"Why Am I Here?" – Alvaro’s Race Across France

1000km. 35°C to freezing rain. Doubt, grief, and rediscovered purpose – one pedal stroke at a time.

The Race Across France is inspired by its American sister event, the original Race Across America, born in 1982. Today, hundreds of riders take on the French edition solo and unsupported, riding across the country — from Le Touquet to Mandelieu-la-Napoule — through the majestic landscapes of Chambord, Mont Saint-Michel, the Alps, and beyond.

For me — Alvaro, founder of Holyfat — the 2023 edition of the RAF became something else entirely: not just a race, but a pilgrimage. A confrontation with self. A chance to grieve, to endure, and ultimately, to live.

Honoring the Roots

“The Race Across France has become a benchmark in just four years — in the country that gave birth to the Tour de France.
To honor its American counterpart and build a bridge between two nations, the RAF offers a brutal, beautiful  challenge — one that crosses the symbolic and physical highs and lows of our shared history.”

The event offers 4 distances, so participants can explore, push themselves, or break completely. The route spans from Mont Saint-Michel, through the castles of Chambord, into the Alps — climbing the legendary Mont Ventoux, the Gorges du Verdon, and more.

Everyone rides the RAF for different reasons: to beat a personal best, to face the unknown, to chase something that once felt impossible.

“My reasons were personal. And professional.
I wanted to represent the Holyfat brand, to prove its strength and reliability in extreme conditions.
But more than that, I wanted to step out of my comfort zone — and confront something much deeper.
I needed to grieve the loss of my loved ones, something I hadn’t yet faced. I wanted to understand what life looks like... after everything changes.”

The Iseran Punch

“From over 35°C under the sun to freezing cold at the summits — the temperature swings were brutal. Storms arrived without warning.
The Col de l’Iseran was the first real test.
And as Mike Tyson once said: ‘Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.’
The Iseran punched hard.

I descended into the valley toward Saint-Michel-de-Maurienne — sick, shivering, and vomiting by the roadside, asking myself: Why am I here?
I had no answer. No strength to think. I looked for a hotel and told myself I’d decide tomorrow.”

Solitude, Fear, and the Galibier

“On day two, the solitude of the challenge set in. It was simple and brutal — like life. You move forward even when you don’t want to, even when you’re empty.
So I pedaled.

Descending the Galibier on slick roads, thoughts of mortality crept in.
One wrong move, and it's over.
Hundreds of meters of drop-off at my right side. I’ve always had a fear of heights — and here, the risk felt distant... but real.

Despite storm warnings from the organizers, I kept going, climbing Col du Glandon late into the evening. Alone. Surrounded by lightning. And for the first time, I was truly afraid.
But still, I kept going. I pedaled.”

Tragedy and the Quiet Decision to Continue

“Thursday morning, my phone buzzed with terrible news:
A fellow RAF 2500km rider was hit by a car.
He died.
A father. A brother. A husband who won’t return home.
He won’t finish the race.
And the question came back with brutal force: Why am I here?

I wanted to quit. I wanted to go home and hold my daughters, my wife.
But I got back on the bike.
I didn’t know what else to do.
Moving forward was all I had.

That day was one of the hardest. I rode with two participants, Jérémy and Vianney. We barely spoke. I think they were asking themselves the same question.

The rain hit hard. We took refuge in a bakery.
A croque-monsieur, a coffee, a nap on the table.
Then back on the bikes, under a relentless sky.”

Finding the Reason

“I wanted to quit again. I called my brother. He understood everything instantly.
He told me to hold on.
I felt like giving up would hurt my loved ones more than it would hurt me.
So I lowered my head. And I pedaled. I continued.

At the foot of Mont Ventoux, my GPS died. I know the climb well, so I went for it.
At 8:00 PM, I started the ascent. I stopped tracking heart rate. I stopped checking glucose. I rode by feel.

It was pure joy — climbing hard, breathing deep, finding flow.
At 11:00 PM I reached the summit. My brother was on the phone with me.
That call kept me sane. It reminded me: I’m not alone.”

The Last Day

“Saturday was the most beautiful day.
Finishing felt easier than quitting.
Freedom carried me through lavender fields.
This country... is beautiful.
One last climb. One last descent. One last kilometer.
The finish.

A mix of accomplishment and melancholy.
And the answer I’d been searching for:
Why am I here?

Because I am alive.
And to live means to keep chasing your dreams — not just for yourself, but for those who can’t.
It’s my responsibility to live at the edge of my limits.
Because one day... we won’t be here.
It could be tomorrow. Or the day after.

Why am I here?

It’s obvious now.
I’m here because — it’s my turn.”