Between June 29th and July 21st, I spent a fair bit of time galivanting around various parts of Italy and France, before zeroing in on Paris specifically from July 26th to August 11th. Galivanting in mind and spirit anyway, the body was reclined comfortably in our living room.

I know the Tour de France isn’t everyone’s goblet of wine, but I took a shine to it about 20-years ago when I got into cycling. I got into cycling because while I was training for my one and only marathon, which still ranks near the top of my “Stupidest Things I’ve Ever Done” list, which is saying a lot, as I’ve done a lot of stupid things, I noticed that everyone I met on bikes seemed to be enjoying themselves much more than I was.

Perched regally upon two wheels, they carried a look of glee upon their faces, while I, perched upon two hot, sweaty, and sore feet, carried a faint hope that a distracted driver, in the midst of an “LOL” text, would clip me with a side mirror and put me out of my misery. So, getting a bike became my motivation for seeing that silly marathon lark through to its miserable conclusion. So it goes.

When you’ve peddled over hill and dale (sorry Dale), you can sort of relate to what the cyclists in the Tour de France are going through. When you’ve felt the burn in your legs and lungs on a steep uphill, you can sort of relate to how the legs and lungs of these professional cyclist feel in the Alps. Sort of…but not really.

They race 100 or so miles a day for 20 or so days, so my 8 or so mile ride to get a scoop or so of maple-bacon ice cream, even with the brain freeze that ensued, may not illicit the same degree of physical duress.

Shortly after the Tour de France concluded, and the brain freeze subsided, the 33rd Olympiad commenced, and athletes from around the globe took center stage in our living room. Night after night, I would find myself moved to tears by the stories, the triumphs, and the failures of people that have dedicated large portions of their lives to the sports that have moved them to strive for “Citius, Altius, Fortius”.

Some were the fastest, some went the highest, some were the strongest. Some. Most were not. Some knew without a doubt going into the games that they had zero chance of going home with an Olympic medal, but they went anyway. They went to show others like them, from countries like theirs, what is possible. They went to give people that may feel hopeless, some hope.

As Desmond Tutu, the South African Anglican bishop and theologian, once said, “Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.” A light that doesn’t require a gold medal to reflect it.

If you, like me, have found yourself suffering from the withdrawals associated with an Olympic hangover and lusting for more inspiring stories of the expanses of the human spirit, you may want to check out the documentary, “Mountain Queen: The Summits of Lhakpa Sherpa”.

It’ll scratch that itch.

And if you’ve ever had to walk to school during a North Dakota winter, your frozen fingers numbly clutching your prized Trapper Keeper, you can sort of relate to what it was like for her to summit Mount Everest a record 10 times…Sort of.