The road to Valencia doesn’t ask. The road back demands.
Timon and I didn’t talk much about the plan beforehand.
Valencia and back. That was the plan. Some rides don’t need more discussion than that. You know the person, you know roughly what you’re both capable of, and you agree without really agreeing that you’ll handle whatever comes.
What neither of us had to say out loud was that the ride already had a shape to it before we clipped in. Eva, Steve, Jeffrey, Tom and Rianne had left an hour and a half earlier. Same destination. Head start that, on paper, meant we’d never see them until Valencia.
On paper.
The chase.
The conditions were perfect. Not comfortable-perfect — the kind of perfect that feels almost unfair. Clear sky, no wind, roads that were dry and quiet and seemed to want to be ridden fast. Spain in that mood is difficult to take seriously as a place that has bad days.
We rode in sync from the start. Not talking much. That’s the thing about riding with the right person — the silence isn’t empty, it’s just efficient. You find a rhythm together without negotiating it. The kilometres started coming off.
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There’s a particular quality of effort that comes from knowing you’re chasing someone. It’s not panic, not aggression — it’s a low hum of purpose that sits just under the zone 2 work and makes the whole thing feel pointed. Ninety minutes is a lot of road. But roads have a way of shrinking when you’re moving well.
We didn’t catch them on the way out. But we were never really trying to catch them — we were trying to arrive. And when we rolled into Valencia and found them already at a table, food in front of them, looking comfortable in the way that only people who’ve been sitting down for twenty minutes look comfortable — that felt like enough.
Valencia.
We refuelled. Quickly. The kind of stop where you’re not really resting, you’re just reloading. Pockets restocked, something in the legs, a few minutes of actual conversation — the first of the day, really.
The group was happy to ease into the return. Sensible. A 200km day doesn’t owe anyone a fast second half and they knew it.
Timon and I went off the front.
Not dramatically. Not a dig or a statement. Just — we had something to do, and the road home was where we were going to do it. The downside to the trip back was that we woefully forgot it was a false flat home… that was discovered later after checking the Elevation (although as far as elevation goes it was not horrible, just not ideal when you have to shred it back and everything feels slower even with a tailwind).
The session.
My coach had built a five-hour workout into the day. The first half — the outward leg — was base work. Zone 1-2, controlled, 178 to 224 watts. Let the kilometres come. Stay in the box.
The back half was different.
Four rounds of zone 2 work — 20 minutes at 221 to 248 watts — broken up with easy recovery. And then, once those were done, ten rounds of 30-second efforts. Zone 3 and above. 332 to 369 watts. Thirty seconds on, thirty seconds off. Ten times. On legs that had already ridden to Valencia.
This is the part of training that doesn’t show up in highlight reels. There’s no moment to photograph. There’s just you, the numbers on the Garmin, and the choice — every thirty seconds — to hit the target or not.
I hit every one.
Not comfortably. but cleanly. the numbers were there when the numbers needed to be there. Which is the only thing that matters.
Timon rode alongside, doing his own thing, in his own session or none at all I wasn’t watching. That’s the other thing about riding with the right person. You can be completely in your own world and completely together at the same time.
What it adds up to.
There’s a version of this ride that’s just a big number. 200km. Ticked off. Done.
But what I keep coming back to is the interval session. Specifically, what it means that it worked. When the body has been going for four hours and the coach asks for 332 watts, the answer tells you something that a fresh Tuesday morning test doesn’t. It tells you where you actually are.
The training block is working. The base is there. And the road home from Valencia — in perfect conditions, with good company, executing every number — was the clearest evidence I’ve had of it yet.
More to come.
— Julian