The moment I walked off the plane in Lisbon I was overcome with a sense of familiarity. It was a summery air, one that warmed your skin to the touch and amplified the sound of the cars honking in the queue.

I met Alexis (Skratch Athlete and friend) outside baggage claim, and we took a shuttle to the rental car office where we picked up our Renault passenger van (affectionately named “Big Bus”). Driving Big Bus through the tight streets of Lisbon to our AirBnB, Portugal seemed more and more like California. The airport, the ocean, the palm trees, the hills – all of it felt like home, even though I was 5,600 miles away.

As a bike racer, you’re always in motion – new towns, new hotels, new races – so you learn to root your sense of normalcy in things you can travel with. For example, I bring a small pillow with me wherever I go, so my head always feels it’s in the same place. My same Skratch products, so my nutrition is consistent. A handful of rituals that make foreign places more manageable.

And yet, in Portugal, it wasn’t only my pillow or my drink mix that grounded me. It was the place itself. The ocean, the palm trees, the hum of traffic, the heat radiating off the sidewalk.

After a short stay in the city, Alexis and I piled our five bikes and luggage into Big Bus and drove north to Porto, where the Tour of Portugal was set to begin. There, she dropped me off at a beach motel with the US National Team, my home for four days, before heading off to meet her own team.

So there I was. Cracking plastic chairs, a pool, little balconies for smelling the sea air and having a cigarette. A familiarly grungy beach motel not unlike the kind I’d stayed in back home.

Dinner the first night was fish. No surprise being in a coastal town. Dinner the second night – fish. The third night – fish, but slightly different. Soft and flaky like a white fish, but with large bones and stewed in a tomato sauce. None of us could identify it. After we’d finished and the waitress returned to take dessert orders, we asked. What was the fish called? She couldn’t place the English name, so a description ensued. Circular in shape, a tail… not a normal fish. I had only one image in my head.

“Stingray?” I asked.

With a large nod and smile, the waitress confirmed. “Yes! Stingray.” Around the two tables, riders and staff sat in a moment of shocked silence. The waitress walked off in a quiet laugh, amused at the surprise she’d just delivered. For all the familiarity in Portugal, the stingray reminded me that I was not, in fact, in a Southern California beach motel. I was in a new country with many new things to experience. Cycling was giving me an opportunity to find excitement in the unfamiliar.