Cannes it.

Location: Cannes, France

I woke up two days ago feeling like I got dipped in shit. Just down in general. Tired of looking for hotel rooms, tired of trying to decide which would be the best town to go to, worried of passing things by, cognizant that I actually had to be back in Madrid by the 30th and not really knowing how many miles I had gotten away from it, tired of trying to find a ride online that wasn't uploaded by Briar Rabbit.

Yeah, I know, cry me a river, but it's almost a hassle to have too many choices. The last time I rode my bike around Europe there was this guy who just told us to keep him in sight and be back at the hostel by 9AM and ready to ride. We went out drinking every night and we had little to no care for anything.

The internet is as helpful as it is maddening.

And talk about uninspired; I didn't even want to ride my bike. I think the Ventoux ride did it to me. I did not have fun on that ride, honestly. Riding my bike should be, if nothing else, fun.

CDP from the top (in summer).

I guess, perhaps, what I was feeling, was just that "everything will not be fine." And I'm an "everything will be fine" kind of guy.

So when you're in the darkness like that, you start looking for light switches. And I found one way back in my head, in the form of a very vivid memory of a day spent in Chateauneuf-Du-Pape about 9 years ago. I was only in France that time for 7 days or so, but every part of that day I remember.

So I head in that direction. And I'll tell you, once I walked up to the crumbling castle there on the hilltop and had a seat, the world started tilting in my direction again.

There are a handful of places on earth that make me feel 100 percent whole and where my mind stops and my angst plays only the hide part of hide-and-seek. Chateauneuf-du-Pape is one of those places. I don't know why in particular, but it settles me out. It has a conspicuous feel to it, like maybe I spent a long time here in a past life, but then again, I don't (completely) believe in that sort of thing.

It's like the place looks me right in the eye and strokes my hair and says "Hey, it's all going to be ok. You're going to be ok."

The Rhone, the CDP, and Ventoux. 

I was the only one there this time. I sat up there for about two hours, watching the crows play against the wind overhead, and the sun was on me. It is only two walls now, mostly uncared for after 600 years, and there is no one there to tell you what you can do or can't do, and there are shards of broken wine bottles and beer cans blown into the dark corners of it.

Every 30 minutes or so, I'd hear a roar and look up and see a couple jet fighters soar fast and low on their way to the military base. And as my eyes follow them, they rest on Mont Ventoux, very clear on this day, to the west. And through the windows to the east, is the Rhone.

It's just a gorgeous place, to me. Who knows why? I'm tempted to say, ah, fuck it, it has a certain "je ne sais quoi." Minus one for my writing creativity, but that's the best I can put it.

I tear myself away from town after picking up a couple of bottles from an old woman in a dank, dark basement. I have been to this particular dank, dark basement before, on my last trip. But this time, it was just me and her, pouring tastes of 2008, and of 2009, and maybe she had a little taste with me as well.

And when I get to Cannes, things improve a bit more. My room overlooks the ocean, and with my balcony door open, I can hear the waves breaking. It is sunny, and it's about 65, and there is a man, in a boat, just fishing on a Tuesday.

And maybe without realizing it, I start putting my bike shit on. Please, please reward me, because I really don't want to be doing this. I'm uninspired, but I trust that my bike and this place will continue to put all my wrongs to right on this day.

I'm not led astray. It's perfect in every way. Maybe the most fun I have had on my bike since that descent of Mount Lemmon in Tucson. Tons of cyclists, jaw-dropping scenery, great weather, no huge mountains to break my back, but challenging nonetheless, and despite feeling like crap and having no food in me, I hammered. I also smiled the whole way I think.

I did have an altercation with a driver, but it's hard to recount because all that happened was that he got way too close, I slammed my fist on his rear window, and then lots of yelling in English and French followed. Then we carried on. Normally, this would ruin my ride, but not on this ride, so that just goes to show you how incredible it really was.

It was the kind of day that you hope for as a cyclist. And I can't help but think that something cosmic is at work on these kinds of days, on those days where mostly I am shaking my head and smiling at the enormity of it all.

I think of how that weight we feel sometimes, somehow or another, can just disappear in an instant. Sometimes with a word, a thought, a song, a touch, or a bike ride. When it's on you, it's impossible to figure out how to rid yourself of it. But then, all of sudden, you're floating a few feet above ground.