After we got in Jim and I got settled at the Giant house for the night, built our bikes and headed into town with the Giants for dinner at an Indian place (there are 3 here). Afterwards we met up with Dr. John for a quick beer, that turned into another, and another. Full updates to follow.
Today we got out for 3.5 hours through the highlands. Spectacular!
We were up at 6 and on the street boxes in hand at 6:30. We traveled as a train, me pushing one bag and holding one end of the cardboard box, Jim holding the other end and dragging his bike and second bag behind him. Stairs were a challenge and we pissed off more than a few Parisians.
We took the metro down to Chatelet and switched to the RER up to the airport. We arrived without much issue, though we did initially get off at the wrong airport stop and had to wait for a second train. Once in we mostly breezed through the baggage experience, though we had to sweet talk Jim’s bike onto the plane. We transited quickly through Heathrow and arrived in Glasgow on time. As we walked to the baggage claim we passed through a duty free liquor store (yes, welcome to Scotland) and were handed a sample of 12 year old Balvenie to ease the pain of the baggage experience. Little did we know we would need it. Our checke bags came through quickly but we stood around waiting for our bikes. As we stood we were approached by another gangly looking American with full sideburns who asked if we were heading to the race and introduced himself as Carl (Decker). His bags were also not appearing and we all headed into the claims area together to figure out what was up. Our bikes had missed the connection and were meant to be arriving on the next flight. Carl’s were there but on another belt. He was picking up a van to drive up to Aviemore but was waiting for Adam Craig, Kelli Emmet, and Elke Brutsaert who were arriving on another flight. He said they could wait for our bikes and take us all up to Aviemore together. We waited around while he got the van and met Adam et al, when their flight came in. These guys know how to travel and the offloaded 6 bikes to get them through single speed worlds this weekend and then the real worlds next week.
Our bikes miraculously appeared on the next flight and we headed out to the van for the ride up. And now I sit here writing this post from within the darkness of the windowless cargo area of a large panel van. Jimbo, Elke and I are lounging across the piled luggage trying to keep from getting sick as the pastoral Scottish countryside streams by us outside.
The last day in Paris was a flurry of activity trying to see if anyone knew the fate of the missing bike box, trying to procure a cardboard box, looking for packing material. We finally got everything sorted by around 4. The guys at Bastille Cycles were pretty helpful in getting us a box. Jim and I walked in and I said that I didn’t speak French, the one phrase I have got down in French, to which the owners replied, “sure you do, keep going.” There were some touch and go moments, but we managed to get a box and some spare cardboard and hefted it back to the 20th Arrondissement on foot. Jim and I met up again at 4 to head out on the town and enjoy a little Parisian life to distract us from the impending hassle of the transit through trains and planes the next morning. We went shopping in the Marais then hit falafel center for a taste test of the best falafel in Paris. Our decisions were mixed; Jim favored the crisp falafel balls and well mixed assembly of Las Falafel, though I was a fan of the more flavorful eggplant and heavier tahini at Chez Marianne.
Well sated, we went for a whirlwind tour through the Louvre, which is open late on Wednesday. We strolled through the French and Italian painters slowly, enjoying more the people watching and the setting sun pouring through the Louvre’s west windows and casting long shadows down the exhibit hall. At 9, we’d reached the end of the hall, in the southwestern most corner of the palace and realized that we’d have to hurry to get back to see the museum’s crown jewel, the Mona Lisa. Getting to her late gave us the advantage of a small crowd and we both hit the room and initially focused on the other works. I was first drawn to the enormity of the Wedding Feast of Cana. I approached the Mona Lisa with slow reverence and was immediately struck by the difference. Where all the other portraits we’d seen in the museum either looked away or stared forward absently, the Mona Lisa gazed out intently, almost inviting you to look longer. She stood in stark contrast the massive Christ figure opposite her in the Wedding Feast of Cana that stared blankly, inhumanly forward as though both transfixed and bewildered by the gaze of the woman opposite him.
From there we sprinted to the northern European painters to take in a quick Vermeer and headed back to the apartment, stopping to pick up beer, to pack the bikes.
Ugh, went downstairs today to find the bike box, but not the bikes, gone. Jimbo’s was sitting right next to mine and is untouched. Spending the last day in Paris scrounging for packing material to get to Scotland.
Steve, start pricing out a new box. I owe you one when we get home.
The boys left yesterday and Jimbo arrived today, thus beginning the second part of this trip.
The question everyone asks is “would you do PBP again?” Of course the answer is yes, but perhaps not in 4 years. The experience was about as epic as they come (though a similar event on dirt would be awesome) and both the physical and mental challenges, as well as the cultural and scenic payoffs were well worth the year’s effort. But the whole event came at a heavy cost in terms of time and commitment. We talked to our new friends Jonathan and Isabel, who live in Paris and they had to do little more than attend the qualifying brevets and then show up for PBP. Adding the international travel, with its cost and the additional anxiety to complete the event made it a multi-month process for us and we had to eliminate many other events from our riding schedules, let alone our relationships and work lives. Maybe in 8 years?
For now I am continuing to recover. We’ve been spinning around Paris in the days since the event to keep the legs loose. We all suffered physically from the event. We all had sore mouths, filled with cuts and cancre sores from the high sugar diet that fueled our ride. Our skin had all broken out from the 3 days without a real wash. Steve and I both suffered from extreme tightness and pain in our Achilles that we developed along the ride. Joe and I both were left with numb hands that have made it hard for me to type, hold silverware, and open doors. Muscle soreness goes without saying, though the totality of it was a bit of a surprise: everything hurt, legs, arms, back, neck both from pedaling and from holding the same position over the bike for so long.
The legs are feeling better, and my Achilles have loosened to the point that I don’t feel pain from general walking or spinning around. My hands are still numb, though the left has nearly recovered and the right is on the mend. It has to do with fluid pooling up in my hand and fingers so keeping my hand elevated alleviates most of the issue (but forgive me the occasional typo).
The weather in Paris has been spectacular since our return. Sunny and warm during the day, cool at night. Since the boys have left I have moved to an apartment in Belleville (yes, that Belleville), which is a totally different kind of Paris. It’s a bit of a little Chinatown and much seedier than the places we’ve been staying. That is good because food and drinks are cheap, and it gives me a chance to see some of the other Paris, more immigrants, dirtier, narrower streets, fewer beautiful people more real ones.
We woke abruptly at 4 and mumbled to each other about whether to sleep another hour. Our decision was made for us as new riders were brought into our cots at 4. As we got out, they got in, fully clothed, shoes still on. We had to pack and organize quickly in the dark and were back out into the rain at 4:20. We had a quick breakfast at Carhaix and hit the road with a large group that we held with throught he dark hours of the morning. At dawn we hit a secret controle and pushed onwards. We were largely covering terrain we’d already seen. At Tinteniac we caught up with Mark Thomas, the president of RUSA and several others of the stronger 90 hour riders that we knew. They were heading out as we came in and gave us words of encouragement about our progress. We had a quick, rejuvenating bowl of soup and loaded back up. On the stretch to Fougeres the rain stopped and we started getting into a good rhythm. We came into the control with a large group of 90 hour riders and tried to make quick work of it, hoping for a real meal a little further down the road. We stopped just after the controle for omelettes, potatoes, green beans and coffee in what was, for me, the most restorative of our meals. After the meal we headed up a long climb out of town and onto a long stretch of high rollers. As the food kicked in and the sun came out we worked up solid rotation among us and got the pace up as fast as we’d ridden yet. As we got up to speed we came up on an old French guy riding a Cannondale with Shimano sandles. He hoped the train and immediately rotated in, giving a solid pull. He kept with us as the miles ticked off all the while pushing the pace. He said his name was “Andre, my last name is in English ‘ox’”, which seemed very appropriate. He was 60 and had raced in his youth and was obviously still very strong. Joe had his computer on and said that we ticked of 40 miles at between 25-30 mph. In that time we also picked up an Italian named Francesco who sat in the whole way to Villaines la Juhel, only once coming around only to drop back quickly again.
We came into the controle riding a high from our strong pace since Fougeres. On the way in Francesco asked if he could ride with us to Paris and said he would wait by the door for us to finish the control. We made quick work of getting food and chatting it up with the other Americans we saw and headed out to the bikes with high hopes of hitting Paris early. As I headed out, Francesco was waiting anxiously with his wife and daughter at the door and followed us out to the bikes. As we got rolling I heard the announcer call out our names and mention the “quatre Americans” which further had us rolling on a high. We rode at a strong pace while the sun was out and Francesco was quick to join the paceline on the first rotation. After an hour the rain started and we worked through the high rollers with our heads down. The rollers got bigger as we approached Mortagne and the sun faded. We got in around 9:30 just as darkness had settled in and the scene was that of a zombie movie. Gone were the smiling faces of Villaines, faces were pale and eyes stared 100 yards ahead. We stopped for a full meal and a quick rest with feet up against the wall and debated pushing on in the dark. Andre was there, he was staying the night but was already disqualified from the event for drafting his support car (which had happened before we met him). He told us that we were the highlight of his ride and paid us high compliments on our riding technique. Francesco came and said that we wouldn’t join us to Paris, he also would make a night of it there (not surprising has he had his wife, daughter, and warm clothes!). We couldn’t fathom the idea of taking off, them putting back on our wet clothes and so pushed on at 11.
Out of Mortagne we had a series of dark descents and climbs that went very slow. At one point we had a group of 10 riding with us, all either Americans or Aussies but they broke up as we made several small stops to adjust clothing for the fluctuating temperatures of the climbs and descents. The terrain gave way to a long flat section, nearly 50 K, of near total darkness. We tried everything to keep from falling asleep: singing, different pacelines, telling jokes. Billy flatted in the middle of nowhere and we made a stop for the change and struggled to get back on the bikes.
The road was littered with riders that had pulled off to sleep; every lightpost, bus stop and park bench seemed to have someone beneath it. At one point we came upon a rider swerving widely from left to right and we yelled loudly at him to wake him up just before riding off the road and into a guard rail. We all were struggling to keep awake and fought hard to make it into Dreux for the last cotnrole. We arrived at about 2 to find the fewest bikes we’d yet seen at a control and the emptiest food hall. We choked down food but we were all too tired to eat, and too tired of eating the same things. After a quick rest we remounted and made the final push back to Saint Quentin en Yvelines. The last bit was unremarkable other than we survived it. The sun was coming up as we approached town and we caught several riders ahead to roll in as a group. We had thoughts of a sprint finish, but we couldn’t muster it. Rather than cross a line, we came around the final roundabout and were ushered through a set of barriers and back to the stadium for the controle. We walked in, and with little fanfare, had our cards swiped and our books stamped: finishing time 7:13 AM. We were handed a ticket for a free drink and ushered away. When we went to collect our celebratory beer we were handed a can of warm Kroenenburg, the Natty Lite of France. We struggled to get it down and we each left with unfinished cans. We sat briefly next to a 60 year old Frenchman who had ridden the last 7 PBP’s and finished 6. He told us that this was by far the hardest he’d done and likely the hardest in 50 years due to the weather. We took some pride in that, and rolled slowly to the hotel to collect our things and head home.
Were it not for the hopelessly uncomfortable sleeping conditions, I doubt we would have woken up. But sleeping on a floor with only a rain jacket for a blanket doesn’t make for leisurely mornings. We were up at 9 and back on the bikes by 10 after a short breakfast. We made 325 miles on the first day and were hoping for another big day to bring us back to Paris well under 72 hours.
The sun was up and the day was spectacular but for the powerful wind that we could see pushing the trees around as we got dressed. We took off into a powerful headwind and the most rolling part of the course so far. The rollers went form big to bigger and several could have legitimately been called climbs. We picked up riders slowly and got together a coherent group for about an hour that worked through some of the climbing sections wit 2 strong young Danes who were willing to take their time at the front. After 2 hours we came up on a slow going but large group and we sat in on the back for a little rest and a picnic. The terrain turned form twisting forest roads to exposed rollers that climbed up to the top of a plateau. The group held together and grew to 50+ with a powerful old Danish guy sitting in the front left position driving the train. Others rotated in and out of the position next to him, but he held strong to the top. Across the top we headed into a long 20K descent in towards Brest. The riding was much easier, but the powerful headwind made it less restful than we would have hoped. Once at the bottom we suffered interminable rollers through the countryside and then suburbs outside Brest. Finally, we caught a glimpse of the ocean and crossed into Brest over a pedestrian bridge that was scenic but miserable with the strong gusts that nearly blew us over. From there we snaked through the town of Brest, down by the water, and then up a set of painfully steep wall climbs into the controle around 2.
The atmosphere at the controle was jovial as everyone celebrated the half way point. We enjoyed our first celebratory beer of the ride and loaded our pockets with sandwiches for the return. We left without eating hoping to find a proper café en route. Alas, that was an error in judgment as the route took us through suburbia and strip malls and nothing appealed for food. Blood sugar dropped and spirits sagged to new lows as we rolled on. Finally, just before the road turned back uphill for the climb up the plateau we found a café where we were able to stop for coffee and pasteries to get us up the mountain. As we climbed the food and caffeine got into our systems and we all started feeling feeling better. We passed many riders on the climbs, including a guy riding an antique French two speed, in classic Parisian costume (stripped shirt, beret) with a string of garlic hanging on one handlebar and a bottle of wine in his pannier. That was a bit demoralizing, but at least he had a 6 hour start on us. Back into Carhaix we buzzed through the controle leaving around 7 and headed onward towards Loudeac.
On the route to Loudeac the sun fell and the rain came back which slowed our progress significantly. Rather than fight the lines for food in Loudeac we stopped at a creperie along the way 50 K from Loudeac just as the rain went from drizzling to pouring. When we went in we found the proprietors and their friends sitting around a single table for dinner and they quickly sat us at another. We ordered crepes with onions and tomatoes and cheese and they poured us flutes of cider and framboise to help with the “dopage”. They were cheery and encouraging and lifted our spirits enormously. While we were there a gregarious Italian came in, ordered, and promptly fell asleep in his chair waiting for his crepe. We finished the meal with a crepe with pears, chocolate, and icecream and coffees and were wished well by the owners as we headed back outside into the pouring rain. We’d originially hoped to get back to Tinteniac but we came into Carhaix wet and cold at midnight in the pouring rain. After only 150 miles we decided to stay the night and try to get cots. On the way in we set a strategy for the arrival to get into bed as fast as possible. Steve would arrange for the cots, Billy and I got the drop bags. Of course it wouldn’t play out that simply. The cot situation was chaotic and we all needed to be there to claim our spot in the big gymnasium with rows upon rows of cots. We told them when we wanted to leave so that they could immediately replace us as we left for the morning. We undressed and repacked in the dark and got onto the simple plastic cots with a single blanket. The plastic mesh of the cot and the cement floor sucked heat from my body as I lay and it was nearly an hour of fitful sleep before I realized that I needed to keep the blanket between me and the cot and drifted off for 2 hours.
Up at 3 we sucked down the food we’d gotten the night before (yogurt, rice pudding, and hotel instant coffee) and stuffed our pockets with a few pastries. We were out the door just after 4 and joined the trickle of folks into the stadium. It was cold and misty but not yet actually raining. We were hoping that the weather forecast for rain in Paris late morning would hold and we’d be able to get away from it before it set in. Just before 5 they moved us out of the stadium and on to the road, passing through a quick bike check to ensure that we had lights. We then stopped, and were moved forward another 50 meters to await the start. Pre-start it was jovial, everyone wishing each other luck in languages they didn’t understand, but when the gun went off the chaos began in earnest.
750 of us headed out through the city streets in the darkness, led by a set of motorcycles. As we hit roundabouts shouts rang out about high curbs and medians. On the first gradual descent into a roundabout I heard the crunch of a bike and body hitting the ground just behind me as someone hit the plastic dividers between lanes. I could see Steve and Billy ahead and called out for Joe behind. All safe, we rolled on and the road opened up a little so we could move forward in the group to what we hoped would be faster and less sketchy riders.
The first several hours of darkness were a blur. We rode in a big group at a nice fast pace through suburban and then rural roads. We moved slowly forward and the pace lifted slightly. The light was slow to come as the sky was thick with clouds, but the dawn brought us smaller and faster groups. We found ourselves up close to the lead group riding at a nice tempo pace, ticking off the miles. Soon the rain came, first slow and misty, then down in full sheets. The pace slowed with the increase in rolling resistance on wet roads, but not the intensity. Billy and I dropped back to put jackets on and raced back up to Joe and Steve in the lead group. Just as we made contact, Steve flatted and we had to pull off in the pouring rain. We made a quick change but as he remounted the wheel it blew off with a pop. We quickly got another on and as Steve pumped it blew like a unshot and left a hole in his sidewall. Finally, we dug out a new tire and it held air, though we were ginger with the pump this time. As we all stood there shivering in the rain we watched much of the middle part of the field pass us in various sized groups that we then had to work through over the next few hours.
Cold and wet from the puncture, we stopped soon after for quick coffees and bread with butter as we’d all underestimated the food we’d need to make it to the first checkpoint at Mortagne au Perche. By the time we got to Mortagne, we were all worked from the pace and the rain. The rain had stopped, so we headed out with higher spirits and were able to pack away the raincoats. From Mortagne we had 40 miles of beautiful rollers to the first full Controle at Villaines la Juhel. The sun was out and the pace was solid, but I was struggling with body temperature and energy levels. By the time we made it to the control I had eaten all the emergency goo that I’d brought and twice dropped back in near full bonk. I’d relied too much on eating at the controles and hadn’t prepared enough food to eat on the bike. Though we ate at Mortagne, I’d burned through it too quickly and not had anything to keep going. Lesson learned I resolved to always have food in my pocket for the rest of the ride.
We got to the control at Mortagne (222 K) around 2 PM. It was a great controle, with big crowds of onlookers, a DJ, and an announcer calling out the riders coming in. We stopped for pasteries and coffee and loaded our pockets with ham sandwiches to make it down the road. From there we headed out through beautiful rolling countryside with high spirits. We quickly found some nice groups to ride with and met our best riding partners of the event. Jonathan and Isabel were Brits, living in Paris, that were doing the randoneuring thing this year on a lark but had lots of experience with racing cyclosportif throughout Europe and had lots of good stories to tell. Several miles into the ride with them I noticed a slow leak in my rear and we had to stop to change my tire.
The next stop was Fougeres at 310 K were we stopped for our first proper meal. The controle food left lots to be desired, but it was warm and filling and we ate lots of it. Jonathan and Isabel joined us for dinner (we’d somehow passed them on the road) and we decided that we’d ride together to the next control at Tinteniac, near where they had a hotel for the night. The addition of two to our group aided our progress and we made good time to Tinteniac as Steve and Jonathan drove the pace, chatting at the font. We made a quick control of it at Tinteniac and headed out around 9, just as the light was fading. Jonathan and Isabel pulled off at their hotel, 20 K or so down the road, and we pushed forward in the dark to Loudeac. The rain started on and off en route to Loudeac and we started passing lots of the 90 hour riders in the dark. In general, we rode through most of the groups, occasionally sitting in for a rest. We often attracted riders who would sit in for a time, but almost no one ever pulled through.
The rain had stopped when we got to Loudeac near midnight, but we were soaked and tired and cold and hungry. The scene when we arrived was not promising. There were bikes everywhere, 80 and 90 hour riders made this the stop of choice for the night. Inside the buildings the floor was littered with people sleeping, wrapped in space blankets in every spot out of the direct line of traffic. We each had bowls of soup and rice with gravy and took 20 minute naps at the table. Uncertain about staying the night there, with so many people and such chaos, we decided to get back on the road to the next control at Carhaix.
The ride into Carhaix was sketchy. We were all tired and cold and fighting sleep. We pacelined to keep from dosing off on the bike. We came into Carhaix at 6 like zombies. Exhausted we got dry clothes out of our packs and changed out of our wet clothes. To tired to eat, we found an out of the way place, under a conveyer belt that took trays from the cafeteria to the kitchen, and lay down for 2.5 hours. Sleep came easy, but was neither as long, or as restful as any of us would have liked.
Jet lag had me up late, 10ish, on our transition day for PBP. The morning was all about eating, hydrating, and bike prep. We’d largely gotten things packed and organized last night and I spent the morning double and triple checking everything. The weather was again not looking in our favor as passing showers rolled through town every few hours. As noon approached we made made a lunch of omelette and chicken soup as the rain poured down outside.
Despite the rain we had to head out at 1 in the drizzle. Each of us was carrying our full kit for the ride, wearing out clothes for the return train ride, and we had two extra bags to drop forward with spare kits, extra food, tubes and tires. We rode across town in the rain to the Invalides train station for the RER out to the start. There we started meeting other riders on the platform: an Italian, and a group from Texas. Out of the train in Saint Quentin at 3 the sun was out and the town was abuzz with bikes and riders of every persuasion. What struck me was not the heavily laden, overweight randaneur types, but the many folks in full team kits on carbon race bikes with little more than a saddle bag and a spare tube. The streets were packed lined with RV’s and vans that were riding support for these folks who were clearly looking at this ride in a different light.
In town we dropped off our bags to go forward to Ludeac, 450 K down the road, and stopped at the local mall to pick up a vest for Steve and a set of Spider Man 3 wool hats for Joe and Billy. From there we sought out a café for dinner and joined a fluid table of international cyclists and watched folks head out for the 80 and 90 hour starts. At dinner we heard about different timing strategies and different goals for day one, the most ludicrous of which was riding straight out to Brest then back 80K in one shot before the first big sleep from a group that was looking for a sub 60 hour finish.
After dinner and a bottle of wine we wished well our 90 hour companions and headed to the store to pick up breakfast food and then the hotel to rest. Our hotel was mostly populated by Americans, so we had lots of folks to chat with as they were heading out for the night start. As the last of them left, we headed up to get some rest ahead of an early, and long day on Tuesday.
We finished just after 7AM this morning after riding through the night. I have never been so tired or so sore on a bike (or anywhere for that matter!). Everyone made it, we hit every control as a group and even managed to generate a following along the route as the “Quatre Americans”.
France hasn’t been this cold or had this much rain in 50 years. A guy we met who has ridden 7 PBP’s (finished 6) said that this was the hardest he had seen. Go and get a six pack of beer and I will unfold the story over the next few days as the sensation returns to my hands and I can type.
