At the Flandrien Hotel, it all started with something almost unreal.

A week inside the Canyon Bike – Design & Development team

For a few days, we hosted a team from Canyon and around twenty journalists who came to test the new Endurace Aeroroad CFR.
The whole place transformed.
Canyon everywhere.
Mathieu van der Poel on the walls.
Bikes that looked like they came straight out of NASA.

And me, right in the middle of it, lucky enough to ride them.

We went out on part of the Tour of Flanders course.
The Oude Kwaremont, the Paterberg, the Molenberg.

And that strange feeling.

With 32 - 35 mm tyres…
these brutal cobbled climbs suddenly felt almost… smooth.

People talk about tradition here, but Belgium is also a playground for innovation.
A raw mix of old and new.

The week ended on a high note, with the victory of Mathieu van der Poel on that very same bike, at the E3 Saxo Bank Classic (despite some questionable tactics from his rivals) and the Flandrien Hotel clubhouse buzzing with energy.

Then came Ronde week.

And with it, a special encounter.

Phil Anderson.

A VIP guest.

Still deeply athletic, open, curious.
The kind of person who shares stories — about radios, pedals, bikes, tactics…
A different era, but the same sensations.

His portrait hangs on many walls in the hotel.
He is the idol of Jamie Anderson, owner of the Flandrien Hotel.
Two Australians, two journeys.

Seeing Jamie welcome his hero into his own hotel…
that was something special.

A reminder that nothing is truly impossible.
After all, becoming the first non-European to wear the yellow jersey at the Tour de France once seemed impossible too.

And then there was the Ronde.

The real one.

The one you see.
The one you feel.

The climbs I ride in training… transformed.
Taken over.

Thousands of spectators.
Flags everywhere.
Bikes, noise, energy.

An almost primal atmosphere.

The Tour of Flanders is not just a race.
It’s a culture.
A shared language.

And to close this Flandrien season: Paris-Roubaix.

And that victory.

The one by Wout van Aert.

My favourite.

The one who represents work, resilience, effort.
Not always the most spectacular — but often the most authentic.

His win felt symbolic.
Like a delayed reward.
As if April had finally given him what he deserved.

Paris-Roubaix is one of those.
The race that makes me dream. The ultimate challenge. The war. The consecration.
The one that never lies. The one that chooses.

And this year again, it chose… in chaos.

From the gun, the race was on.No early breakaway, no easy phase. UAE Team Emirates took control, pushing hard from the start, willing to sacrifice riders long before the decisive moments. A clear strategy: make it hard, wear everyone down, eliminate.

But in Roubaix, even the best plan eventually cracks.

Punctures came. For everyone. Not at the same time, not in the same place. Just enough to shift trajectories, break momentum, isolate leaders.
Tadej Pogačar had to switch bikes in urgency, ending up on a Shimano.
Mathieu van der Poel got caught out in the Trouée d’Arenberg, unable to take Jasper Philipsen’s bike because of a pedals prototype being tested… on the worst possible day.

And that’s where everything changed.

Because in that exact moment, an individual race becomes a collective one.

In Roubaix more than anywhere else, you never win alone.
You share bikes.
You ride for someone else.
You sacrifice your own chances to save another’s.

That invisible thread of teamwork runs through the entire race, both for men and women.

And at the end of that chaos, of those decisions, of those sacrifices… there is a victory.

Wout van Aert.

The right one. The resilient one. The deserving one.

But this victory is more than a performance.

On the finish line, Wout looks up and points to the sky.
A simple gesture. Heavy with meaning.

During his first participation, he had lost a teammate and friend.
And as fate would have it, the sector where he passed away was back on the course this year.

So this victory goes beyond everything.
It connects past and present.
It connects the individual and the collective.

All of Belgium celebrates.
But in truth, the whole cycling world does.

Because Wout embodies something rare: fighting and winning for yourself, but also for others.

And that same idea exists in the women’s race.

Because while the debate comes back every year — should they race on the same day? — it goes beyond simple organization.
Budget, safety, logistics: the arguments are real.

But on the ground, one reality stands out.

Less coverage.
Less analysis.
Fewer eyes.

Journalists say it themselves: it’s impossible to follow and truly understand both races with the same depth.
And inevitably, it’s the women who suffer from it.

And yet, on the road, the logic is exactly the same.

The same chaos.
The same collective dynamics.
The same turning points.

I tuned in at the key moment.
The decisive move had gone: Pauline Ferrand-Prévot, Marianne Vos, Blanka Vas… and my pick: Franziska Koch.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

Because Koch perfectly embodies that collective cycling.
Since the start of the season with FDJ, she has been working for others. Building in the shadows. Giving. Enabling.

But without Demi Vollering, roles shift. Cards are reshuffled.

Just like in the men’s race.

And she takes her chance, even when — on paper — alone against two Jumbo riders, the race looks lost.

She sets the pace on the cobbles.
She drops Pauline.
She believes in her sprint against Vos.

And she wins.

But that chaos always reveals the same thing.

The beauty of sport.
Going beyond yourself.
The collective.

The one that saves a race.
The one that builds a victory.
The one that tells a story.

A story of chaos and destiny.
A story of men and women who fall, get back up, and help each other.
A story where nothing is ever written in advance… but where, in the end, everything makes sense.

In cycling, we’re all afraid of the DNF.
Not finishing. Getting off the bike. Watching the commissaire’s car pass you.
The feeling of failure, sometimes shame, often frustration.

But now I know there’s something worse.

DNS.

Not even starting.

Yesterday, at GP Oetingen, I discovered a different kind of frustration.
Colder. Quieter. More lonely.
The kind of frustration that doesn’t come out in tears at the finish line, but burns all day inside while you pretend everything is fine.

At the end of the race, I saw teammates disappointed, angry, some of them in tears because they hadn’t had the race they wanted.
I comforted them, like a team captain should.
Because that’s part of the sport. Because it happens. Because there are worse things in life.

But deep down, I knew what I was feeling was different.
They had raced.
I hadn’t.

And it turns out that not racing hurts more than racing badly.

Everything had started normally.
Well… normally for a Belgian race: stress, last-minute adjustments, checks, cobbles, rain, and that almost vital need to trust your bike.

For a few days, my front end had been acting up.
I thought it was a bearing.
We took it apart, put it back together, changed for new bearing, tightened, loosened, tightened again.
Ten times. Maybe twenty.
Every time, we wanted to believe it was fixed.

But it wasn’t the bearing.
The carbon frame was damaged.
Impossible to secure the steerer properly.
Impossible to get a stable headset.
Impossible to trust the bike.

And in Belgium, without trust in your bike, you don’t race.
You take unnecessary risks.
You put yourself and others in danger.

We could have forced it.
We could have improvised.
We could have done a Lindsey Vonn and started anyway with something not quite right.

For once, I didn’t play the hero.

The team did everything they could to get me at the start but the bike wasn’t safe. And in a race like this, the rule is simple : safety first.

No spare bike.
No solution.
No last-minute miracle.

DNS.

The hardest part is that moments like this remind you of the reality in continental.
No truck full of spare bikes.
No spare bike ready in five minutes.
No miracle when something breaks.

New team frames arrive late.
Parts travel from one country to another.
This is also what cycling at this level looks like.
A lot of passion.
A lot of improvisation.
And sometimes, very little margin.

And when there’s no technical solution left, all you can do is accept it.
That’s probably when the day starts to feel the longest.

I got in the car to follow the race, telling myself it would help.
That I could still be useful.
That I could experience the race in a different way.

In reality, I spent the whole day in the back seat, grinding my teeth, stuck and frustrated.
Watching every sector I had studied.
Every corner I had imagined.
Every moment where I knew positioning would matter.

Listening on the radio to the instructions I had given in the briefing.
Understanding exactly what was happening… without being able to do anything.
Not even being with my teammates to help them.

You’re there, but you don’t exist.

My Whoop score this morning is at its lowest, even though I didn’t ride.
No watts. No kilometers. No physical effort.

But I burned energy anyway.
Too much.

Nerves.
Frustration.
Disappointment.
That strange kind of fatigue that isn’t in your legs, but in your head.

Yesterday, I would almost have preferred to blow up on the third cobbled sector, get dropped in the first berg, or even finish outside the time limit.
At least I would have existed in the race.

Instead, I spent the whole day watching a scenario I had imagined… without ever being part of it.

That’s also the Belgian dream.
Not just the cobbles, the bergs, and the big races.
But also broken bikes, plans falling apart, and those days where you have to stay calm while everything is boiling inside.

Fortunately, at the Flandrien Hotel, bikes aren’t the problem.
And neither are good people.

The resident riders shared my frustration as if it were their own.
Because here, everyone knows what it feels like.
A DNS.
A DNF.
A bad day.
A day where nothing works.

Next to them, the Strade Bianche Donne still feels like a newcomer. The first women’s edition only dates back to 2015. In cycling terms, that’s almost yesterday. And yet, ask riders in the peloton which races they dream of winning and Strade Bianche almost always comes up. Because this race already has what every great Classic needs: an identity, a signature, a landscape you recognize instantly.

The white dust of the Tuscan roads. The rolling hills around Siena. And that unique finish in the Piazza del Campo, after the brutal ramp of Via Santa Caterina.

Some races become mythical over time; others seem to have been designed to become mythical immediately.

Strade Bianche also mirrors modern cycling. It’s nervous, explosive, always on the edge. The roads narrow, the gravel sectors arrive early (around kilometre ten), the peloton stretches out and the real battle begins long before the attacks. In races like this, the climb itself is not always the hardest moment. The hardest part is arriving at the climb in the right position.

Because the peloton is already riding flat out to line up before the gravel sectors. When the split happens, it often happens from the back. The tail of the peloton explodes — not necessarily because the legs give up, but because the race is simply too fast to come back. Strade Bianche pushes that dynamic to the extreme: a little bit of Paris-Roubaix Femmes, a little bit of gravel, short punchy climbs and a peloton under constant pressure. In the end, the race doesn’t only reward the strongest rider. It rewards the ones who can stay in the race when everything turns chaotic.

Last year’s edition reminded everyone of another essential rule of the white roads : timing is everything. Very early in the race, Pauline Ferrand-Prévot chose to take responsibility. Maybe even a little too early. Active through the gravel sectors and constantly part of the moves, she spent a lot of energy before eventually letting the two future protagonists slip away.

But P.Ferrand-Prévot is not the kind of rider who repeats the same mistake twice. And in a race like Strade Bianche, learning quickly can make all the difference.

Up the road, the race had turned into a duel between two Dutch riders : Demi Vollering and Anna van der Breggen. On the final climb into Siena, D.Vollering launched the decisive move and took the victory in Piazza del Campo, confirming her status as one of the queens of the white roads.

This year she arrives in Tuscany with confidence after her victory at Omloop Het Nieuwsblad. But Strade Bianche is never easy to win. Katarzyna Niewiadoma has already shown impressive form — and cadence — with a QOM on the Muur van Geraardsbergen last weekend that came remarkably close to the men’s benchmark. Elisa Longo Borghini, ill and out in 2025, should be fully back in the fight this year. Lotte Kopecky will also be looking for revenge after a mechanical issue disrupted her opening classics campaign.

Behind those big favourites, other riders could thrive in the chaos of the white roads: Juliette Labous, Kimberley Le Court, Puck Pieterse, and Liane Lippert.

Because Strade Bianche often works like this : you arrive with a list of favourites… and then the dust decides otherwise.

I came here with a clear intention: to face the highest level of the classics. Not to “get the experience.” Not to tick a box. But to understand. To learn how to exist in this peloton. And this peloton gives you nothing for free.

From the first kilometers, everything happens fast. Too fast to think. The roads narrow, teams organize, lead-outs form, space disappears. Positions close like automatic doors. You hesitate for half a second and you’re out. In Belgium, there is no middle ground : you are either in the movement or you suffer behind it.

This weekend, I suffered too much.

Not because of fear. Not because of lack of desire. But because of poor decisions and lack of anticipation. A badly taken roundabout. Entering a cobbled sector too far back. A long chase effort much too early. And the balance shifts.

The watts were there. The data confirms it. But numbers don’t tell the full story. You can have good legs and burn your race in twenty minutes. Because Belgian racing is not only about power; it’s about timing, instinct, and efficiency. Here, every bad decision costs a bullet. And when you hit the berg already drained, the peloton doesn’t slow down for you.

There’s one moment I keep replaying: that feeling of being lucid. Knowing I was out of position. Feeling the energy slipping away. Understanding exactly what was happening — and still not being able to change the flow. It’s frustrating, of course.

But it’s also valuable. Because it means I can see the problem.

I’m not physically out of my depth. I’m learning the grammar of chaos. And that kind of grammar isn’t taught in a manual. You learn it at 50 km/h, surrounded by shoulders, shouts, carbon bikes and cobbles. You learn it in discomfort, in urgency, in those split seconds where everything is decided.

This weekend also reminded me of something essential about modern women’s cycling: the level has changed. It is dense, structured, methodical. WorldTour teams control the space, lock the front positions, set the pace. Mistakes are punished immediately. We can’t talk about a “developing peloton” anymore.

We’re talking about a demanding, professional, unforgiving peloton — and that’s a very good thing.

But this evolution also requires something from u s: we must raise the way we analyse our races. Stop reducing performance to a finishing place. Look at the quality of decisions. The efficiency of effort. The ability to influence the race dynamic.

Finishing is no longer enough.
Existing — that’s the challenge.

The Belgian dream is not about comfort. It’s a school of demands.

And in modern women’s cycling, you don’t improve by avoiding difficulty — you improve by going through it.

I’m not here just to finish. I’m here to understand, to master, to influence. So we keep going. Because chaos isn’t an obstacle. It’s the training ground.

And I fully intend to take my place in it.

The velodrome. The pale wood. The indoor warmth. The fixed landmarks. On the track, everything is measurable. Predictable. You build brick by brick. A smoother 500 watts. A sharper start. A more precise line. The French Championships almost feel like a logical outcome. The excitement is there, but contained. Intense, yes. Overwhelming, no.

The road is different.

The first race is a step into the unknown. You can spend days running through scenarios in your head. The crosswinds. The splits. The moments when you’re out of position. A second too late. Slightly off. You can compare yourself before you’ve even pinned on a number. Judge yourself without evidence. Create pressure where there is none yet.

Before the first race, anxiety can feel productive. It creates the illusion of preparation, of control. In reality, it mostly fuels doubt.

I could stay there.
In self-judgment.
In overthinking.
In the search for reassurance.

I could keep reviewing my data, analyzing every session, looking for proof that I am / or I am not ready.

But at some point, you have to choose.
Switch !
And move forward.

Stop trying to control what cannot be controlled. Return to the process. Focus on what is within reach. Give your best in the present moment. Lean into the team. Stay committed. Accept that the rest is out of your hands.

In one week, I’ll line up for my first race of the season with O’SHEA Red Chilli Bikes at the FENIX Omloop van het Hageland.

The first race doesn’t define a season. It opens it.
That’s probably why it feels both unsettling and exciting at the same time.

I hear this sentence often here at the Flandrien Hotel. And it’s true. Everything begins there — at the start line. In the moment you accept that you won’t control everything, but you show up anyway.

A few more sessions before I pin on my race number. A few more rides. A few more cobbles sections to discover. And a few more thoughts to let go of.

See you at the start line.

High-level sport doesn’t always look like a postcard. It can feel lonely. It means spending many hours alone on the bike, dealing with doubts, and going through fatigue without anyone seeing it. On the start line, no one can ride for you. The moment belongs to you.

And yet, I have never been alone.

In my early years, my dad was there. A quiet but strong presence, always in the background. Then time passes. Roles change. Shoulders change.

Today, the strength is somewhere else — in a different form, but with the same power.

In my sporting journey, someone has taken an important place. A strong place. Not in the spotlight, but in the foundations of the project.
A natural continuity.
A silent transmission.

He isn’t on the start line.
He doesn’t appear in the results.
He doesn’t raise his arms in the photos.

And yet, he is everywhere.

In the small details.
In the careful bike settings.
In the charged devices.
In the checked tyres, the planned routes, the analysed data.

I ride. He builds the structure.

He is the calm.
I am sometimes the fire.

He keeps me steady when I get carried away.
He absorbs it when I doubt.
He adjusts when I lose focus.
And he patiently listens to my endless race debriefs.

High-level sport gives the illusion that it is individual.
But the truth is that performance often depends on an invisible duo.

What makes the journey even stronger is that it is shared.
Yes, I found my Ken. His ambition is huge — maybe even bigger than mine. He builds, he leads, he teaches, he develops. Always moving forward.

In the end, sport isn’t only what we do. It is who we are.
Performance is our common language.
Ambition is our oxygen.

We don’t hold each other back.
We push each other.
We grow together.

Valentine’s Day 2026 will be at distance. Belgium for me, a long Paris working day for him. This is also part of a cyclist’s life: suitcases always ready, many kilometers between us, phone bills getting higher, and schedules that don’t always match.

But love isn’t measured by sitting next to each other at dinner.
It is measured by the strength you show when the other person follows their dream.

I wish you all a shared ambition.
And a good espresso.

Here, at the Flandrien Hotel, the walls tell cycling stories even before anyone speaks.
Bikes, photos, whole generations hanging in the corridors.
In the morning, I have breakfast in front of a portrait of Marianne Vos.
She is there, silent, almost familiar. A constant reminder of what this sport asks for — and what it can give.

Not everything is perfectly ready yet.
There is still work to do, details to finish. The caravan is stored, the tents are folded away. But the direction is clear.

If I am here today, it is not by chance.
This adventure started long before I unpacked these last bags.

Last summer, I left with something more.
Nothing clearly defined, nothing decided.
Just a feeling that slowly became clear.

This place was no longer just a stop.
It was asking for a next step, a next chapter.

The idea of coming back arrived quietly, without pressure, without a fixed plan.
Not for a few days, but to really commit.

This feeling was not light.
It meant letting go of stable references, accepting uncertainty, and putting safety aside. Taking unpaid leave.
Slowing down somewhere else to move faster here.

If this path could open, it is because Jamie Anderson built its foundations.
Manager of the Flandrien Hotel and creator of the Scholarship Program, he sees cycling as a global project.
A project where the athlete is respected for their uniqueness, their time, and their needs. It is not only about offering a place to stay or training roads, but about creating a structure to grow.
His vision is modern, smart, and deeply human.
A rare and fair perspective.

So today, I am here.
For seven months.

This is not a training camp. It is not a break either.
It is a real part of life, chosen, accepted, almost radical.
Seven months to live inside the women’s peloton, riding for O’SHEA Red Chilli Bikes, and to see how far this dream can take me.

Very quickly, this choice becomes real.
In daily life.
On the road.

Belgian cycle paths are sometimes narrow and often rough.
But above all, they give a feeling of safety that changes everything.
Less tension, less constant alertness.
Here, I can fully focus on the work, on the movement, on the effort.

I quickly stopped trying to avoid every small stone.
I mounted Rubino tyres.
And, almost naturally, I have already ridden many of the nearby bergs and cobbled sectors. The cobbles shake you. The bergs put you back in place.
It is not hostile — it is educational.
A quiet entry ritual, but a deeply enjoyable one.

For now, at the hotel, everything is calm.
I set my routines: training, nutrition, sleep.
Simple, strong, essential references.

I spend time alone with myself.
More than I expected.
There is calm.
Sometimes soft. Sometimes rough.
And above all, a lot of gratitude.

Gratitude for being here.
For being brave.
For saying yes to this adventure.

The peloton is not here yet.
But I know it is coming. Hageland in one month.
And when it arrives, I will need to be ready — not only physically, but mentally.

For now, I find my balance.
I watch. I listen.
I settle in.

Cindy POMARES

flandrienhotel.com – A home away from home for cyclists

“I am here.
I have nothing to add.”

I stepped onto the track in Bourges, at the Elite French Championships, with this sentence in mind. Not as a goal to reach, but as the result of twelve well-built, structured weeks. I invested in equipment, travelled to different velodromes across France to race, pin numbers on, collect references, and build routines. And, to be honest, I also trained in good conditions, indoors.

Once on the track, everything was already set. The choices, the framework, the reference points. I had nothing left to carry. Nothing to prove.
Just to respect my rules, my calm, and the moment.

______

During

Physically, I was there. Good legs, the right gear, endurance.
But above all, an inner calm I had never experienced in Track competition before. I was offensive on the track, involved in the race, fully committed to the moves.

Mentally, everything was in place. No stress linked to the environment, the opponents, or logistics. In control, I did things seriously, fully, and with coherence.

And yet, the raw results remain: 7th, 9th, 12th.
Placings that don’t reflect what I felt or what I produced. No reward despite offensive choices. I believe I deserved better. This is not jealousy, nor ego. It is simply how it felt. But Racing is racing, and results matter.

________

The day after

Re-reading, writing, and analysing calmly, I reach a simple conclusion : I am neither disappointed nor frustrated. I am satisfied.

There is something right, well built, and solid. Maybe what is still missing is perfect alignment — timing, execution, a bit of luck. But not the foundations.

The gap between performance and result raises questions, but it does not damage me.
It keeps me clear-headed.

This clarity brings me back to what matters.
I am grateful to the people who supported me this winter, who allowed me to work in good conditions and to develop real track skills — skills that are transferable to the road.

I am deeply aligned with my new coach. His way of working, communicating, and his vision allowed me to approach these championships without pressure, with good legs, real potential, and genuine freedom to commit.

Three days, eight races, five warm-ups — and the same sentence kept coming back:
“I really have good legs.” Available, active, sharp, fluid legs. A rare feeling. A valuable one.

This championship ends without success. But it ends with a clear, healthy, coherent base. And with the certainty that I am exactly where I need to be right now — physically, mentally, and as an athlete.

The track closes. The road opens..

For this new year 2026, I wish myself momentum, joy, and the freedom to try.
Far from perfect resolutions or big promises.
Simply the desire to move forward, to do things seriously, and to live this year fully.

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For 2026, I wish us HAPPINESS, the kind that comes from being fully committed to what we do.
Happiness is not a permanent state or constant excitement. It is the ability to recognise what is already there.
Enjoying then becomes a way of being : loving training as much as racing, accepting easy days as well as harder ones, and finding satisfaction in work well done.
To enjoy is to stop waiting for “better” in order to feel good.

For 2026, I wish us LOVE, the kind that supports and carries us.
Our relationship will have to be organised at a distance.
I am fully aware of how lucky I am to be with someone who supports, structures, and accompanies my project with such commitment.
There is a deep gratitude for this strong presence, for the energy given without counting, and for this shared ambition that pushes us to go further, each in our own role, but always in the same direction.

For 2026, I wish us HEALTH, and not only the absence of injury or fatigue.
In a sporting project, health means being able to train, to build consistency, and to last over time. It means listening to signals, respecting time, accepting pauses in order to come back stronger.
Health is what allows us to stay in the right place in effort — without damaging ourselves.

For 2026, I wish us FINANCIAL STABILITY, so that we don’t spend the year counting with anxiety.
Having enough to live, to train, to try, to commit — and to sleep peacefully.
Peace of mind is not the absence of tension; it is moving forward without constant fear. It is being able to invest in one’s project without underselling oneself, and staying at peace with the choices made, even when everything is not fully secure.

Finally, for 2026, I wish us SUCCESS.
This year, success will mean moving forward with balance in my project, even when results do not tell the whole story.
In sport, success is respecting the process, staying the course, and remaining true to the way we do things. It is finishing a race or a training session knowing that things were done right, at the right time.

I don’t know exactly what 2026 will give me…
But I know what I want to put into it : commitment, curiosity, joy, and the desire to live a full year.

So, to conclude, Dear readers,

I wish us just a little more highs than lows.
I don’t dream of a perfect year,
but of a year that is real, alive, and generous enough to help us move forward.

Happy New Year & Best Wishes to all !

A real one. A decision you feel viscerally, long before you find the words for it.
A decision I made a few months ago, one I kept to myself like a fragile secret. And yet… I still can’t quite believe it. There’s excitement, a hint of vertigo, and that unmistakable sense that something is shifting.

In a month, I’ll still be a PE teacher (but a teacher on stand-by).
In two weeks, I’ll look at my students with that small ache you get when you know you’re putting a chapter on pause: they shaped my patience, my humour, and a piece of the teacher I’ve become.

So yes, here’s the official announcement : in January, I’ll be taking a leave of absence.
Not to run away from my job or change my life.
Simply because I’ve decided to invest a little more : in my season, in my sporting journey, in myself.

This kind of investment is a gamble, a risk, a leap forward.
It means letting go of what built me — stability, structure, a steady salary, the safety of a secure teaching position — to live a full season in professional cycling.

A season I’ve watched from the sidelines for years, as if I wasn’t quite allowed to believe in it.
As if it were an adventure reserved for others, for those who started earlier, or grew up in a smoother system than mine.

If I’ve made it this far, it’s because a few people showed me that dreams become achievable when you treat them with seriousness, structure… and a bit of stubbornness.

The Flandrien Hotel, where I understood that a dream isn’t a whim — it can become a project, something you build rather than wait for.
My team, O’SHEA RedChilli Bikes, which trusted me, gave me space to grow, to take responsibility, to step up.
My partner, Guillaume, who works for twelve while I ride for two.
My family, who don’t always understand my crooked paths but still let me walk them.
And the French Education system, which gave me a part-time schedule and now a leave of absence — the rare luxury of daring an adventure without burning every bridge behind me.

For me, investing doesn’t mean giving everything up.
It means thinking it through.
My teaching job is my stability. It’s structured, solid, predictable.
And I’m deeply aware of how fortunate I am to live professional cycling on top of that.

Let’s be honest: this is not a financial investment.
I earn less, and I spend more energy.
But it’s the price of a life that feels meaningful.
I ride for the pursuit, for the commitment, for the adventure, for the people.
I ride for that strange, almost physical feeling that I am exactly where I should be — even when it costs me.

Investing also means choosing not to regret.
This 2026 season feels like the last step of my career.
I’ve optimised everything I could, year after year.
Always with that little voice :
“You can do more. You can do better. They do more. They do better.”

So yes — to some, my investment looks disproportionate.
Yes, I missed my mother’s birthday and I wasn’t there for my grandmother’s funeral.
To some, what I’m doing looks like an absurd sacrifice.
To me, it’s commitment.

And then there are those who say, “You’re lucky.”
I’m far from being a lucky girl.
Left-handed, clumsy. I’m mostly stubborn. A fighter.

Which is probably why I know more lows than highs.
We keep going because we keep the dream alive, because we place another bet each season even when the odds aren’t generous.
We move forward because we still believe ; or maybe simply because we don’t know how to do otherwise.

It took me two years of mental coaching to understand that merit has nothing to do with performance. And another year to understand that resilience is a strength, not a confession of weakness.

Because ultimately, investing is this :
accepting that giving a lot guarantees nothing,
continuing despite uncertainty,
moving forward even when the outcome doesn’t match the effort.

And unfortunately, investment is never proportional to return.
It demands humility, courage, and a slightly irrational level of determination.

This is what I’m putting on the table for 2026. The rest — the road will tell me…

Redchilli Bikes is a British brand based in Axminster, Devon. A passionate, small company that designs its bikes with the precision and care of a craftsman. Redchilli means a love for bikes made well — for people who love to ride fast, far, and with purpose. A human-sized brand with a strong belief : cycling is first and foremost an experience to live.

O’Shea is a London-based construction and property development company, one of the biggest in the UK. But for us, O’Shea is above all a story of loyalty. Present since the very beginning of the team, the O’Shea family represents a partnership that is human, lasting, and sincere. They believed in the project from the start and long before the cameras arrived : a rare and precious kind of trust in women’s sport.

These two names, side by side, write a story of loyalty and passion. One comes from pure cycling, the other from the world of construction, but both share the same idea : building something that lasts.

This new chapter is a real chance — a chance to exist, to continue, to move forward. Because at our level, every bit of support matters. Every sponsor, every brand, every person who believes in a Continental women’s team is doing much more than just helping — they are making a stand.

Sponsorship in sport and even more in women’s cycling is becoming rare, sometimes fragile. The big WorldTour teams have the lights and the budgets. It’s beautiful, of course. But just below that level, that’s where everything begins. Continental teams are the laboratories of the future, the training grounds, the safe places for young and free riders. They are the foundation that keeps the whole structure standing. And too often, they are forgotten.

Supporting a team means believing in the value of invisible work. It means helping women keep dreaming. It means believing in the collective, in sharing, in the honesty of a project. It’s not a marketing campaign — it’s a human adventure.

I’m always struck by how much people applaud big victories, but also by how easily they forget everything invisible that makes them possible. Behind every WorldTour jersey, there was once a Continental team. Behind every podium, a time of struggle. And often, what makes the difference is a sponsor who said yes — a partner who believed before anyone else did.

This new partnership with Redchilli bikes feels true. It’s about passion, about real cycling, about doing things right. It brings the sport back to what it should always be : a link between people who believe.

I’m proud to wear the colors of Redchilli Bikes O’Shea — not because they’re new, but because they mean something. They show that we can exist and grow differently. That we can keep moving forward in an uneven world without losing our fire.

Women’s cycling needs light, yes — but even more, it needs depth. It needs commitment, strong projects, and stories like this one, built on trust and passion.

So welcome to Redchilli Bikes, and a deep thank you to O’Shea !

The team Redchilli Bikes O’Shea doesn’t promise to shine brighter — only to burn with strength, with that little touch of chili that will make all the difference…

Partager

The legs are heavy, the mood swings between relief and nostalgia, and the podium photos are starting to fade in the phone.
It’s the moment when every cyclist asks the same question: what now?

The privilege of being a cyclist is that you can change discipline without leaving your world.
You can change the air without changing the road.
You can choose your winter: Track, Cyclocross, or Zwift.
Some will play in the mud, others on the wood, and a few across Watopia.

Personally, I chose the track.
Or maybe… the track chose me.

It’s another universe, another kind of adrenaline.
Smaller bunches, but more nervous ones.
Here, everything happens within a few centimeters, a few laps.
On the track, everything is condensed : the effort, the mistakes, the emotions.
It’s brutal, precise, intense — and incredibly alive.

But be careful, the coach is right : you can’t be strong in everything.
Road, track, cross… each has its own rules and demands.
After a long season, trying to shine everywhere often means shining nowhere.
You have to make choices, accept that winter is a time for work, not for glory.

And that’s exactly when motivation must reinvent itself.
When the body asks for rest, you need to find a new drive — a spark, a small detail, a new machine.
One more bike, one less budget, and even less space in the closet.
But let’s be honest: nothing gives more energy than a new frame, a new feeling, a new promise of speed.

So, track, cyclocross, Zwift, or secret season?
I choose the track — the wood, the heat of the velodrome, the view from the balustrade.

For me, winter doesn’t put the season to sleep.
It prepares it.

Magdeleine Vallieres: a victory that changed the hierarchy

Calling her “unknown” would almost be an insult.
It’s the easy word used for riders whose faces we don’t know yet — but who, like all the others, train six hours a day under the rain, count their watts, grams, and seconds, far from the spotlight.
Magdeleine Vallieres didn’t appear from nowhere. She simply had the courage — and maybe the luck — to believe in herself more that day.
She didn’t steal her rainbow jersey ; she earned it with talent and instinct.
And somehow, that feels good.
When an underdog, an “almost anonymous rider”, breaks the order of big nations, it reminds us of the beauty of cycling: it’s about the unexpected.
It’s when the favourites calculate, the teammates hesitate, and one girl just decides… to believe she can win.

The orange Europe: no thrill, no suspense

At the European Championships, it was hard to talk about suspense.
Demi Vollering won — and nobody was surprised.
This time, she had Anna van der Breggen working as a super domestique.
No internal rivalry, no doubt, just a perfect orange machine.
No opponent could match her. Not even a small moment of surprise.
Well-deserved, yes. Exciting, not really.
We are not yet at the boring level of the men’s race — where the only suspense is guessing when Pogacar will attack — but we were not far from it.

Rwanda vs France: the contrast

The contrast was striking for me.
In Rwanda, it was a celebration: smiles, music, crowds all along the road, an atmosphere usually seen in football.
In France, for the Europeans, silence. Empty roadsides, tiny podiums.

They called them “selective courses” — meaning : made for machines.
At this point of the season, these routes reward not courage or creativity, but teams and riders strong enough to handle fatigue, heat, jet lag, or the stomach bug of the week.
Two big races designed for one type of rider only: the climbing machines. And that’s a shame.

Gravel: the artistic confusion of national teams

The World Championships are always special — even more with gravel.
You share a room with your usual rival.
You must ride “for your country” while thinking about your next contract.

The women’s Gravel Worlds were almost a caricature: Kopecky (the Czech one, not the Belgian) clearly riding for her future team SD Worx, Wiebes protected like a queen, and the orange jerseys blocking each other while Shirin van Anrooij was up front.
The result? A strange race, with no real story to follow, where national teams didn’t look very… national anymore.
But that’s part of the game.
A World Championship is also a mirror of the power relations in the peloton — no radios, no contracts, but still full of influence.

Women’s cycling is growing

These championships showed one clear truth : women’s cycling has grown up.
The level is higher, the faces are new, the stories are multiplying.
The sport is not always fair, or beautiful to watch,
but it’s full of life — and that’s exactly why we keep coming back.

Pink, like hope.
Pink, like tenderness.
Pink, like life that keeps moving forward despite everything.
And then Pink, like my mother’s name — Rose — a name filled with strength and generosity. Rose, who cared, who healed, who stayed, who carried, who brought people together.

I often ride for competition, for performance, for the challenge. For pleasure, for freedom, for the wind on my face. But today, I also ride for memory.
In memory of my father.
For all those who face cancer, who move forward — sometimes with small, fragile steps, sometimes out of the saddle, but always with heart.

On the bike, there are days when everything flows, when the legs respond, when the horizon feels endless. And then there are those steep climbs, those moments of fatigue when every pedal stroke becomes a victory. It is in those moments that I think of him. Of his quiet strength. His discreet courage. His way of facing illness without ever losing the light in his eyes.

Cycling has taught me that what matters most is not speed. It is movement. As long as the wheels keep turning, we keep moving forward. As long as we move forward, there is life. And in that movement, I find his breath, his energy, his lesson in courage.

Cancer, like a mountain, demands patience, faith, resilience. It reminds us that we cannot control everything, but we can choose how we face the climb.

This month, every kilometer I ride will be a thought for those who fight. For those who support. For those who grieve. And for those who still believe, despite the pain, that life is beautiful.

So yes, I tied a pink ribbon to my bike. A symbol. A message.
A promise. The promise to keep moving forward. For him. For her. For them.

And for myself as well — with every turn of the wheel, I keep fighting with strength and honor.

#FuckCancer

But this time, it’s not only about storage. It’s about saying goodbye. Because a new one is coming.

Just about to receive my new track bike, and waiting for my new road bike, I realize it’s never just a simple equipment change. A bike is more than a machine. More than a frame, two wheels and a few carbon parts.

A bike is your partner. Your loyal one. Your trust.

The one who shares all the “ups” and the “downs” with you. The one who takes the good days, and the bad ones. You can question everything when things don’t work — your training, your choices, your mindset — but never the bike. Because ride after ride, race after race, you build something with it that goes beyond mechanics. An extension. A fusion.

You sweated liters on its handlebars. You froze with it against the wind. It took the sticky gels, the muddy puddles, the small crashes.

And then there are all the little rituals that matter. You check the settings, change a part, adjust the pressure. And the night before the races, you clean it carefully… like polishing an armor before battle.

You even end up giving it a name, or adding a sticker to make it unique. For me, it was a crown on my Time “Albert”… and a shield on my “Captain” of the track.

And during the season, you make it evolve: a new wheelset, a sharper handlebar, a more comfortable saddle… You make it shine, you improve it, as if you wanted to extend the story a little more.

From the outside, it makes people smile. Your mother sees it as a machine “impossible to ride”. Your neighbor has no idea it costs more than his car. But you know. You know the value it has, because you’ve been through everything with it.

So yes, when the time comes to put it away or to change it, there is this little pinch. A discreet nostalgia. But it’s to welcome the next one. A new companion, ready to write the next chapter.

Because a bike is never just a bike. It’s a bit of you. It’s both of you, a lot.

A huge thank you to O’Shea Racing for the opportunities, the trust and the support in this strong project. With a profile like mine, sometimes a bit “on the side,” it’s precious to have a team that believes, supports, and opens doors.

When the finish line is crossed, there is always that special moment: making a review. It is both necessary and delicate. I would like to keep only the progress, the opportunities, the lessons. And they are there, many of them. I have moved forward, I have strengthened my resilience, my ability to take the hits, and my way of approaching races. I have learned new ways to train, to manage the race, to manage myself.

But if I look only at the raw results, they are not at the level of my expectations. And this is where the exercise becomes interesting: how to judge a season? By the numbers on the results sheet, or by the depth of the path traveled?

For this, I will use a simple word: STOP.

• S for Success : what worked, the strengths, the small or big victories.

• T for Training : everything I have built, the hours, the new skills.

• O for Opportunities : what opens for the future, the meetings, the projects, the doors half-open.

• P for Progress : sometimes invisible to others, but very real in the head, the body and the experience.

This STOP is a way to look again at my goals with lucidity, without falling into complacency or frustration.

So I close the road chapter. I take a breath. Clear head, ready body, I jump into the track season with the same energy. Because in the end, progress also means knowing when to stop, look back, and then move forward stronger.

Thanks to Candice Wils, M.Sc. for all the hours of analysis, mental work, and long discussions. I admit, I have a lot to say!

How many deaths, injuries, and traumas will it take before we stop pretending everything is fine?

—-—-

If we’re going to talk about crashes — then let’s really talk about them.

Not just the ones that make headlines. Not just when a star rider goes down. Crashes happen everywhere. In training. In races. In every peloton. All the time. And yes, in the women’s peloton too.

But there, the story changes. People say: “Women crash more“ or ”The women’s peloton is more dangerous.”

Statements thrown around with no data, no real analysis, no context. Just that outdated idea that a woman on a bike is somehow “less skilled” or “less safe.”It’s not true. And frankly, it’s exhausting.

The truth? Women crash — just like men.

Because cycling is fast. Because it’s tight. Because it’s intense. Riders go 60 km/h, fight for space, take risks. That’s the sport. And the road doesn’t care who you are.

And when riders hit the ground, one word always comes up: concussion.

On paper, there’s a protocol.

In real life, it’s just wishful thinking.

When you crash, adrenaline takes over. Your brain shuts off. Your body goes into survival mode. You jump back on the bike.

And the doctor? Most of the time, they come too late.

Because the peloton doesn’t wait. And no one wants to lose their chance, their place, their race.

So let’s ask the real questions:

➡️ Who really protects the riders?

➡️ Who speaks up at the right time?

➡️ Who has the power to say stop?

The CPA, with Adam Hansen as president, is taking action.

They’re pushing for a penalty card system for dangerous moves — a step in the right direction.

Some safety reps are now present in the peloton. That’s a start. But it’s not enough.

We need to go further :

→ Educate : Make safety training mandatory for all riders. Via video call, at team camps — whatever works. But teach the right reflexes. The right behavior. You can’t just punish — you also have to educate.

→ Demand : Be stricter with race organizers. Urban finishes, dangerous street furniture, sprints after roundabouts or downhill — if a city can’t secure the course, it shouldn’t host a stage. Yes, we might lose a few host towns. But we’ll gain respect for human life.

→ Innovate : We talk endlessly about bikes. Handlebars. Tires. But never about race kits ! We ride in bib shorts and jerseys — basically the equivalent of underwear.

Why hasn’t anything better been developed? In horse riding and motorbiking, they use airbag vests. Why not in cycling? A lightweight, temperature-regulating airbag, built into the jersey — that’s not science fiction. That’s a real idea. And it’s time to take it seriously. We went to the Moon, didn’t we? So surely we can design better protection for pro cyclists. Engineers are capable. We just need the will. And proper investment in research and development.

Finally, there’s this “fake” debate: “What if we slowed down the bikes?” No. Personally, I don’t believe in that. Bikes today are better than ever. Brakes are stronger. Frames more stable. Tires wider. We’ve never had this much control. The problem isn’t the speed. It’s the behavior.

What we tolerate. What we normalize. What we avoid facing.

Speaking up. Protecting. These are not enemies of sport. They’re what give it a sustainable future.

RIP Ivan. 🤍

In the bunch, one figure stands out: Pauline Ferrand-Prévot. Lean, sharp, built for the climb. Defined muscles, high cadence. The image is striking. It can fascinate — or worry. But what we see is not a body “made” overnight. It’s the result of experience, of precision. Of a clear method.

PFP knows what she’s doing. She’s done it before. She sculpted her body like a precision tool for Tokyo — and now again for Paris. Always training at altitude. Always supported. Always following a structure.

But not everyone has that.

And that’s where the danger starts — when the exception becomes the standard. When one example turns into pressure for all the others.

Because in today’s image-driven world, a body like hers becomes symbolic. If she wins, people will cheer — and many will want to copy, without the same knowledge or the right environment. If she loses, the judgment will be even quicker. Because a body like that attracts attention.

Meanwhile, others are searching. Counting. Restricting.

The magic number? Watts per kilo. The equation seems simple: to climb faster, either increase your watts… or lose weight. So some choose. Or rather, get stuck. In calculations. In constant weigh-ins. In restriction. And sometimes, in disordered eating.

In a powerful TEDx talk, O. Mahé shared how she got caught in that spiral — trying to control everything, measure everything… until she lost her health, her drive, her balance.

But there are other paths.

Cédrine Kerbaol — current French time trial champion — is one of them. She’s also certified dietitian-nutritionist. She understands the mechanisms, the signals, the real needs. And above all, she represents a powerful alternative: an athlete performing at the highest level… without falling into the trap of extreme thinness. And she’s speaking up. In L’Équipe, on radio, on French TV — she talks. Without filters. About what’s often hidden: missed periods, eating disorders, pressure around weight, RED-S.

“No, it’s not normal to lose your period.”

It’s not a performance bonus. It’s a serious imbalance.

She launched FEED – Fueling for Endurance, Energy & Durability — a movement to inform, support, and raise awareness. A space for stories, resources, and care. I joined the collective. Because it matters to me. Because it hits close to home. Because we can’t keep quiet anymore.

For a long time, I thought I needed to be lighter. I’m one of the “heavier” riders in the peloton: 65 kilos. I kept my swimmer’s shoulders. My legs got stronger. And when the gradient hits 10%, I don’t have the "featherweight card". I only have two options: push harder… or try to get lighter.

I saw many nutritionists. Tried different birth control pills. Lost a bit. Gained three kilos back. Nothing magic. And nothing lasting. I eat well. I sleep well. My body is healthy. Most importantly, my periods came back. Years of amenorrhea during my triathlon career. Years of thinking it was “normal.” But it wasn’t.

Today, I have strong hamstrings. A solid pelvis. A clearer mind. And even if I still feel “too heavy” sometimes for steep climbs, I feel strong enough to last. Because yes, in the mountains, bodies speak. But you have to know how to listen — not force them. And sometimes, you have to say: enough.

Enough with the thinness myth. Enough with the obsession. Enough with the silence. Because the body doesn’t lie. It absorbs. It adjusts. It warns. And one day, it breaks.

When did we decide that being weak equals being fit? The summit doesn’t reward the skinniest. It rewards the strongest. The ones who make it to the top… and can still make it back down.

So yes, we have to speak up. Say that amenorrhea is not a rite of passage. That eating enough is not cheating. That losing weight doesn’t always mean gaining time.

Maybe the ideal weight… is just the one that lets you stay whole.

This issue goes far beyond this one grand tour — it runs through the entire season and calls into question the very structure of professional women’s cycling today.

________

That’s the other story of this Tour – quieter, but just as important: rosters shrinking, teams weakened before the mountains even arrive.

Maybe the real limit isn’t the route itself… but the number of riders on each team?

Behind this perfectly executed sprint, there’s what we don’t see on screen. What barely shows in the rankings: teams already counting their remaining riders, gritting their teeth, trying not to fall apart — and the Alps haven’t even begun.

Three-letter codes pile up: DNS, DNF, OTL. Three letters that sometimes wipe out months of preparation. Three letters that hit hard when you only have a handful of riders under contract.

In women’s pro cycling, team rosters are often just 10 to 15 riders for the whole season — far from the 30+ riders on men’s teams. That means one withdrawal, one injury, or lingering fatigue can put an entire project at risk.

Saint Michel Auber is a good example: to complete their squad, they had to call up the French amateur vice-champion, a triathlete and almost a newcomer to the peloton. Giving her a spot on the Tour wasn’t a development choice — it was an emergency move. Other teams are patching things together. At Winspace, A. Nerlo’s replacement was called the day before the start : Marie-Morgane Le Deunff, a brave Breton rider, who sadly went out of time on Stage 2. DSM-Firmenich PostNL lost Charlotte Kool, weakened by a heavy crash on the Baloise Ladies Tour, just five days before the Tour began. Movistar saw Marlen Reusser pull out after Stage 1 due to food poisoning. Kristen Faulkner, Olympic champion, nearly missed the time cut on Stage 2: sick, she finished just 20 seconds inside the limit.

And beyond the crashes, there’s a more subtle wear and tear. A denser calendar. Races that are more intense, more explosive. Doing both the Giro and the Tour de France Femmes with less than three weeks between them? That’s heroic. Or a gamble.

It’s not just the mileage that hurts: it’s the intensity. The constant stress. The lack of time to recover. Warning signs are piling up: Lotte Kopecky seems off her game. Juliette Labous looks tired.

These are quiet signs — but telling. Because behind every performance is a system running on the edge. A body pushed too far. One that never really gets the chance to rebuild. In the peloton, whispers are growing louder: trying to shine everywhere is becoming a trap. The women's calendar is expanding — and that’s great — but bodies haven’t changed. And many teams are still too understaffed to plan, rotate, or protect their riders properly.

It’s not just about bad form. It’s the whole structure we need to question. Before today’s stars become tomorrow’s burnouts.

In this context, teams are walking a tightrope. Original plans fall apart. Strategies shift by the hour. Every DNF disrupts the group. Every illness forces a role change. They mix, patch, and hope for the best. Sometimes, they just have to make do.

That’s also where the Tour is decided. In the buses. In the briefings. In the silences between stages. A pain you hide. A leader you need to protect. A teammate you can’t afford to lose.

Team directors know it. They adapt, juggle, cross their fingers and manage risk. The fans only see the yellow jersey, the victory poses, the podium flowers. But behind the scenes, this Tour is as much a human puzzle as it is a race of legs.