It’s become a ritual. When I’m at home in Haute Provence, I start my day outside, often just a few meters from the kitchen door that opens onto the garden. I often sit right on the ground—either on the grass dotted with spring flowers that Jojo’s lawnmower missed, or on the stone pavement still cool from the night. In the distance, I can see Mount Lure, and beyond that, I imagine the Alpine peaks. My imagination wanders there, tracing paths through the valleys, over the hills, stopping at the banks of streams, and resting in the shade of a fir tree.
I won’t be wearing a race bib this year. I think this is the first time I don’t have a “race” on my calendar. I crave freedom, silence, and solitude. I crave the unpredictable, resourcefulness, and spontaneity. I have no desire for performance, for times, for noise, for shouts—even cheers of support—or for a staged setting designed for an artificial adventure that, as a result, loses all its sense of adventure. But I have ideas for wandering; I have plenty of them.
Simplicity
I want to leave home with the simplest logistics possible. On foot or by bike, with only the bare essentials, and head toward those paths already mapped out by my imagination. Return by train or the same way I came, stock up on supplies in the villages, and sleep in meadows or on farms. To give myself time—time for a break, for contemplation, for detours, and for the return journey.
May Getaways
In May, I’ve planned two getaways. One was suggested by my friend and fellow guide, Typhaine. A passionate long-distance hiker, she’s got her eye on the Hexatrek, a short 3,032-kilometer hike from the Vosges to the Pyrenees. She asked me if I’d be interested in meeting up with other enthusiasts in May in Die, in the Drôme. I replied, “OK, let’s go by bike.” So we’ll head north, west of the summit of Lure, through the Drôme Provençale, passing at the foot of Mont Ventoux. We’ll find small roads and trails, we’ll cross mountain passes, and maybe we’ll have to push our bikes in some spots. My mind is already there—I’ll check out the route on a map, but that can wait; first, I’ll just let my imagination run wild.
And at the end of May, I’ll head toward those Alpine peaks I picture every morning. On my bike, solo, or maybe with Typhaine or Jojo. It doesn’t matter to me; during those long days on the road, we don’t talk much—it’s the silence I love and the landscapes that unfold pass after pass. I’ve made a bit more progress; I’ve “blazed a trail,” as they say in the lingo. It’ll take me to Montdauphin and then on to the Queyras along the left bank of the Durance, which I haven’t explored yet. After that, I’m not sure—maybe take the Parpaillon Tunnel, which is known to still be snowy or icy at that time of year, or head back by train; we’ll see.
Summer Adventures
The rest is a bit more set in stone: the Grand Tour des Ecrins via fastpacking in June with Jo, and the Swiss Jura on gravel in July. In August, we’ll be in the upper Clarée Valley like we are every year—family time that’s precious to me. We’ll all gather at the chalet: my brother Jacques, my sister-in-law Mar, my mother, Jo, and often my son Ezraa and his partner Alex. We don’t have a set itinerary, but we’ll be roaming these mountains we know so well yet that never cease to amaze us; we’ll eat ice cream in Italy, swim in high-altitude lakes, have dinner at a mountain hut, and hike back down at night, singing as we go.
Maybe a book…
I started a book project on wandering last winter. The idea is simple: by bike or on foot, go meet elderly people sitting in front of their homes or in the squares of small villages, ask them questions about their lives, and ask what advice they’d give to the younger generation. Take their photos. And in this way, paint a portrait of France as experienced through the slow pace of traveling on foot or by bike. I find this project enjoyable as a process; perhaps it will never see the light of day. Like physical exercise, I don’t care about the outcome—the value lies in the journey.
Training for Traveling
I train because I have no particular athletic talents. “I train”—the phrase is misleading, implying a goal I don’t have—it’s more of a daily reflection on my desire for movement: what kind, and at what intensity. And I follow my intuition. There are “athletic” days like yesterday: a 15-minute series of steep climbs and fast descents to get my quads used to the eccentric contractions that will inevitably make themselves felt during the Grand Tour des Ecrins. There are days when I get on my bike and don’t really know what’s going to happen: just a ride, or interval training. I just let it happen; my old athlete’s body no longer wants to obey the dictates of time and distance. It doesn’t care—it responds to desire, passion, nature, and the right amount of effort.
I still have the same coach, because like all coaches, I’m coached myself. It’s a dialogue that remains important to me: knowing how to describe my sensations, discussing my doubts, and talking about sports after age 50. Megan Roche has been by my side for seven years now—I’m so lucky. I’ve watched the SWAP team grow and become one of the most prestigious trail running teams in the world. It’s known for its elite runners who sweep the podiums. And there are a few people like me who, over time, have come to be seen as “wise old souls”—proof that longevity in sports is possible and that David and Megan support the veterans as well. The coaching methods are the same for everyone and are flexible enough to allow for trial and error and individual adaptation. I take a broad approach but respect SWAP’s core principles, which, incidentally, are the same as those I use in my own coaching. I base my approach on perceived exertion because I know that training is very rarely linear and that numbers are merely indicators. Strides for speed and neuromechanical adaptation, tempo runs for lactate threshold training, and a little speed work at VO2max.
Over the years, I’ve learned that “mental toughness” doesn’t mean charging ahead like a bull, ignoring the body’s signals—but rather, it means listening to your body with great sensitivity: pushing yourself to the limit rarely works and never does in the long run. So I always enjoy going out to “train”; I have a foundation but leave myself the flexibility to adapt it based on how I feel. Experienced this way, sports are a journey of discovery, a creative and proactive game. Never something we endure for the sake of a goal that, in any case, can never reflect our human worth.
Wandering as a Philosophy
I believe that wandering is a way of perceiving, a way of being and seeing. It’s an invitation to keep things fluid, to let the movement of the world take root within us and our minds chart paths toward the horizon of possibility.
