A last wave goodbye, the tears in my parents’ eyes as they waved back, the pit in my stomach at the idea of being gone for months, and I then I was through the gate and walking towards the waiting lounge.

On a seemingly empty February trans-Atlantic flight I read, wrote in a diary and wondered. I had a chance to race in France, in a town I had never before visited and knew only from a map. I had been told by our National team coach that a few French clubs were interested in hiring a young Canadian, which is when I pulled out the atlas to figure out where I wanted to go. I had three options: a club in the Pyrenees, a club in Brittany, or a club in the Alps just outside of Geneva in a town named Annemasse, a bedroom community for Geneva just across the Swiss border in France.

I had seen photos of Geneva, knew it was multicultural and beautiful, so committed to the team for those reasons alone ─ living in Europe would be a drastic change and being somewhere comfortable might make all the difference.

During the flight I wrote in my notepad: I will either be back home in two weeks, or four months. It was either going to be hell and I would return home to university or it would be the beginning of something new─ perhaps a professional cycling career.

I landed in Geneva, stepped out into the airport and was greeted by the team director and my Canadian teammate and future house mate. Under the dull grey skies that hang over Geneva through the entire winter, we drove to the Club service course and headquarters (a basement packed with bikes, wheels, books and papers and tucked behind all of that, an odd little bar with bottles of Pernod, Pastis 51, and red wine, a spot for the Club staff to get together and discuss, plan and, simply, chat about cycling. I was given my bike and driven over to the apartment that had been set up for us, "Les P'tits Canadiens."

I was in France and was ready to embrace the culture. I had learned French in school, was fluent, and knew all about the culture from my father's cycling books and childhood trips. As a young adult, I wanted to make France my home. Every Citroen 2CV I saw, every baguette I crunched into, and every hill I pedaled up was something romantic: France is in a place that not only breathes cycling but also has a history and culture beyond anything a young North American had ever experienced.

This week, twelve years after first setting foot in Annemasse, I am once again back, racing on the same roads I trained on daily and re-experiencing some great moments in France. Things are not always how you remember them, sometimes they are scarred and sometimes they are more beautiful. The countryside seems as majestic as ever, and today I appreciate it even more, whereas the urban areas seem somewhat depressed and grey, likely due to the ailing French economy.

The first stages of the Dauphiné Libéré took us from the historic walled city of Avignon, along the Rhone to St. Etienne and into the Alps. As I looked at the maps before the race, I recognized town names, places where I had raced a decade ago with my Annemasse teammates under the guidance of the renowned director Christian Rumeau.

Prior to the race, Rumeau called me to tell me about the courses in the Dauphiné this year, who to watch out for, what gears to ride and how to race. Over a decade after we first met, he is still teaching me and I listen; the few times I didn't do as he suggested, I realised soon after he was right, after paying the consequences.

Rumeau rode with Fausto Coppi and was on the French team roster to ride the Tour de France but his mother forbade him to race as she thought it too hard for a twenty year old. So instead, he became a soigneur and eventually worked his way up through the ranks to directeur sportif. He sat behind the wheel of the car for over a dozen Tours, guided the "King of the Classics", Sean Kelly through many of his greatest victories, and has a garage full of souvenirs and a mind full of memories from his great career. Rumeau lives for cycling and when he retired from professional cycling at 60 he didn't know what to do so he volunteered to work for the local club in Annemasse.

I was a fortunate young Canadian and over hundreds of cups of tea or coffee and glasses of Perrier "citron," I listened to Christian, learned, and made a good friend. He came by my apartment in Annemasse daily to check up on me, to make sure the p'tit Canadien wasn't getting lonesome, homesick, or fat on croissants. He cared and still to this day, cares that I progress, that my position on the bike is good, and that I am happy.

Coming back to Haute Savoie and Annemasse is somewhat like coming home. On the quiet mountains roads, I matured, not only becoming independent and a man but also a cyclist. I endured some of the toughest and loneliest moments of my life but it was worth it and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

As I crossed the Dauphiné finish line in Annemasse, I had goose bumps. The line was right in front of the Velo Club and across the street from the Bar de la Regence where I would meet Rumeau. At La Regence, we would sip a coffee with the locals before walking around the Tuesday morning market while talking about racing, and buying cheese and meats.

After crossing the line, I heard a familiar voice, put my brakes on and stopped to look for his face. As he walked up and shook my hand, a journalist took a photo of us together. And then, in a fatherly mentoring way he told me I looked good and fit, that I should go get washed up, put my legs up, and dress warm so that I recovered well before the next battle.