There are places you visit and places where, without really knowing why, you immediately feel like you've arrived. Chatel, for me, was one of those.
After saying goodbye to Noemi and completing another stretch of the journey, I set off on my own and head towards Chatel. In my plans, it should simply be another stop: a few days, a bit of... riding, then back to the van and on to the next destination. But now I'm starting to understand that one of the best things about this trip is just how little plans matter.
As soon as I enter Chatel, I feel a special energy. It's hard to explain, but just look around and you'll understand what I mean. Vans parked everywhere, doors open, bikes propped outside, helmets and protective gear scattered on the ground. People arrive, park, and turn that patch of asphalt into their home. Kids wake up, grab their bikes, and spend the whole day together, climbing uphill, jumping, crashing, doing tricks, laughing, and recounting their recent runs.
What strikes me is that no one needs to explain why they're there. We're all in Châtel for the same reason: to ride our bikes.
I meet up with some friends and, at the same time, I start meeting a lot of new people. One day leads to another, plans change, and what was supposed to be a simple stopover ends up becoming a stay of almost a month. A very intense month, during which I travel a lot, try new things, meet people, have a blast, and even manage to bend two dumbbells in the space of a week.
As the days go by, however, I realize that what's keeping me here isn't just the bike park. It's everything surrounding it. It's that feeling of having almost accidentally entered a small community where cycling is the common language. You can arrive from anywhere, you may or may not know the people around you, but as soon as you start riding together, some of the distances disappear.
And this is probably the first thing Chatel leaves me: the feeling of being at home even when far away from home.
A cashroll on Spina
If you like jumping, there's a place in Chatel that will inevitably catch your attention: the Spina.
I see it practically on the first day and an idea immediately comes to my head: “I want to make a cashroll here.” A 360 front flip with the DH.
I tell the kids this, and the response is pretty clear: they think I'm crazy. Maybe they're right, but I know my brain well enough to know that, once an idea like that enters, it becomes almost impossible to ignore.
The next day, I return to Spina with that single goal. I begin practicing the trick and continue for dozens of attempts. Each time, I seem to get close, but when landing, the rotation brings me to the ground. I try, fall, climb back up, and try again. Eventually, I realize that persisting wouldn't make much sense, and I decide to leave it for the next day.
When I get back, I'm wearing an open helmet and practically no protection. Not exactly the smartest choice of my life, especially considering what I'm about to do. But I'm off anyway.
The first attempt fails. On the second, I start, take off, turn, and this time, when I can see the ground beneath me again, I manage to put the wheels down.
Cashroll. Closed.
For a few seconds, I almost can't believe it. It's a strange feeling, the kind that comes when you manage to do something you didn't even know you were capable of until a moment before. And perhaps this is one of the reasons I continue to love cycling so much: that chance to, every now and then, push the boundaries of what you think you're capable of.
It's not just the trick. It's the moment when doubt becomes reality. First you think “I wonder if I can do it”. A few seconds later you know you can do it.
And doing it with a DH, in that place, makes everything even more absurd.
The jam is a victory without a prize
In the following days I continue to ride along the Reboul with the locals and to experience Chatel less and less as a destination and more and more as a place where, simply, I feel good.
Then comes the Tour des Niares, one of the most important events in the area. I can't make it, but just looking at those jumps and the level of the riders makes me make a very simple promise: I want to be there next year.
At the end of the day, there's a jam session on the jump line near the bike park. There's a lot of people, the level is high, and everyone wants to pull off something special. The problem, at least for me, is that the jump you have to trick is really small.
And that's where another one of my not-so-smart ideas comes to me.
I want to try the cashroll I just finished with the DH, this time with the dirt.
I look at the jump and know full well that there's not much room. But now I know the trick, I know what I have to do, and above all I want to see if I can get it there too. I take off, send it, and manage to land it.
The reaction is incredible. For a few seconds, all I hear is screams, applause, and cheers around the line. Those are the moments when everyone's energy hits you all at once, and you can't help but enjoy it.
Then it's a German guy's turn. He launches a backflip bar to tuck no hand, a huge trick, and this time too the crowd explodes. His friends go wild: they run to him, scream, cheer. I find myself picking him up and applauding too.
It was just me and him left, so in theory I should have been thinking about winning. And yet, right at that moment, I realized I almost didn't care anymore.
I didn't do the cashroll to beat anyone. I didn't do it for the prize, and as wonderful as it was to hear people scream, I didn't do it for that either. I did it because I wanted to be able to do it.
In the end, he wins. And I'm truly happy.
Shortly afterward, some pro riders came up to me and told me what I'd done was incredible. Those words stuck with me even more than the results. They made me think that perhaps we're too accustomed to associating victory with a result, a number, or a prize, while sometimes the things that really matter aren't measured that way.
I didn't win the jam that day, but I managed to do something I wanted to do and that left an impression on the people there. That was enough for me.
Maybe even more than enough.
What is the dream life, really?
It's during those days that I begin to ask myself a question that goes far beyond the bike: What is the dream life for me?
When it comes to the "dream life," it's easy to imagine a perfect one. Constant travel, incredible places, sunsets in the van, days spent doing what you love. But truly living on the road, I'm realizing that it's not perfection that makes this life special.
Because there is very little that is perfect.
There are bad days, falls, problems to resolve, miles to drive when you're tired, plans that fall through, and moments when you're not sure where you'll be in a week. There are all those parts that often go unseen in a photo or video.
Yet, in the midst of all this, there is something that is worth much more to me: the ability to choose.
Choosing where to go, who to stay with, and when to leave again. Arriving somewhere expecting to stay a few days and deciding, simply because I'm feeling good, to stay almost a month. Meeting people who until yesterday were complete strangers and finding myself sharing most of my days with them a few days later. Leaving without knowing exactly where I'll end up and discovering that this uncertainty, instead of scaring me, has become one of the things I love most.
Maybe this was the freedom I was looking for when I left.
It doesn't mean you don't have problems or can do anything. It means having enough space in your life to decide what direction to take it.
And above all, it means being able to dedicate time to what I love, meeting people along the way who share the same passion.
Chatel makes it very clear to me. I'm far from home, I live in a van, I don't yet know where my next destination will be, and I didn't even know many of the guys I spend my days with a few weeks ago.
Yet I'm fine.
In fact, I feel exactly where I want to be.
Maybe, for me, the dream life isn't about having it all. It's about being able to continue choosing the life I want to live.
The World Championship in Les Gets
Before I leave there is still one thing I want to see: the World Cup Downhill in Les Gets.
When I arrive, I find a completely crazy situation. The mud is everywhere, thick and heavy, and in some places it almost seems capable of stopping the bikes. Watching the riders tackle the track in those conditions is impressive. You see them changing lines, seeking grip where there seemingly isn't any, constantly adapting, and continuing to push beyond what would seem possible.
It's one of the things I love most about this sport. It's not just how fast you are when everything is working. It's what you can do when conditions change and you have to find a solution while you're already pushing yourself to the limit.
But once again, beyond the race, what strikes me is what I see around me.
Riders, friends, locals, and enthusiasts from all over the world. All immersed in the same mud, all with their eyes on the same trail, and all united by the same thing: the bike.
I've captured some of the best moments of that day on my Instagram profile, but there are some feelings that a video can only convey to a certain extent. You have to be there to truly feel the noise, the cheers of the crowd, the tension before a rider passes, and that collective energy that makes events like this so much more than just a race.
It's the same energy I breathed for almost a month in Chatel. The bikes change, the riders change, the context changes, but in the end, there's always that feeling of all belonging, somehow, to the same world.
The road continues
The next day it's time to leave again.
This time, the destination is Italy. The day before, I received a call to attend an event, so once again, plans changed within a few hours.
I put everything back in the van, say goodbye to the people I've shared almost a month with, and get back on the road.
As Chatel lingers behind me, I think about how different this stage has become from what I had imagined. It was supposed to be a transition, and it has become one of the most intense moments of the trip. I came to ride my bike, and I'm leaving with something that has only a limited connection to cycling.
Chatel reminded me why I left.
I left because I wanted to see where this life could take me. I wanted to meet people, challenge myself, go to new places, and allow myself the luxury of not always having everything planned out. I wanted to understand if it was really possible to build a daily life around the things I love, instead of constantly trying to fit what I love into a life already decided.
I don't know how long this journey will last, and I don't know where it will take me. Plans will probably change a hundred more times. There will be places where I'll stay for a night, and others where it will be difficult to leave.
But maybe that's the beauty of it.
Today, my idea of a dream life isn't perfect. It's much more like a van full of stuff, a bike that probably needs maintenance, friends met along the way, and a destination that can change at any moment.
For me, Chatel wasn't just a bike park.
It was one of those places that makes you stop for a moment and look at the life you're living.
And to think that, perhaps, You don't need to know exactly where you're going to know you're on the right path.
Edo Perugino
Logbook — 365 MTB
