the desire to keep my pace and my position, completely distracted me from any physical discomfort. I was in the game – a contender – vying for the opportunity to complete an epic ride. That first descent went smoothly as well. Just keep your line Julie, and let Big John – Mad-Eye Moody – fend off the speeding demons to my left – and there were many speeding demons.
After that first descent, and at the foot of our next climb, Sully wanted to remove his windbreaker. I did too, plus by now, I was very interested in evacuating my bladder before beginning the next ascent: col de la Colombière. Secretly, I was happy that Sully called for the stop so that I didn’t have to be the whiny girl asking for a potty break. Ladies, this is where we once again lose a bit of our dignity because of our equipment down there. Like giving birth, there comes a time when function trumps form, and decorum and dignity must be securely holstered in your lipstick case. Tania and I attempted some level of discretion crouching behind a parked car, but skintight Lycra cycling shorts are not easy to whip down or up over sticky skin. I’m afraid the French have seen more of me than I (or they) care to admit.
With about 22 miles and the average 7% grade col de Aravis under our belts, we began our ascent up the more civilized 5.8% grade of the col de la Colombière. It featured long sweeping switchbacks, treating us to views of the thousands of riders ahead and behind us. Yes, you read that correctly. We were quickly overtaken by aggressive lead peloton from the second release group, then the third, and so on. You could hear them coming long before you laid eyes on them. A low-pitched whir like an enormous swarm of Barry White baritone bees sounded the alarm that another hive had cracked open and was about to sting from the rear. I focused, and held tight to my line as they whizzed past, serious and jockeying for position.
It was near this point that I managed to attract one of those male drones. He slid in beside me and struck up a conversation. I glanced over, careful not to swerve into him as I averted my eyes from my military focus on my line. He was not terribly fit and he was quite tall. Not fat unfit, but certainly not the body type that you would expect to attempt this ride. I had to force myself to redirect my mind from the vision of this man in a mahogany library, sipping tea and milk, and eating crumpets, to digest the full sentences he was directing my way.
“Hello, are you American?”
“Yes. You?”
“British by way of South Africa.”
Did he one day see a ad for the L’Etape du Tour in The Times, pound out his entry form on an iPad, then just show up this morning?
The gentleman was actually quite interesting and we chatted about American politics and global shifts in political philosophies such as represented by the Brexit vote that had just occurred during our trip. And all the while he spoke in full sentences and was never short of breath. I wasn’t sure I could keep this up much longer, nor was I sure I wanted to. I managed to return a little more tightly to my envelope position. The great news was that I was so pre-occupied with Professor Slughorn and his uncanny fitness, that I hardly noticed the climb up col de la Colombière.
At the summit, we stopped to once again pull on our windbreakers. The temperature was rising quickly, but after perspiring all the way up the climbs, the air became chilly during descents. We reformed our groups and started our descent. This one was my most frightening descent to date.
We had not ridden more than five kilometers when we began to see the carnage. In addition, cyclist after cyclist was changing out a tube at the edge of the road. I managed to croak out a query to my bodyguard John. He said that they were overheating the tires with their brakes and the heat was blowing them up. Pump the brakes Julie; pump the breaks.
Where was the end of this interminable descent? To my utter astonishment, guys were literally yelling at other cyclists to move over so that they could hurtle down the mountain. My top speed was 35 mph and it was on this descent – the col de la Colombière. I have little doubt that others were reaching 60+ mph. With no body armor. No seatbelts. Just a thin couple of dermal layers separating their internal organs and bones from the asphalt.
Fortunately, the col de la Colombière was followed by 30 km of relatively flat road, so we had time to gather our nerves. We hit our second Trek Travel hospitality spot, and I ate what will forever be the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich of my life. I had no idea I was so hungry. Desperate not to bonk, I shoveled in as much food as I thought wise. Our water bottles were magically filled with fresh cold water by the time we finished refueling.
The route meandered through a number of small Alpine towns. The streets were lined by the exuberant townspeople who had turned out in droves. They rang cowbells, urging us on with kind words, and waving inspirational signs. The closest comparison I can think of is the New York Marathon. As I passed the well-wishers, like a good American, I smiled and waved back. I started to notice that they were absolutely delighted that I was a female and was still in the race. They shouted “Bravo Madame” and “Allez fille! Allez fille!” (Go girl! Go girl!).
Encouraged by the crowds, I now started to wave my hand in the air like a liberating war hero, and yell “Woo-hoo” or some other phrase from my youth. This elicited even more hoots from the fans. I was having my 15 minutes of fame. Just like that. Another bucket list item scratched off. Between the nourishment and all the excitement, my fatigue was numbed.
Cycling climbs are rated with numbers. To receive a rating, an ascent must be at least 500 m in length and have a grade of 3% or more. The ratings start at “5” (the easiest) and decrement to “1”, the hardest. Oh, and there’s one more category: HC which stands for “Hors Categorie” French for “above category” or in more colloquial language: “super frickin’ hard.” Our last climb of the day, the col de Joux Plane, was an HC climb. It lived up to its categorization. With 11.6 kilometers (7.2 miles) of an average grade of 8.5% and the last kilometers at 9% and 10%, the stage planners revealed their sadistic side.
Spurred on by waving flags and shouts from the crowd, we rounded a sharp curve leaving the town of Samöens. We were immediately met with a face of asphalt. I was working hard. Really hard. I looked down at my gears and realized that I was still in my big ring gear. Thank God. I went from thinking I can’t do this, to I can do this! Once again, I was relieved that I was not clipped in. Shifting with pressure on the chain sometimes causes the chain to derail. Mine didn’t, but as we rounded the next sharp bend, we saw others who were not so lucky.
People were barely rotating their cranks. I’m not sure anyone was ready for the incline after that first turn. And it didn’t relent. In my assigned far-right-of-the-road position, I was in the slow lane. There is a certain comfort in being on the far right because you know that there is no one on your right side. I wasn’t sure how the men in front of me, and I’m talking about inches in front of my wheel, were staying balanced on their bikes. It was too slow. I’m not a circus performer. I needed some momentum to stay upright. I carefully abandoned the safety of the far right side, and began passing people. One man fell in front of us and began fumbling with his chain in the middle of the cramped road. We asked if he needed help. He didn’t, but my God, move off the road Man. This portion of the ride became an exercise in recognizing riders who were about to topple over, and not becoming part of the yard sale that would ensue.
By this point, it was hot. The weather had transitioned from foggy and cool, to 90+°F. People who had gone overboard playing Speed Racer below, were now paying the price. It was a classic Tortoise and the Hare fable playing out in real time. The further we climbed, the greater the number of bodies splayed out on the alpine grass. Some looked as if they had indeed met the dementors’ kiss. Having reached his limit, one man lay at the edge of the road, his bike supine much like himself only taking a full quarter of the road. “Move your bike!” thick French accents shouted at him.
We had agreed that on the climbs, we would not keep our envelope intact, but we would definitely stick with a buddy. John and I reached the final Trek Travel comfort station, perfectly located at about 5km below the summit. We downed water like elephants at the trough, then John introduced me to the climber’s secret weapon: Coca-cola. As I was draining my ice-cold mini-can, I scratched my arm and noticed blood on my finger. A nasty horse fly had the gall to sting me drawing blood – as if I had any to spare. Just as Mason was pulling in with Sully, we witnessed a man vomiting in the shade of a barn just below us.
Mason and I removed our helmets, put ice on our heads, then replaced our helmets on top of it. It worked magic. As we began to feel mildly refreshed, we both felt guilty as we watched parched, exhausted, cyclists looking longingly as they slowly passed our tent. It was the uncomfortable feeling one has after being upgraded to first-class on a flight. You sheepishly look down so as not to make eye contact with the envious passerby as they shuffle into animal class. One gal with a Trek bike very politely asked if she could just stand under the shade of the tent for a moment. The Trek Travel guide generously offered her an ice-cold Coke, which she graciously accepted.
For the final five kilometers, which bounced between 9%, 10%, and 11% grades, John and Mason would stick together, and Tania and I would be buddies. We chicks started out ahead of the boys. I swear that Coke had something in it besides caffeine. With renewed energy, Tania and I began weaving our way through the battlefield before us. Surprisingly lean, fit men were walking their bikes on both sides of the road, narrowing our path even further. One man, still on his bike, was grunting loudly with each revolution of his crank, desperately willing his body to do something it had no intention of doing. Everyone gave him a wide berth, petrified that they might be in his path when the inevitable collapse came.
As we were completing one particularly challenging hill, we noticed piles of people flopped on the ground surrounding the curve. It looked more like the Battle of Gettysburg than an alpine slope. It was just as John had predicted: a graveyard. Tania and I tackled the sheer, unpopulated part of the inside curve. It segued straight into an even steeper climb. That explained the human shrapnel. People saw that ominous grade and said the hell with it. I’m resting. Tania and I marshaled through it. I guess it must have been the steel will to complete the race, combined with the Coke and the anticipation that we were nearly there. I don’t know how else to explain my energy. It was just in me.
As the incline finally subsided ever so slightly, several bikers were on the roadside massaging their cramping quads and hamstrings. One gal was moaning loudly as she tried to walk out her cramping on the side of the road. At about this point, someone said in a rude, thick French accent, “Trek Travel, move over.”
We both immediately moved over to the side to allow a wiry, wizened Frenchman through. As I moved, I reflexively said, “Sil vous plait.” I saw no need to be ugly and impolite when we were all working so hard. Tania, being an extraordinary cyclist, was motivated to pass him immediately. I, being an unextraordinary, but now irritated cyclist, was motivated to stay on his wheel. Then, I too, passed him – with great satisfaction I might add. In fact, we dusted him. I never saw him again. I suppose I should thank him for that final boost of energy.
Tania and I both had something left in the tank and we could smell the summit. We managed to avoid the final swerving, falling riders, passing them one-by-one. Eventually, we could see the summit arches come into view, looming as enticingly as the Pearly Gates. The crowds of locals and fans were whooping and spurring us on. We yelped right along with them. We passed under the arches, emerging from our trial into the Promised Land.
We waited just below the summit for the rest of our squad. Sully and Mark arrived, then John and Mason. Mason had stopped next to a Brit he had chatted up earlier in the race. The poor bloke was sitting roadside looking spent. Mason asked if he wanted some water. Having just reloaded at the Trek Travel station, Mason offered him one of his bottles. The gentleman gladly took a couple of cold sips, and handed it back to Mason.
“No, keep it.”
“You mean the whole bottle?”
“Yes, keep it. I have plenty.”
“You’re a legend,” was his final comment as Mason departed.
We all road along together for a while, then Mason eventually went ahead as he is a far superior descender than I. As John and I descended, the crowds now growing as we approached the finish line. We proceeded carefully into town where Mason slowed for us. He felt strongly that I should cross over the finish line first, as I had conquered the climbs a bit better than he. We road across the finish line together.
I was completely overwhelmed with emotion as we crossed. I looked at him, and he at me. We were both tearing up. Neither of us expected any emotion aside from relief. We were caught off guard. It was as if 25 years of togetherness had just become a physical entity – something palpable in the air between us. Something we could feel and touch. Perhaps I was looking at my 20-something groom, and he at his 20-something bride, only deep inside was a quarter century of life and memories together. We had experienced one more daunting experience together and had overcome it together, spiritually and physically.
Finally, Mason received a lovely thank-you note from his newfound British friend. He thanked Mason for saving his race day.
And…I did see two other people who were not clipped in. #trendsetter
Two years ago Julie Farrell was a self-described “non-enthusiast” with paddle pedals and a brand-new Trek Domane. This July she completed her first L’Etape du Tour. Follow along as she recounts the journey from training to the finish line in this raw and entertaining three-part series.
We arrived in Geneva a couple days before we met up with our Trek Travel group. This was intentional. At 53 and 51, sleep is important to us, and we wanted to get a head start on acclimating to the time change. Plus…Geneva is one of the most charming cities in the world, and we thought it would be nice to have a couple of nights to ourselves before meeting up with our cycling group. We managed one stint on the stationary bikes at the hotel gym if for nothing more than to settle our nerves about being ready for our adventure.
On Tuesday, the Trek Travel hired car picked us up right on time at the hotel, then we were off to the airport to pick up the rest of our group. Introductions were made and we began the journey across the border into the French Alps. Our destination was Megève, an alpine town that became popular as a chic ski resort when the Baroness de Rothschild tired of Saint Moritz in the 1920’s and christened Megève the new hot spot for well-heeled Europeans.
Upon arrival in Megéve, we received a warm welcome from our Trek Travel guides; Celine (a native French gal) and Laura Lee (a Southern Baptist minister brat, most recently from Brooklyn, and fortunately fluent in French). They enthusiastically showed us to our lodgings at the 5-star Hotel Alpaga and then introduced us to our sleek carbon frame Trek Domani bikes. Equipped with electronic shifters, Garmins, and Flare taillights, no detail was overlooked as they ensured form and fit for each of us.
When you go on cycling trips like this, you bring your own pedals. You don’t have to, but it’s customary. I sheepishly handed my 4th grader pedals to Celine, a mere 5’ 3” tall, but chock full of salsa. There was a brief flash across her countenance that was a mix of horror and humor, then that perfect guide smile swept back across her face. Celine didn’t really want to touch the pedals, but she took them anyway.
After a quick wardrobe change, we were off on a brief ride to sort out any kinks with our bikes and to get the quads burning. We rolled downhill to the village of Megève and then began our ascent up to the quaint airfield nestled in the green Alps above. It took a few kilometers to regulate my breathing and fall into rhythm, but mercifully, it came. As we reached the top of the climb, it was difficult to imagine a more picturesque setting. As if on queue, a vintage two-seater prop took off overhead. Brown and white cows dotted the lush verdant hills – broad brass cowbells announcing their presence. Patches of snow accented grey peaks poking along the ridge, as moody clouds wove between them. If I could paint heaven, it would look exactly like what lay before us.
Returning to the hotel, we showered, then convened to watch the end of that day’s stage of the Tour de France for our social hour. Guides Celine and Laura Lee had arranged a beautiful presentation of fresh local cheeses (to die for – and explains my lack of weight loss on the trip), charcuterie, bread sticks, chocolates, and of course, ice cold beer. But when in Rome France…drink like the French. They also poured a lovely chilled Rosé from Provence – crisp and refreshing. Dinner that first night was at the Hotel Alpaga, with a variety of options from which to choose: from a more adventurous rabbit, to a familiar Kobe cheeseburger. A gentleman from another Trek Travel group had arrived a day early and joined our group for dinner. A native of Latvia (yes, I had to excuse my ignorance and ask him precisely where it was on a map), I sat next to him and was fascinated as he shared his country’s experience transitioning from a member of the Soviet Union to a democratic nation. It is this kind of informal interaction that accentuates travel for me – the opportunity to meet diverse people through a common conduit – in this case, cycling.
Each day of our preparation for the big ride followed a similar pattern, yet included its own unique elements. One constant was my stroll to greet what became known as “the girls” before each ride. A pasture about 50 yards from our chalet was home to about a dozen dairy cows during the daylight hours. They were the very definition of grass fed, and I couldn’t help but hear that Robert Louis Stevenson children’s verse in my head, “The friendly cow all red and white, I love with all my heart; She gives me cream with all her might, to eat with apple-tart,” as they gazed up at me – the alien in the odd clothes and helmet – cowbells tinkling as they wrenched loose clumps of grass. I would bid them good day, somehow feeling blessed for my ride to come.
SOME HIGHLIGHTS: Megève to Col des Saisies
Per usual, Mason and I started our day with a hearty breakfast at the hotel. We somehow managed to arrive just as the warm baguettes were coming out of the oven. With homemade jams and local honey for the bread, we filled the rest of our plates with charcuterie and cheeses, then added a bowl of granola with fresh rich yogurt and local berries. French coffee pulled away the lingering cobwebs of jet lag.
Following breakfast, we convened at our bikes at the civilized hour of 9:00 a.m. As Celine and Laura Lee described the day’s route, their eyes landed on me as they described the avid option and explained that one could easily opt out of the additional kilometers, and remain at the picturesque café at the top of the climb where we would eat lunch.
The climbing was challenging, but the breathtaking countryside and the villages festooned with flags for the Tour, provided ample distraction. While one guide led us, the other would drive the van and set-up a well-placed snack station. I was riding 20-30 yards ahead of Mason and another of our group, when we cruised through the tiny village of Notre Dame. One townsman had an animated French laugh poking fun at the guys being outpaced by a female. I think the only reason that I had passed them was because of their sudden lapse of energy when they came upon a rather scantily clad gal ascending on a pair of skating roller skis. There was a marked decrease in their pace for a couple hundred yards.
When we reached the café, all but three of us decided to go on to conquer the avid option. After a quick pain au chocolat and cappuccino, they were off. Mason, our newly made friend Sully, and I stayed behind, drinking in the view of Mont Blanc, and thinking it best to reserve some energy for the days to come.
Naturally, I became antsy, and decided I would shoot down a few kilometers and then work my way back up for a little extra climbing. As I began my return ascent, down came Mason and Sully. They’d received a call from our friend John imploring us to take the descent down just to take in the amazing views. The van would then drive us back up – no additional climbing required. We took his advice and never regretted it. The scenery was indeed spectacular. We even decided to take a stab at a bit more climbing. All in, I logged about 45 miles and 5000 – 6000 feet of climb.
The episode above perfectly illustrated the tenor of the whole trip. The group and the guides were encouraging, but there was never a feeling of guilt or of defeat if one decided not to embrace the avid option. Every step of the way was about pushing oneself, but never beyond one’s limits – about taking in the full experience, but understanding that that experience was unique to each individual.
After a dinner in town dining al fresco at La Brasserie Centrale (my fondue was c’est bonne), we paused briefly to watch the extraordinary sunset on Mont Blanc from our bedroom deck. Night had fallen on all the surrounding Alps, but the bright reflection of yellows, oranges, and purples emanated from her white peaks – one last show from glorious Mother Earth before we tucked in for a well-deserved night of rest.
Megève to Col de la Forclaz and on to Lake Annecy
As neither of us had yet undertaken the full Monty, Mason and I committed to each other that we would attempt the avid option on this day. How bad could it be?
Uh, bad. Our newfound confidence after climbing col des Saisies was quickly put to the test. This nasty little gem of a climb – Forclaz – felt about like it sounds in English – like a Frenchman is digging his fore-claws into your muscles.
Okay, not quite that bad, but it was very challenging. Climbs that have been designated as remarkable are decorated with signs or stones along the route. Both bear an eerie resemblance to graveyard headstones, except in lieu of epitaphs they boldly state the percent grade that you’re attempting to survive. In your heat-stroked, exhausted state, you can almost see your name on the signs. RIP Julie Farrell 10%.
A 10% grade means that for every 100 feet traveled, you rise 10 feet. To me this doesn’t sound like much, and it in no way helps me understand the difficulty of a 10% grade climb. Here’s how I do it. Think of the most annoying hill that you had to climb on your bike as child. Maybe it was on the way home from school or when you headed over to your best friend’s house. A 10% grade is 10 times harder than that. Or at least that’s what it feels like.
With that erudite explanation of grade complete, I’ll fast-forward to the summit, where we were treated to the spectacular panorama of Lake Annecy below. Paragliding must be France’s third national sport behind cycling and soccer. There were easily 100 colorful paragliders brightly dotting the blue sky above and the pristine aqua water of Lake Annecy below.
After mainlining Orangina (beers for the stronger riders in our group), we descended to Lake Annecy where we were rewarded with a lakeside lunch of fresh trout, a romp in Lake Annecy’s glacial milk waters (punctuated for the men by a topless French female sunbather), a massage (well, we called it an oil rub…), and finally another delicious lakeside dinner where we speculated about which diners were with their wives and which were with their mistresses – all well informed by a lovely red Chateauneuf de Pape.
We did 42 miles and about 5,600 feet of climb that day and slept like rocks.
Megève to Col des Aravis
This was a confidence-building day – at least we hoped. The col des Aravis is a famous climb; 2016 marks the 40th time that it’s been featured on the Tour de France. It was also a preview for the L’Etape – the col des Aravis would be our first big climb on Sunday.
Soooo…there’s a reason it’s been on the Tour so many times. It’s hard. It’s steep. It’s relentless. As a remarkable climb, it’s littered with markers, and although they do look like gravestones, Mason and I both found them somehow comforting. You knew that the current grade would only last for a kilometer, and if you needed to stop for a respite, you could plan them.
Without testing your patience with details of every (innumerable) switchback, I’ll finish this day with noting that the summit featured a tiny chapel. Our guides had recommended that we bring along a couple of euros to donate as we somberly requested a safe and successful ride from the heavens above. And let me tell you, after that climb, pray we did.
Saturday – A Day of Rest and the Last Supper
On Saturday we lingered over breakfast and then Mason and I each indulged in another massage. In sharp contrast to her French sisters in Lake Annecy, our masseuse at Hotel Alpaga was fantastic. With our skin well moisturized from the previous days’ oil rub, she dug in to our tired muscles and kneaded away the lactic acid.
Feeling relaxed, we kicked around in town, purchasing a few mementos, and dining with our friends in Megève. That evening, we enjoyed a cocktail party with the other Trek Travel group who had been bussed over to our hotel for the Last Supper. Our guides teamed together to give final advice about the L’Etape. It felt a bit like kindergarten, only more ominous. “Make sure you have a ride buddy, keep your line during descents, keep hydrated and fueled, and above all pace yourself – the last climb will be a graveyard.” I think this is the closest I’ll ever come to what a soldier must feel like the night before battle – exhilarated, frightened, and anxious at all once.
We said our goodbyes and our bon chances then returned to our lodgings. We needed to set off on our bikes for the start line by 6:10 a.m., and wanted our bodies fueled, caffeinated, and well, functional in time for the race. So we crawled into bed early, our alarms set for 4:20 a.m., and prayed our sleep wouldn’t be haunted with nightmares of the climb profiles illustrated on the charts provided by our guides.
Two years ago Julie Farrell was a self-described “non-enthusiast” with paddle pedals and a brand-new Trek Domane. This July she completed her first L’Etape du Tour. Follow along as she recounts the journey from training to the finish line in this raw and entertaining three-part series.
Twenty-five years of marriage. For any of you involved in the sport of marriage, you know that like most athletic endeavors, it takes teamwork, loyalty, and a dose of luck to be successful. As with parenting, there’s no set of daily pills that one can take to ensure a smooth glide to the hallowed accomplishment of a silver anniversary. My husband and I consider ourselves fortunate.
So how to celebrate? We mulled over a number of options. As lifelong tennis players, a visit to Wimbledon was a serious consideration, as was a week in Tuscany drinking in Italian cuisine and history. Our honeymoon was in New Zealand punctuated with bungee-jumping and a ride on the Shotover speed boats, so we kept circling back to something with an element of adventure in it.
Having become cycling enthusiasts (note the choice of word there – “enthusiasts” as opposed to “avid cyclists”), we settled on a Trek Travel trip on the Normandy coast. What’s not to like? We’d get a good dose of history and culture, all the while pushing ourselves on daily cycling excursions.
We reported our decision to some friends of ours who countered with, “Great idea, but we’ve got a better one. How about you do the L’Etape du Tour Trek Travel trip with us instead?” Mason, my husband, and I discussed it, but quickly discarded the option. We hadn’t been training to that level. The L’Etape is legendary. Known for its brutal climbs and extended length, it is literally one of the stages of the famed Tour de France. The Big League. A Major. Nope, not this year, thanks.
There was a brief ceasefire in the exchange of ones and zeroes, then our friends shot back another email. “You know, this is a bucket list deal. A trip of a lifetime. One you’ll never forget. Normandy would be lovely, but this one is unforgettable. You guys can do it. Seriously.”
Had we been discussing this with just about anyone else, we would have stuck to our conviction and booked the nice, civilized Normandy trip. But our friends are both seasoned cyclists and they know our abilities and inabilities well enough to give us an honest assessment. Mason and I exchanged those same fateful expressions that we had when we agreed to bungee jump 143 feet off that bridge in New Zealand. “We’re in.”
That was May 1st. We looked up the details of what we had just committed to. Each day of riding was roughly 30-40 miles with 3500 – 4500 feet of climb. The final day, the L’Etape du Tour, was 91 miles and 10,000 feet of climb. It was a Sunday afternoon. Instead of taking a nice nap, we hopped on our bikes and did repeats on a small but steep hill near our home. After five, we called it quits. This was going to be tough.
Our son Cooper is an avid cyclist and participates on the CU Boulder Triathlon team. In addition, he had the good fortune to be a Trek Travel intern on the L’Etape a few years back. We texted him to see what he thought our chances were, and to lay-out a training schedule for us.
The good news is he thought we could do it. The bad news is that we needed to work our tails off. Cooper recommended 30 miles a days, with big rides (50-70 miles) on the weekends. Oh, and make sure you’ve got lots of climb in there too. Mason hadn’t been on a bike in three months, and though I’d been riding, it was no where near this level of intensity.
My husband works full time in the world of finance, but has the luxury of working remotely some of the week. I work as a consultant, and thus have some flexibility in my daily schedule. We began each day with working out whether or not we could ride together that day. Usually, we do our own thing during the week. It’s easier that way. This new goal, however, had us looking out for each other’s progress. We were partners in crime – doing our best to be flexible so that we could ride together and gradually extend and increase the intensity of our rides. The unexpected by-product was long stints of time together uninterrupted by phones, texts, emails, and other distractions. We talked about life, the future, and how it’s going to be when our youngest child is off to college in a year.
About three weeks into our training, our friends invited us to ride up a big climb in Santa Barbara– Gibraltar. I was unable to go, but Mason went. Gibraltar was the final climb in the Amgen Tour of California. It is not for the faint of heart. The day was hot, but Mason managed to stay with our pals, and had a newfound sense of confidence in his stamina. I, on the other hand, felt nervous. Though I’d packed in more miles than Mason during the year, I’d not yet faced a serious climbing challenge.
The next morning, Mason was off to work in LA, and I decided to assault the first portion of a steep climb called Figueroa Mountain in the Santa Ynez Valley. Our son confirmed that if I could make it to the gravel portion, it would provide solid climbing training for me. I was off. I had to stop several times, but I was feeling pretty good. The scenery was beautiful, and smells of sage and blooming wild flowers distracted me. I reached the gravel portion, and decided to push on. To my astonishment, I felt really good – I decided to continue. The Figueroa Mountain loop begins with a protracted steep climb, then shifts to an undulating gravel road, then to a steep paved descent. This is followed by a long, slow grind at about 4-5% climb before reaching another steep ascent. When I hit the long, slow grind, I began to wonder if I had made a rather stupid decision to do this alone.
It began to feel as if I’d somehow passed through a wormhole into some barren Old Testament locale. The temperature had climbed rapidly, and nasty horseflies were swarming my dripping, salty face. I realized that if I looked down, the flies were a bit less pernicious, but the trade-off was drops of stinging, sunscreen-infused liquid running into my eyes. As I looked down through my burning vision, I noticed several earwigs on my handlebars and top tube. How in the heck did they climb onto my moving bike?! I know I’m going slowly, but not that slowly. It was then that I wondered if the wrath of God was truly upon me. The other flying insects were in fact earwigs. They fly. I drank water. I was beginning to wonder if the heat was getting to me. I half expected to see a burning bush nearby or snakes of fire slithering across the asphalt. As I finally managed to make my way out of the shadow of the valley of death, I saw the summit before me. My trial was over, and my confidence boosted.
Our friends had recommended getting in one big ride during our training. A 70 or 80 miler with a good 6000-7000 feet of climb. Mason and I finally found a weekend day when we could dedicate six or eight hours to cycling. We took off for Jalama – a ride through Santa Ynez’s Pinot Noir growing hills in the Santa Rita Hills area and on to the majesty of the Pacific Ocean at Jalama Beach. The ride went well, though it was challenging. From about the 50-60 mile mark, Mason began to bonk. Though a seasoned athlete, he was not accustomed to the fueling and hydrating required to sufficiently manage oneself on extended cycling trips. At mile 60 we stopped and contemplated whether or not we would continue, or call our boys to pick us up. We decided to press on for another five miles and then make the decision. It was strange for me. I’m a relatively athletic female. Not great, but coordinated, and able to play most sports. But my husband has always been the strong one. And I was now actually worried about him. I mounted my bike, and he his – at least I thought so, until I heard the clash of metal meeting pavement, and Mason exclaim, “I broke my f&%^ing finger.”
I looked over, and as he disentangled himself from the bike, he raised his hand. There, at a nauseating angle, was his right ring finger. Instead of straight up, it pointed 45° right. He couldn’t ride, as he needed his right hand to apply the brakes, so we called 911. We called our boys to bring the truck, and meet us at the Lompoc Emergency Room. True to our family ethos, when they arrived, we all had a good laugh. Fortunately, the finger was just dislocated not broken. The trip would go on. And Dad was no longer infallible.
I’ve left out one little, teeny, tiny detail. I don’t clip in. This is cycling sacrilege. It’s like playing tennis with a wood racket, or playing baseball with one of those old Charlie Brown mitts, or using a wooden driver in golf. You’re handicapping yourself. You lose efficiency and power with each revolution of the crank. But here’s the deal. I hate being clipped in. I’ve had four knee surgeries, and it scares the tar out of me to be trapped in my pedals. And yes, I did ride clipped in for about two years – so I’ve tried it. I’ve managed to fall three times. All at slow speed – as in 5 mph or less, and it still hurts. So I decided to eliminate all that angst, and just ride in my golf shoes. Yup, my golf shoes. Not the kind with spikes, but the ones with nice little plastic nubs that grip my sweet mountain bike pedals. Voila. I can hop off any time I like.
On that note, I can tell you that for a brief period of time, there was a somewhat subversive campaign to coerce me into clipping in. Our friends told Mason, “You realize she will be the only rider on the L’Etape who is not clipped in, right?” Mason conveyed this to me. I said I wouldn’t rule it out. Then Mason and I did the Figueroa loop together the following weekend. I passed through a barely running creek overflow and yelped to be careful because it was slippery. Slick moss lay just below the surface. My sure-footed husband was once again embroiled in a slow-speed crash. Fortunately, he fell left, keeping his newly located right ring finger safe. Nope. I am going to continue to wear my golf shoes. If he can fall while clipped in, I’m sure to fall.
All in, I managed to put in 41 days of training in that two months leading up to our departure – about 1200+ miles and 94,000+ feet of climb. Mason had several business trips in his schedule and was thus unable to log as many miles. We had prepared as much as we could given our circumstances, and relished the private time together. Now D-Day was upon us.
Our Chile bike tour introduces you to a combination of mountainous terrain and natural beauty like you’ve never seen. So when Trek Travel cycling guide and professional photographer Zack Jones had the chance to guide our first ever Chile trip, he jumped at the opportunity without a moment’s hesitation.
Over the past 15 years, Zack has continually surprised and delighted Trek Travel guests with stunning imagery and exceptional service. So we sent him down to South America with one assignment: capture all that Chile has to offer. The Araucarias UNESCO Reserve and Kütralkura Geopark. The outdoor mecca of Pucón, situated on a lake beneath the Villarrica volcano. The Seven Lakes route that leads into the Huilo-Huilo Biological Reserve. And the region’s finest hotels, with majestic views and celebrity pedigrees.
For your viewing pleasure, we’ve created a collection of our favorite photographs from our first season in Chile.
Barcelona can be an action-packed combination of passion, nightlife, food and culture. Or it can be the getaway to end all getaways, with the serene escape of your own private villa. New in 2018, you can now choose one of three luxury villas and say goodbye to the bustle of civilized life.
Casa Felix
Casa Felix is beautifully located in Barcelona, on the edge of the charming village of Olivella, with stunning views over the Garraf National Park and just a short drive from the Mediterranean coast. A traditional Catalan Masia dating back to the 11th century, the villa has been lovingly restored to include 16 bedrooms, many sitting rooms, a library, game room, private garden and two swimming pools. Perhaps the best part, however, is the large terrace with beautiful sunset views over the surrounding vineyards! Stay at Casa Felix»
Villa Isla Cozumel
Perfectly located on the beachfront promenade, a stone’s throw from the white sandy beaches of Sitges, Villa Isla Cozumel is an iconic colonial mansion. Originally built in 1940, it has recently been exquisitely refurbished by the renowned Interior Designer Sandra Valenti. The main villa boasts 6 bedrooms, and the ground floor has spacious living area inviting relaxation and enjoyment of the fabulous sea views. Relax and enjoy the pool surrounded by tropical gardens or stroll into town for a cocktail and tapas. Stay at Villa Isla Cozumel»
Ca L’Almiral de la Font
Ca l’Almiral de la Font is an exquisite, private villa situated among olive trees and vineyards in the Penedès wine country. This traditional “basilica” style manor formerly used for winemaking has been refurbished to maintain the original building’s historic charm, while also affording guests every possible luxury – inside and out! A large tiled courtyard, complete with a Moroccan lounge, leads to a breathtaking infinity pool, and the 330 acres of private grounds include vineyards, olive groves and fruit trees. Stay at Cal L’Almiral de la Font»
Every year, Travel + Leisure asks readers to vote on the top hotels, destinations, airlines, and tour operators around the globe. Known as the World’s Best Awards, travelers rated tour operators on their staff and guides, itineraries and destinations, activities, accommodations, food, and overall value. We are thrilled to announce that, with a score of 96.97, Trek Travel was named one of the World’s Best Tour Operators in 2016.
“It’s a question that has plagued the travel industry for some time—has the wealth of information on the internet and the rise of digital booking tools signaled the end of tour operators? As our readers have told us time and time again, the answer is no,” said Stephanie Wu of Travel + Leisure.
“In fact, some argue, we need travel agents more than ever to cut through the clutter and tell us what is really worth seeing. A top tour operator will negotiate the best rates possible, take care of all logistics, and help out if any issues come up during the course of the trip, such as a missed connection or overbooked hotel. Most importantly, they will plan an itinerary that is just right for you.”
Among our industry’s highest honors, this distinction means so much more because it was awarded by you. You are the reason we’re in business–your stories inspire us, your energy fuels us, and your expectations drive us to be the best. Thanks for all the fun you have, and the love you’ve shared with us over the years.
Our guides have put together amazing picnics at the foot of landmarks, in the back of our vans, by the ocean, in forests and across the world. So it’s only natural that’s how we celebrate the 4th of July weekend. Below are our guides’ top five picnic tips, as well as a few favorite summer recipes to impress your family and friends.
Shopping for your picnic is a twofold task: first deciding what to buy, then going to the store. When creating the menu for your picnic, don’t forget to include regional specialties! Small items such as cheese in Vermont, jamón ibérico in Spain, or wine in France can bring a picnic to life when accompanied by stories of the farmer or vineyard. And secondly, to save yourself time, be sure to organize your menu into a shopping list by departments of a grocery store: produce, dry goods, condiments, bread, diary and deli.
2. Prep
Picnics can be stressful, especially when hungry guests are waiting to eat. Make it easier on yourself by prepping as much as you can in advance! This will save you LOTS of time later on. Veggies can be chopped, pasta can be cooked, and lettuce can be washed. If you do chop lettuce or other veggies in advance, be sure to put a napkin in the plastic bag to absorb moisture and keep things fresh.
3. Elevate
When it comes time to assemble your picnic, the display is nearly as important as the food on your table. Place cardboard Ziploc boxes, empty berry containers, or upside-down bowls under your tablecloth. Then set a bowl or platter of food on top, and a flat table will be instantly transformed into a bountiful multi-level display. Tilting the food toward guests will allow for easy viewing and serving.
4. Garnish
The second key to elegant presentation is garnish. Use fresh leafy vegetables – parsley, kale, collard greens, and romaine lettuce – to line bowls and fill empty spaces. Buy carrots, beets or radishes with the tops on. Bell peppers, lemons and limes can add zest and color to the display. Scatter pistachios, chocolates or uncooked pasta to add texture to the table.
5. Feast
Over and over, guests are ‘wowed’ by their guides’ ability to provide a feast. F.E.A.S.T. is actually a mnemonic device our guides use to help remember the five most important principles of creating a killer picnic: Full, Elegant, Appetizing, Selection, and Timely.
Marcel Peeperkorn has always embraced a transient lifestyle. From Johannesburg to Shanghai, London to Boston, Marcel has lived and worked in many regions around the world. But no matter his location, the bicycle has always remained a constant. And it was his search for simplicity in this ever-changing world that led him to Trek Travel.
Tell us your story. How did you end up at Trek Travel?
After many years working professionally as an architect, completing an MBA, and working in consulting, interior design and property development, I was searching for a different way of living and existing. I was determined to find a way to earn money in a world that demands so, while sharing in something I care about greatly–the bicycle. The bicycle has always been in the background, it is my meditation where I can forget about everything going on, and a place where I can reflect and consider life. It is both simple and complex, a tool for exploring mentally and physically.
Tell us about your favorite ride.
It is impossible to answer in a singular, as each ride is different and gives something different. From dark stormy mornings to beautiful sunny days and midnight commutes through the city, each ride offers something special in different quantities to mind, body and soul.
A ride that I’ll always remember was my first Cape Argus Cycle Tour, one of the first races I ever entered. It stands out more for completing than anything else. Hitting a car in training the week before, and battling wind gusts of 100km/h that sent fences and portaloos flying, let alone the riders! Completing that day was rewarding enough!
What is the best view you’ve seen from the seat of a bike?
Most likely the next one, wherever that may be! If I had to answer the question, I’d say the most impressive view to date was riding through the Chinese New Year fireworks in Shanghai.
When you’re not guiding, what are you doing?
If I’m not on the bike I will be exploring new places/food/drink and always reading, topics that interest me specifically are Philosophy, Economics, Psychology, and Sociology. I do enjoy the finer things in life but to be happy simply. I don’t need more than good company, bread, cheese, wine or beer, coffee with a book, and a bike to explore the world. I live life by a simple philosophy of “better,” inward and outward, for myself and to the world.
What excites you most about the opportunity to show people the world from the seat of a bike?
To show people where their body can take them, and what they discover about themselves while moving under their own mental and physical strength.
What is one thing people should know, but don’t, about being a Trek Travel guide?
We are all very different with different approaches, outlooks and philosophies toward life but share a love for the bicycle and the variety of things that it shows and teaches us.
A new guide for Trek Travel, Grace Heimsness is saying yes to the life she’s always dreamed of. Leaving the comfort of the familiar for the allure of something new is never easy. “I keep waiting for someone to jump out from behind a tree or from the bottom of a slot canyon, punch me in the back of the head, and shout, ‘Gotcha! Go home.'” But there’s beauty in the possibility of finding a new home.
Tell us your story. How did you end up at Trek Travel?
A few years ago, I was a wrench at a local mom ‘n pop bike shop in my hometown when one day our sales rep dropped off a few Trek Travel brochures. I picked it up, thought “Wow, that would be my dream job,” and put it in my back pocket–literally as well as figuratively. It was around the same time that I typed the sentence, “Home is whom you hang your thoughts on.” It was a nice thought, but just that. I wasn’t yet ready to live it, to leave the safety of that familiar hook on which I hung my jersey, to ride without the company of Jerry and Jens and Greenie and the rest of them.
Two years later, I was working as an arts nonprofit administrator and aching to be outside discovering the world instead of hearing about it from a desk. I applied, but didn’t expect to make it to the interview stage, forget receiving a job offer. I was that kid who cried on the first day of summer camp. I was also that kid who cried on the last day of summer camp. Deep and quick attachment is my forte and my fault, and I’ve done my best to live a life that leans least on the discomfort of personal—and personnel—changes. But over the last six months, I have fallen hard for the truth that has for so long been fighting to burn in me. I am ready to live that sentence, ready to hang my jersey on a new hook each night, to burn my legs up on climbs that leave you breathless, to work harder than I’ve ever done in my life in order to give people experiences they’ll never forget.
As a kid, what did you think you’d be when you grew up?
I was absolutely certain I was going to be a writer. I started writing stories in the fourth grade and just never stopped. I still write when I can–my blog and personal essays, mostly. Now well into my 20s, I can say with that same certainty that I want to be a writer in some capacity, regardless of how grown up I am.
When you’re not guiding, what are you doing?
Sleeping! Really though, I like to update my blog when I have a chance, read, maybe catch a re-run of Seinfeld or work on my Netflix queue. I love making dinner with my co-guides at the guide house and starting random dance/karaoke parties, usually simultaneously. Dancing and cooking go well together.
What is one thing people should know, but don’t, about being a Trek Travel guide?
How much you trust and depend on your co-guide for almost everything–not only on-trip, but also in your non-guiding life. This goes far beyond the logistical or practical; being out in the field and away from home for so long throws you into a sort of alternate universe, and your co-guide is the one person who understands completely the unique challenges this situation can introduce to your relationships and lifestyle. It’s a powerful bond and can teach you a lot about communication, commitment, and trust. This immediate bond with my co-guides has been probably the loveliest surprise, for me.
Tell us about your favorite ride.
That’s a tough one. I’d have to say the last day of our Bryce & Zion trip, a simple out-and-back up the canyon of Zion National Park to the Temple of Sinawava. It’s stunning–six or so miles of the Virgin River wend alongside the park road as you make your way up-canyon, the morning is calm and cool, and there’s this incredible morning light shining onto peaks like the Court of the Patriarchs. With 800 feet of climbing, it’s just enough to take the itch out of your legs and give you a great start to the day. And if you’re ever looking for some perspective on life, staring up at 2,000 vertical feet of petrified sand dunes that have existed for 200 million years is one way to find it.
What is your favorite view from the seat of a bike?
I love seeing my hometown from the seat of my bike. I’ve seen a few incredible places by bike and I’d love to see a whole bunch more, but there’s something about cruising down Main Street at dusk, waving at old friends and “checking in on the neighborhood,” that makes me sublimely happy.
What excites you most about the opportunity to show people the world from the seat of a bike?
I’m really stoked every time we roll into a place that I know will make our guests Ooh and Ah. It’s so satisfying to be the person who introduces someone to an entirely new setting, one beyond what they even imagined, and to watch them react. A lot of guests become kids again, in a way—sometimes you can see, if you really look, what they might have been like as an 8-year-old. It brings you back to when you saw this place for the first time, and it’s awesome to think about the fact that our guests will remember their first moments in this place forever, and that you were the one who got to share that with them.
If a date is marked as Private, it is reserved for a private group.
Don’t see exactly what you are looking for or looking for a custom date? Call our trip consultants at 866-464-8735
What is the Difference?
Ultimate Luxury:
Savor some of the most spectacular, 5-star properties in the world. Exuding luxury and elegance, these one-of-a-kind accommodations offer the chance to rejuvenate at award-winning spas, dine at Michelin-starred restaurants, and more.
Luxury:
Enjoy luxurious accommodations handpicked for a refined experience. From signature spa treatments to delicious local cuisine, you’ll be more than provided for; you’ll be pampered.
Explorer:
These handpicked hotels provide relaxation and fun in a casual and comfortable environment. Delicious cuisine and great service mix perfectly for a memorable stay.
Combined:
On select cycling vacations, you’ll stay at a mix of Explorer and Luxury hotels. Rest assured, no matter which hotel level you’re at, our trip designers carefully select every accommodation.
Road: 1-3 hours of riding. Up to 25 mi (40 km). Up to 1,000 ft (300 m).
Gravel: 1-3 hours of riding. Up to 20 mi (35 km). Up to 1,000 ft (300 m).
Hiking: 1-3 hours of hiking. Up to 5 mi (8 km). Up to 1,000 ft (300 m).
Level 2:
Road: 2-4 hours of riding. 20-35 mi (35-60 km). Up to 2,500 ft (750 m).
Gravel: 2-4 hours of riding. 15-30 mi (25-45 km). Up to 2,000 ft (300 m).
Hiking: 2-4 hours of hiking. 4-8 mi (6-12 km). Up to 1,500 ft (450 m).
Level 3:
Road: 3-5 hours of riding. 25-55 mi (40-85 km). Up to 4,500 ft (1,500 m).
Gravel: 3-5 hours of riding. 20-40 mi (35-60 km). Up to 3,000 ft (900 m).
Hiking: 3-5 hours of hiking. 6-10 mi (9-16 km). Up to 2,000 ft (600 m).
Level 4:
Road: 4+ hours of riding. 40-70 mi (60-110 km). Up to 8,000 ft (2,400 m).
Gravel: 4+ hours of riding. 30-50 mi (45-80 km). Up to 4,000 ft (1,200 m).
Hiking: 4+ hours of hiking. 7-15 mi (11-24 km). Up to 4,000 ft (1,200 m).
What are your trip styles?
Classic - Reserve:
Savor the finer things as you relax in luxurious 5-star accommodations and wine, dine, and ride in some of the most unforgettable destinations around the world.
Classic - Signature:
Explore beautiful destinations by bike, enjoy extra inclusions, savor delicious local cuisine, and enjoy the perfect mix of accommodations.
Classic - Discover:
Enjoy a casual cycling vacation with fantastic routes and comfortable accommodations.
Ride Camp:
Train like the pros in some of their favorite riding destinations.
Pro Race:
See the pros in action at the biggest cycling events of the year.
Cross Country:
Tackle an epic adventure that takes you point-to-point across mountains, countryside, and more.
Self-Guided
Enjoy a bike tour on your schedule with just your chosen travel companions.
Sometimes it’s more convenient and comfortable to have your own room while on vacation. We understand and that’s why we offer a Single Occupancy option. The additional price guarantees a private room all to yourself
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