In retrospect, our three-week France trip seems quite idyllic. Thanks to the salve of selective memory, the pain of the day that became our crucible has passed. A crucible was not what we planned. The three of us, an energetic set of fifty-something parents and our eleven year-old daughter Moriah, had planned to spend a week in Paris followed by a two week bike trip with a tour group in the French Alps.

It all began well. We spent a delightful Parisian week in a France Homestyle apartment on Rue des Boulangers. We indulged daily in tartes framboises from the world-class bakery, Kayser, down the block from us. My wife Peg and I took great pleasure in watching Moriah absorb -- for the first time -- Notre Dame, the Picasso and Rodin museums, and the other artistic treasures of Paris.

We smiled at the astonishment and wonder that radiated from her face as she tasted the sublime elegance of French cuisine. Moriah still claims the best meal she's ever eaten was in Au Bon Accueil, a little restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. She declared their succulent chicken in a delicate coconut sauce and the mashed potatoes to be "the best in the world." Rapture on her face, she exclaimed for the first time in her eleven years, "This is to die for." "Welcome to France," I said grinning.

Adieu to Paris; we were off to Ferney-Voltaire to join our group of 17 cyclists on a 500-mile trip through the Alps. Moriah would ride a tandem with me and Peg would ride solo. I got my first inkling that our reach may have exceeded our grasp when I asked the tour leader, Glenn, a friendly, very experienced ex-racer, how old the youngest rider on this trip had been in past years. "Fourteen, I think," was his laconic answer. "Hmm," I thought to myself, "maybe I should have asked that question when I sent in the trip applications."

More hints followed. We discovered that all the cyclists had vastly more experience than we, and that the listed distances and elevation gains for each day were a bit understated. Still, we were doing well and having fun -- although we left earlier in the morning than the others, arrived last, and were more fatigued than everyone else.

Then came the Day of the Crucible. We needed to bike the 70 miles from Rencurel to Chichillianne. It was the longest day of the trip, had the most elevation gain, 6,450 feet, and snaked over two mountain passes, the Col de Rousset and Col de Menee. But distance and elevation weren't our real enemies. It was the heat.

Since record keeping began in France in the 6th century, there had never been a summer this torrid. More than 10,000 people died in France from the 2003 summer heat. By 4 p.m. we had ridden fifty-five miles and had the Col de Rousset behind us, but still faced the nearly 5,000 foot Col de Menee. The temperature was still rising. We had never biked in heat like this. The thermometer reached 100 degrees -- so hot that as we began the climb, the oil-tar substance used to patch the road melted and stuck to our bike tires as we rode over it.

Peg and I exchanged nervous glances as we noted the rising temperature and our dwindling water supply. We were alone on the steep mountain road. Through the sweat, heat, and aching quadriceps we climbed toward the pass until Moriah said, "Dad I'm overheated." We stopped and she lay down in a shady spot on the road. We made her drink a bit of what little water remained and told her we needed to go on if we were to reach the pass and our hotel on the other side. She dutifully dragged herself onto the tandem. We pedaled upward in the searing oven camouflaged as a mountain road.

We began to wonder if this was irresponsible parenting, if not child abuse. Then, miraculously, four kilometers from the pass, we saw salvation. It was the tour support van driven by Glenn's 21-year-old son, Galen, a hot-shot bike racer. He was waiting for us - the last riders left on the mountain. Galen's smiling visage popped out of the driver's window, "Hey, Moriah, would you like to hop in the van and ride to the hotel?"

It was one of those defining moments when a parent who has known a child for years suddenly discovers something new about the child's character and inner fabric. I expected Moriah to take the offer. I would have. But Moriah looked directly at Galen and said, "No, I want to do this on my own." Galen's exuberant reply was, "Awesome, Moriah, see you at the hotel." Galen gave us drinks and sped off. Peg and I looked at each other, smiled, and started pedaling with Moriah.

We rode triumphantly over the Col de Menee and after a glorious descent arrived at the 13th century chateaux that was our hotel. As we pedaled up the drive, all the battle-hardened cyclists - whom we endearingly called pedalheads -- were out front awaiting our arrival. They admitted later to Peg and me that it was the toughest day they'd had. They couldn't believe an eleven year-old had done it. As we approached, they broke into applause for Moriah who responded with her shy, unassuming smile.

Wonderful memories of the trip abound. But for me, those two magical moments from the Crucible will always stand alone -- when Moriah looked inside herself and decided that she had to ride the Col de Menee on her own and when she flashed her shy smile to the applauding cyclists. Those moments I shall carry forever in my heart.