PBP 2011: An epic ride deserves an epic ride report
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Paul Rozelle
Sep 20, 2011, 2:21:24 PM9/20/11
to randon
PBP 2011: Prologue
You can find the prologue to my PBP in the thread (below, most likely)
on Mont Ventoux. Executive summary: I didn’t have the proper rest and
taper before the event that most people recommend.
This was my second PBP. I rode in 2007 on a geared bike in the worst
conditions – four days of rain, wind, and cold – in a generation.
Despite some tough times, I was making plans to return for the next
edition in 2011, even before that ride was over. I wanted to see
France when it wasn’t soaked in rain and I also got the idea at PBP
’07 of doing long rides on a fixed-gear bike. Mostly, though, I just
wanted to be a part of the pageantry and spectacle that is Paris-Brest-
Paris. There is no cycling event in the world with more history and,
to many, more prestige. Some consider PBP tougher than Le Tour: it’s
one, 1230km stage. The pros complained about how tough PBP was and how
preparing for and recovering from it ruined a whole racing season, so
it was officially removed from the calendar and has been an amateur-
only event since the 1950s. With all that history and lore, the whole
experience is pretty magical.
The organizers expected a flood of riders in 2011, and for those who
were determined to attend from the largest randonneuring countries
(which would be subject to a cap on the number of riders they could
send), the qualification process was effectively two years long. The
world economy, though, intervened and the 2011 field was about the
same size as in 2007. The U.S. didn’t fill its allotment of riders:
fewer Americans participated in 2011 than rode in 2007, perhaps in
part due to the healthy number of domestic 1200s that were offered
(the restriction on offering a 1200K in a PBP year was lifted this
year). The representation from East Asia, though, exploded. This was
certainly the most diverse PBP ever held. It’s amazing to think that,
at the current growth rate, some of the largest randonneuring
countries in the world at PBP ’15 will be in Asia.
My plan was to ride conservatively and for fun, not time, just as I
had in 2007. I gave up 6 hours of my 90-hour time limit right off the
bat for the privilege of starting at 5am. I wanted to maximize
daylight riding. I wanted to see France. I can ride in the dark in the
U.S. anytime. Dark is dark. I hoped better weather would counter-
balance the fact that I’d be on a fixed-gear and that I’d end up with
about the same amount of rest on the ride as I had in 2007. I’d get
between 12 and 15 hours of sleep, I hoped.
My recovery from Mont Ventoux went better than I could have imagined.
My back and upper body were back to normal by Sunday. My hands were
quite sore, but the blisters didn’t materialize. With those pains
mostly abated, though, I could now feel how wrecked my legs were.
Saturday morning I rode into the starting town from Versailles, where
I was staying, about 5 miles away. There is a big hill to climb in St.
Cyr. I drilled it to see how my legs felt. They were not pleased. That
little exercise convinced me to ride PBP in 48x18, the same gear I
climbed Ventoux on. I felt my legs would thank me and that I’d
minimize time out of the saddle, which would probably be best, too.
I had some doubts about my gearing, though, as I talked with other
fixed-gear riders before the event. Among the Americans riding fixed,
I’d be on one of the smaller gears. I knew a few guys on 74 gear
inches, a few riding something in the high 70s, one person on 81”, and
then there was Branson, who was going to have a go at the course in
89”. I talked with a lot of these guys the weekend before the start
and thought that I might run a bigger gear. In 70”, I’d be spinning a
lot. The flats and down-hills would hurt. I wouldn’t be able to spin
fast enough, and comfortably enough, to participate in many of the
pacelines that form in the 84-hour group. I was tempted to change.
Most of those dispensing wisdom on gearing – including both members of
the only 2-person fixed-gear RAAM team, ever – were a lot more
experienced than me. In the end, I tossed the big gears and a chain
whip into the drop bag bound for Loudeac, 280 miles up the road. I’d
stick to 48x18. If a bigger gear was truly a good idea for me, then it
would still be a good idea on Day 2 and I’d make the change, if
needed, then. Having pulled off Ventoux, I was feeling conservative.
I didn't want to push my luck, which I'd already pushed quite far.
Sunday is the official start of PBP. I went down to watch the
pageantry and the 80-hour riders start. The pointy end of PBP rides
like a criterium – one that lasts for 2 days. It was super-impressive
to see these guys go off.
Most of the riders I knew were in the 90-hour group and I wished those
I saw well and told them all, with a hearty laugh, that I didn’t want
to see them again. They’d be half a day up the road by the time I
started and if I caught them, it’d mean that their rides might not be
going well. It was good to see everyone depart under warm, sunny, and
clear skies unlike in 2007, where the start went off in a steady, cold
rain. I then rode back to Versailles to get some sleep, stopping to
pick up breakfast – bread, juice, and a Coke – on the way back to the
hotel.
You can find the prologue to my PBP in the thread (below, most likely)
on Mont Ventoux. Executive summary: I didn’t have the proper rest and
taper before the event that most people recommend.
This was my second PBP. I rode in 2007 on a geared bike in the worst
conditions – four days of rain, wind, and cold – in a generation.
Despite some tough times, I was making plans to return for the next
edition in 2011, even before that ride was over. I wanted to see
France when it wasn’t soaked in rain and I also got the idea at PBP
’07 of doing long rides on a fixed-gear bike. Mostly, though, I just
wanted to be a part of the pageantry and spectacle that is Paris-Brest-
Paris. There is no cycling event in the world with more history and,
to many, more prestige. Some consider PBP tougher than Le Tour: it’s
one, 1230km stage. The pros complained about how tough PBP was and how
preparing for and recovering from it ruined a whole racing season, so
it was officially removed from the calendar and has been an amateur-
only event since the 1950s. With all that history and lore, the whole
experience is pretty magical.
The organizers expected a flood of riders in 2011, and for those who
were determined to attend from the largest randonneuring countries
(which would be subject to a cap on the number of riders they could
send), the qualification process was effectively two years long. The
world economy, though, intervened and the 2011 field was about the
same size as in 2007. The U.S. didn’t fill its allotment of riders:
fewer Americans participated in 2011 than rode in 2007, perhaps in
part due to the healthy number of domestic 1200s that were offered
(the restriction on offering a 1200K in a PBP year was lifted this
year). The representation from East Asia, though, exploded. This was
certainly the most diverse PBP ever held. It’s amazing to think that,
at the current growth rate, some of the largest randonneuring
countries in the world at PBP ’15 will be in Asia.
My plan was to ride conservatively and for fun, not time, just as I
had in 2007. I gave up 6 hours of my 90-hour time limit right off the
bat for the privilege of starting at 5am. I wanted to maximize
daylight riding. I wanted to see France. I can ride in the dark in the
U.S. anytime. Dark is dark. I hoped better weather would counter-
balance the fact that I’d be on a fixed-gear and that I’d end up with
about the same amount of rest on the ride as I had in 2007. I’d get
between 12 and 15 hours of sleep, I hoped.
My recovery from Mont Ventoux went better than I could have imagined.
My back and upper body were back to normal by Sunday. My hands were
quite sore, but the blisters didn’t materialize. With those pains
mostly abated, though, I could now feel how wrecked my legs were.
Saturday morning I rode into the starting town from Versailles, where
I was staying, about 5 miles away. There is a big hill to climb in St.
Cyr. I drilled it to see how my legs felt. They were not pleased. That
little exercise convinced me to ride PBP in 48x18, the same gear I
climbed Ventoux on. I felt my legs would thank me and that I’d
minimize time out of the saddle, which would probably be best, too.
I had some doubts about my gearing, though, as I talked with other
fixed-gear riders before the event. Among the Americans riding fixed,
I’d be on one of the smaller gears. I knew a few guys on 74 gear
inches, a few riding something in the high 70s, one person on 81”, and
then there was Branson, who was going to have a go at the course in
89”. I talked with a lot of these guys the weekend before the start
and thought that I might run a bigger gear. In 70”, I’d be spinning a
lot. The flats and down-hills would hurt. I wouldn’t be able to spin
fast enough, and comfortably enough, to participate in many of the
pacelines that form in the 84-hour group. I was tempted to change.
Most of those dispensing wisdom on gearing – including both members of
the only 2-person fixed-gear RAAM team, ever – were a lot more
experienced than me. In the end, I tossed the big gears and a chain
whip into the drop bag bound for Loudeac, 280 miles up the road. I’d
stick to 48x18. If a bigger gear was truly a good idea for me, then it
would still be a good idea on Day 2 and I’d make the change, if
needed, then. Having pulled off Ventoux, I was feeling conservative.
I didn't want to push my luck, which I'd already pushed quite far.
Sunday is the official start of PBP. I went down to watch the
pageantry and the 80-hour riders start. The pointy end of PBP rides
like a criterium – one that lasts for 2 days. It was super-impressive
to see these guys go off.
Most of the riders I knew were in the 90-hour group and I wished those
I saw well and told them all, with a hearty laugh, that I didn’t want
to see them again. They’d be half a day up the road by the time I
started and if I caught them, it’d mean that their rides might not be
going well. It was good to see everyone depart under warm, sunny, and
clear skies unlike in 2007, where the start went off in a steady, cold
rain. I then rode back to Versailles to get some sleep, stopping to
pick up breakfast – bread, juice, and a Coke – on the way back to the
hotel.
Paul Rozelle
Sep 20, 2011, 2:21:52 PM9/20/11
to randon
PBP 2011: Start (0km) to Fougers (306km)
I was up at 3:40am and out the door a few minutes later. Versailles
was quiet. Only a few other randonneurs were on the road, making their
way, like me, to the 84-hour start. As close as Versailles is to the
start, few people stay there. The majority of riders stay in Saint
Quentain (“SQY,” for short), which is an unremarkable “new city.” It’s
expensive, crowded, and with thousands of cyclists and their families
converging on it, hectic. I had stayed in Plaisir, about 10km away, in
2007 and that was a great experience. Plaisir is a quiet country town.
There’s little there. My kind of place. Still, I heard people rave
about Versailles – the history of it plus proximity without the
madness or cost – so I figured I’d give that a try this time. I’m
sold. We’ll be back to Versailles in 2015.
Despite the hour, it was warm. My jacket was stowed in my bag, a
rarity for nighttime riding in northern France. As I approached the
start, more cyclists converged on the road into SQY until we had quite
a mass entering the large gymnasium where PBP starts.
The start was the same as in 2007. You get lined up on the track,
proceed through chutes, and your brevet card is stamped. In ’07, we
started in one big wave of about 700 bikes. This time, though, that
the organizers were going to break us up into waves spaced 15 or 20
minutes apart.
I looked for the other American fixed-gear riders, but didn’t see
them. They were at the end of the field. I, too, wanted to stay at the
back – the start of the ride is fast and I’d be in the way on my small
gear – but I did want to get off in the first wave of bikes. Once I’m
awake, I want to ride.
I connected with a few friends from the D.C. area I’d met on the
Shenandoah 1200K in 2008. Andrea and Greg and I reminisced about that
ride: the relentless hills and drinking Mexican Cokes and stuffing our
jerseys with ice a mere 10 miles from the finish to combat record heat
that had DNF’d about 50% of the field on that ride. Whatever lay in
store for us, this wasn’t the ’08 Shenandoah 1200, which still sets
the standard for what makes a difficult Grand Randonnee. Everyone was
in high spirits and looking forward to getting under way.
After getting checked in, I saw a few more organizers counting people
and so I moved past them and am glad I did. As I went past, they
closed the entryway. I was the last in the first wave of riders.
Riders queue on a large street that feeds into an even larger
roundabout. Friends and families lined the barrier, administering
final well-wishes, taking photos, and relieving riders of gear and
possessions that they decided not to take at the last second. PBP is
perhaps the most international, diverse bicycle event in the world. I
was standing in the midst of riders from Sweden, Denmark, Brazil,
Australia, Japan, and Russia. Only about 450 of the 5,200 riders were
Americans.
After a few minutes, the riders in front of me started moving.
Everyone laughed. I guess we were officially underway. The start of
the 84-hour group was as subdued as the start of the 80- and 90-hour
groups was crazy. We rolled over the electronic timing mat and our PBP
had begun, without ceremony.
In ’07, I was at the front of the field. The riding was super-fast. It
was fun, but it was intense. I saw or heard a couple of crashes as
riders failed to negotiate roundabouts, cobbles, suddenly narrowed
streets, and each other. Bringing up the rear was a different,
leisurely affair. We were quickly chopped up into gruppettos of 2-5
riders. 95% of the ride was up the road and out of sight, even before
we got into the countryside. No worries. Someone once said to me,
commenting on the pace at the start of these rides, “You can’t ride a
1200K in the first hour.” So true.
Throughout the weekend, the fixed-gear bike had attracted admiring
attention. I was told there were 10 guys from the U.K. riding fixed.
By my count, we had 7 Americans on fixed. (And, as far as I know, all
of the fixed-gear riders this year were men. Ladies….? Training for
2015 starts now!) I’m sure there were others out there, but in a field
of thousands we were a rare sight. A lot of the weekend was spent
answering queries about gearing, experience, ride strategy and
explaining why we were doing this on a fixed-gear. (Answer: Because
it’s fun!) It was especially enjoyable to connect with other fixed-
gear distance riders from around the country and world and compare
notes and experiences. As I rode out of SQY, I continued to get
positive comments and encouragement from people who noticed the bike.
All the good vibes helped keep me energized throughout the ride.
You pick up some daylight around 6am as you enter the Rambouillet
Forest and the terrain gets a bit lumpy in places. I've always enjoyed
riding at this time of day. The sight of taillights stretching out to
the horizon in the dawn light never gets old. All of the many small
towns we rolled through were quiet. It was just the whir of bikes and
chatter of riders as we moved ever deeper into the countryside.
About two hours in, I saw Chris, who was riding a recumbent. It's
tough to keep a 'bent and a fixed-gear on the same pace, but we
managed it for a short while. Soon after I saw Chris, I was overtaken
by the leaders of the second wave of bikes, who had started at 5:20am.
They were still fairly organized and moving quickly. Shortly after
that, I saw Chris' brother, Kevin, Tim (one of my Ohio buddies), and
Jeff, three of the other Americans riding fixed who were all riding
together, decked out in their stylish Gran Fondo Fixies jerseys. We
exchanged greetings; I didn't have the legs or the gears to hang.
This ride was playing out very differently than '07, where I don't
think I ever rode alone. I'd been solo now for the majority of the
ride, and there were even a few stretches where I was out of sight of
any other bikes -- a real rarity on PBP. I don't mind riding solo, and
riding a fixed-gear does result in more of it than if I were on a
geared bike. Mostly, I was just being cautious. I had a pace and a
cadence that felt good and I was reluctant to alter that for any
reason, even if it meant I might have companionship and people to work
a paceline with. I was definitely trying to recover from Ventoux on
the bike.
It was an overcast morning and there was a bit of a tailwind, which
was entirely wasted on a fixed-gear. It was warm, but cooler than the
last few days, which had seen temperatures in the 80s and 90s.
I had polished off the rest of my bread -- how French is it to ride
along with a baguette stuffed in your jersey pocket? -- and was nearly
through both bottles of water. I should have stopped, but pressed on,
stupidly thinking that Mortagne-au-Perche was just up the road. I
don't recommend riding 140km on 2 bottles of water and half a
baguette. That's the Jean Valjean program, and it's a recipe for
disaster. By the time I got there, I was famished and irritated with
myself for so poorly managing my nutrition and hydration right at the
start.
Mortagne is not an official control -- you don't have to stop there.
It mainly exists so that riders with crew can take support without
having to cover the monster distance of 220km all the way to Villains-
la-Juehl before connecting with their crew. I didn't have any crew,
but I did have a need for liberal amounts of calories and caffeine and
some time to let all of that get into my bloodstream. The French like
to take their coffee in bowls -- not cups – which is a delivery
mechanism I wholly approve of. The nice lady at the bar wanted to give
me a cup, seeing that I was American, and I was happy that I
negotiated successfully for a bowl with my limited French. I also
polished off some yogurt, a jambon et buerre sandwich and two Cokes.
Before long, I was back at it, but not before speaking at length with
a local man and his young son who had come down to watch the riders at
the control. I couldn’t help but thinking that in a decade this kid
would almost certainly be out there riding PBP. I hoped that I’d be
there, too.
You start to pick up more rolling terrain as you head west. We had
also picked up some weather. It was raining, but to the south, just a
few miles away, we could see that it was a nice, sunny day. Poofy, non-
threatening clouds dotted the blue sky. Rays of sun warmed the lush
green hills. But we were getting wet. And directly ahead lie a scene
every Floridian is familiar with: a wall of pitch black clouds that,
as we approached, greeted us with flashes of lightning and peals of
thunder.
At some point on this stretch, I rode with Ian from Seattle, who had
been a part of the raucous fraternity party that was the Last Chance
1200K in 2009. Ian had briefly been with a big Seattle group that was
attempting to ride an audax-style "Charly Miller." Charly Miller was
the first American to ride PBP, completing the second edition in 1901
in 56:40, which was good enough for fifth place. Unlike his
competitors, Miller rode totally unsupported and had some tough
mechanical problems. His never-say-die attitude so impressed the
French that they honor his effort by presenting any American who beats
Miller’s finish time with a special award. Six Americans won the
prestigious Award in 2007 (out of over 500 entrants), and only 26 have
ever done it on single bikes (four tandem teams have won it). Anyway,
about 10 riders from Seattle were going for it, all together, which is
definitely the way to approach a ride like that.
I think it was along this stretch that I also rode with three Germans
who were cycling together. They were trying for a 65-hour ride and
didn't plan on sleeping much. I took a position at the front and the
other three would rotate around to ride beside me and we enjoyed
chatting away the miles. Subjects ranged from excesses at Rammstein
concerts to cycling and, of course, the weather. I was pleased that I
had enough rusty college German to carry some of the conversation in
their language. This was their first PBP, so I briefed them on what
lay up the road.
It was now decidedly raining. Showers, at first, but then a steady
rain. We could still see sun both to the north and south, but it was a
constant, soaking rain where we were. "Why are we not riding over
there?" became a constant refrain. The temperature had cooled a bit,
but it was still in the high-60s. Up head, we could see a pretty good
electrical storm firing up.
Eventually, we came to Villaines-la-Juehl (220km), which is the first
official control. Not much was going on here due to the lousy weather.
I put on all my clothes before I got chilled -- I was soaked -- and
got checked in. I'd covered the distance in 9:09. I was on pace.
Villaines is my favorite control on PBP. The food is good and they
have local kids carry your dining tray to your table. It's not just a
nice touch. It keeps tired randonneurs from careening down the sloping
ramp from the cafeteria to the dining hall, spilling food and
themselves everywhere. The kids decorate the dining hall with all
kinds of PBP-related pictures and art, which is very cool.
I had a fairly leisurely meal of pasta Bolognese and more caffeine. By
the time I was done, it was just pouring and storming outside. I was
warm and had mostly dried out, so it was tough to head back out in
that.
I don't recall much of the next leg to Fougers (306km) beyond how
ridiculous the storm was. It was right overhead and just unloading on
us. Some of the lightning strikes were of the flash-boom! variety and
a few of the bolts dissolved into sparks and explosions, which was
beautiful but a bit unnerving. Rain came down in sheets and some of
the roads were flooded. Velocity Deep Vs really catch cross-wind, but
they especially get deflected by several inches of water and mud
pouring out of some farmer's field onto the road. I rode most of this
stretch with Ed from San Francisco, a strong, young, enthusiastic
rider who was fairly new to the sport and who was impressed with the
rain. Ed’s good companionship took my mind off the lousy weather for a
few hours.
I made Fougers in 13:20, which for me is good time for a 300K. I had
dinner and a bit of a rest. It was still pouring. I could see from
tweets coming from riders up the road that we would have heavy rain
for the next 100 miles.
I was up at 3:40am and out the door a few minutes later. Versailles
was quiet. Only a few other randonneurs were on the road, making their
way, like me, to the 84-hour start. As close as Versailles is to the
start, few people stay there. The majority of riders stay in Saint
Quentain (“SQY,” for short), which is an unremarkable “new city.” It’s
expensive, crowded, and with thousands of cyclists and their families
converging on it, hectic. I had stayed in Plaisir, about 10km away, in
2007 and that was a great experience. Plaisir is a quiet country town.
There’s little there. My kind of place. Still, I heard people rave
about Versailles – the history of it plus proximity without the
madness or cost – so I figured I’d give that a try this time. I’m
sold. We’ll be back to Versailles in 2015.
Despite the hour, it was warm. My jacket was stowed in my bag, a
rarity for nighttime riding in northern France. As I approached the
start, more cyclists converged on the road into SQY until we had quite
a mass entering the large gymnasium where PBP starts.
The start was the same as in 2007. You get lined up on the track,
proceed through chutes, and your brevet card is stamped. In ’07, we
started in one big wave of about 700 bikes. This time, though, that
the organizers were going to break us up into waves spaced 15 or 20
minutes apart.
I looked for the other American fixed-gear riders, but didn’t see
them. They were at the end of the field. I, too, wanted to stay at the
back – the start of the ride is fast and I’d be in the way on my small
gear – but I did want to get off in the first wave of bikes. Once I’m
awake, I want to ride.
I connected with a few friends from the D.C. area I’d met on the
Shenandoah 1200K in 2008. Andrea and Greg and I reminisced about that
ride: the relentless hills and drinking Mexican Cokes and stuffing our
jerseys with ice a mere 10 miles from the finish to combat record heat
that had DNF’d about 50% of the field on that ride. Whatever lay in
store for us, this wasn’t the ’08 Shenandoah 1200, which still sets
the standard for what makes a difficult Grand Randonnee. Everyone was
in high spirits and looking forward to getting under way.
After getting checked in, I saw a few more organizers counting people
and so I moved past them and am glad I did. As I went past, they
closed the entryway. I was the last in the first wave of riders.
Riders queue on a large street that feeds into an even larger
roundabout. Friends and families lined the barrier, administering
final well-wishes, taking photos, and relieving riders of gear and
possessions that they decided not to take at the last second. PBP is
perhaps the most international, diverse bicycle event in the world. I
was standing in the midst of riders from Sweden, Denmark, Brazil,
Australia, Japan, and Russia. Only about 450 of the 5,200 riders were
Americans.
After a few minutes, the riders in front of me started moving.
Everyone laughed. I guess we were officially underway. The start of
the 84-hour group was as subdued as the start of the 80- and 90-hour
groups was crazy. We rolled over the electronic timing mat and our PBP
had begun, without ceremony.
In ’07, I was at the front of the field. The riding was super-fast. It
was fun, but it was intense. I saw or heard a couple of crashes as
riders failed to negotiate roundabouts, cobbles, suddenly narrowed
streets, and each other. Bringing up the rear was a different,
leisurely affair. We were quickly chopped up into gruppettos of 2-5
riders. 95% of the ride was up the road and out of sight, even before
we got into the countryside. No worries. Someone once said to me,
commenting on the pace at the start of these rides, “You can’t ride a
1200K in the first hour.” So true.
Throughout the weekend, the fixed-gear bike had attracted admiring
attention. I was told there were 10 guys from the U.K. riding fixed.
By my count, we had 7 Americans on fixed. (And, as far as I know, all
of the fixed-gear riders this year were men. Ladies….? Training for
2015 starts now!) I’m sure there were others out there, but in a field
of thousands we were a rare sight. A lot of the weekend was spent
answering queries about gearing, experience, ride strategy and
explaining why we were doing this on a fixed-gear. (Answer: Because
it’s fun!) It was especially enjoyable to connect with other fixed-
gear distance riders from around the country and world and compare
notes and experiences. As I rode out of SQY, I continued to get
positive comments and encouragement from people who noticed the bike.
All the good vibes helped keep me energized throughout the ride.
You pick up some daylight around 6am as you enter the Rambouillet
Forest and the terrain gets a bit lumpy in places. I've always enjoyed
riding at this time of day. The sight of taillights stretching out to
the horizon in the dawn light never gets old. All of the many small
towns we rolled through were quiet. It was just the whir of bikes and
chatter of riders as we moved ever deeper into the countryside.
About two hours in, I saw Chris, who was riding a recumbent. It's
tough to keep a 'bent and a fixed-gear on the same pace, but we
managed it for a short while. Soon after I saw Chris, I was overtaken
by the leaders of the second wave of bikes, who had started at 5:20am.
They were still fairly organized and moving quickly. Shortly after
that, I saw Chris' brother, Kevin, Tim (one of my Ohio buddies), and
Jeff, three of the other Americans riding fixed who were all riding
together, decked out in their stylish Gran Fondo Fixies jerseys. We
exchanged greetings; I didn't have the legs or the gears to hang.
This ride was playing out very differently than '07, where I don't
think I ever rode alone. I'd been solo now for the majority of the
ride, and there were even a few stretches where I was out of sight of
any other bikes -- a real rarity on PBP. I don't mind riding solo, and
riding a fixed-gear does result in more of it than if I were on a
geared bike. Mostly, I was just being cautious. I had a pace and a
cadence that felt good and I was reluctant to alter that for any
reason, even if it meant I might have companionship and people to work
a paceline with. I was definitely trying to recover from Ventoux on
the bike.
It was an overcast morning and there was a bit of a tailwind, which
was entirely wasted on a fixed-gear. It was warm, but cooler than the
last few days, which had seen temperatures in the 80s and 90s.
I had polished off the rest of my bread -- how French is it to ride
along with a baguette stuffed in your jersey pocket? -- and was nearly
through both bottles of water. I should have stopped, but pressed on,
stupidly thinking that Mortagne-au-Perche was just up the road. I
don't recommend riding 140km on 2 bottles of water and half a
baguette. That's the Jean Valjean program, and it's a recipe for
disaster. By the time I got there, I was famished and irritated with
myself for so poorly managing my nutrition and hydration right at the
start.
Mortagne is not an official control -- you don't have to stop there.
It mainly exists so that riders with crew can take support without
having to cover the monster distance of 220km all the way to Villains-
la-Juehl before connecting with their crew. I didn't have any crew,
but I did have a need for liberal amounts of calories and caffeine and
some time to let all of that get into my bloodstream. The French like
to take their coffee in bowls -- not cups – which is a delivery
mechanism I wholly approve of. The nice lady at the bar wanted to give
me a cup, seeing that I was American, and I was happy that I
negotiated successfully for a bowl with my limited French. I also
polished off some yogurt, a jambon et buerre sandwich and two Cokes.
Before long, I was back at it, but not before speaking at length with
a local man and his young son who had come down to watch the riders at
the control. I couldn’t help but thinking that in a decade this kid
would almost certainly be out there riding PBP. I hoped that I’d be
there, too.
You start to pick up more rolling terrain as you head west. We had
also picked up some weather. It was raining, but to the south, just a
few miles away, we could see that it was a nice, sunny day. Poofy, non-
threatening clouds dotted the blue sky. Rays of sun warmed the lush
green hills. But we were getting wet. And directly ahead lie a scene
every Floridian is familiar with: a wall of pitch black clouds that,
as we approached, greeted us with flashes of lightning and peals of
thunder.
At some point on this stretch, I rode with Ian from Seattle, who had
been a part of the raucous fraternity party that was the Last Chance
1200K in 2009. Ian had briefly been with a big Seattle group that was
attempting to ride an audax-style "Charly Miller." Charly Miller was
the first American to ride PBP, completing the second edition in 1901
in 56:40, which was good enough for fifth place. Unlike his
competitors, Miller rode totally unsupported and had some tough
mechanical problems. His never-say-die attitude so impressed the
French that they honor his effort by presenting any American who beats
Miller’s finish time with a special award. Six Americans won the
prestigious Award in 2007 (out of over 500 entrants), and only 26 have
ever done it on single bikes (four tandem teams have won it). Anyway,
about 10 riders from Seattle were going for it, all together, which is
definitely the way to approach a ride like that.
I think it was along this stretch that I also rode with three Germans
who were cycling together. They were trying for a 65-hour ride and
didn't plan on sleeping much. I took a position at the front and the
other three would rotate around to ride beside me and we enjoyed
chatting away the miles. Subjects ranged from excesses at Rammstein
concerts to cycling and, of course, the weather. I was pleased that I
had enough rusty college German to carry some of the conversation in
their language. This was their first PBP, so I briefed them on what
lay up the road.
It was now decidedly raining. Showers, at first, but then a steady
rain. We could still see sun both to the north and south, but it was a
constant, soaking rain where we were. "Why are we not riding over
there?" became a constant refrain. The temperature had cooled a bit,
but it was still in the high-60s. Up head, we could see a pretty good
electrical storm firing up.
Eventually, we came to Villaines-la-Juehl (220km), which is the first
official control. Not much was going on here due to the lousy weather.
I put on all my clothes before I got chilled -- I was soaked -- and
got checked in. I'd covered the distance in 9:09. I was on pace.
Villaines is my favorite control on PBP. The food is good and they
have local kids carry your dining tray to your table. It's not just a
nice touch. It keeps tired randonneurs from careening down the sloping
ramp from the cafeteria to the dining hall, spilling food and
themselves everywhere. The kids decorate the dining hall with all
kinds of PBP-related pictures and art, which is very cool.
I had a fairly leisurely meal of pasta Bolognese and more caffeine. By
the time I was done, it was just pouring and storming outside. I was
warm and had mostly dried out, so it was tough to head back out in
that.
I don't recall much of the next leg to Fougers (306km) beyond how
ridiculous the storm was. It was right overhead and just unloading on
us. Some of the lightning strikes were of the flash-boom! variety and
a few of the bolts dissolved into sparks and explosions, which was
beautiful but a bit unnerving. Rain came down in sheets and some of
the roads were flooded. Velocity Deep Vs really catch cross-wind, but
they especially get deflected by several inches of water and mud
pouring out of some farmer's field onto the road. I rode most of this
stretch with Ed from San Francisco, a strong, young, enthusiastic
rider who was fairly new to the sport and who was impressed with the
rain. Ed’s good companionship took my mind off the lousy weather for a
few hours.
I made Fougers in 13:20, which for me is good time for a 300K. I had
dinner and a bit of a rest. It was still pouring. I could see from
tweets coming from riders up the road that we would have heavy rain
for the next 100 miles.
Paul Rozelle
Sep 20, 2011, 2:22:47 PM9/20/11
to randon
PBP: Fougers (306km) to Loudeac (448km)
Between Fougers and Tinteniac (360km), I began to fall off the pace. I
had made Tinteniac in daylight in 2007. I was behind that schedule
now, arriving there at 9:25pm. There was a huge crowd gathered at the
control in Tinteniac because the leaders would be coming through soon,
on their way back from Brest – they were 600km up the road! I had a
second dinner, tried not to shiver too much, and quickly headed out.
On the way to my bike, I saw the leaders arrive. Chris Ragsdale, an
American from Seattle, was among them – there were maybe a dozen guys
left – and I gave him an “Allez!” as he ran to get his card stamped at
the control. The crowd, hundreds strong, enthusiastically greeted the
arrival of the leaders, despite the downpour.
Back on the road, traffic was sparse. It seemed like a lot of riders
were hunkered down in Tinteniac, not wanting to go back out in the
dark and rain. After a few kilometers, I came upon Pet’r from
Uzbekistan, the only rider from his country at PBP. This guy was
incredible. He was riding a department-store bike. Fat tires. Straight
bars. All kinds of stuff strapped to his bike. He didn’t appear to
have cycling clothes – he was wearing a cycling jersey but the rest of
his kit looked like mountaineering garb. Still, Pet’r was an animal.
He’d stand up and just attack every hill, putting significant distance
into me. He’d pause at the top and we’d ride together until the next
rise, where this would be repeated. We chatted as much as our limited
language skills permitted.
After an hour or so, Pet’r needed to change the batteries in his
light, which was a mountaineering headlamp. I stopped to help him. He
made quick work of the project, after which he pulled out of his bag –
I am not making this up – a 5-pound jar of Uzbek honey that he’d
brought from home. This wasn't a commercial product; it had come right
off some farm. How he’d gotten that through French customs was beyond
me, but it tasted divine. We ate honey together by the side of the
road, in the dark, in the rain, for a few minutes. After a few
spoonfuls each -- he had a large, stainless steel serving spoon as the
delivery device -- he stowed the honey. What else was in that bag? We
soldiered on.
Pet’r was in the 90-hour group, which meant that I was somewhere
between 9 and 11 hours up the road from him. I’d begun to catch 90-
hour riders around Tinteniac. I feared that many of these folks’ rides
were in trouble. They were, or were about to be, declared out of time.
I could not figure out why Pet’r was in this situation. He was making
great time on the bike, was in high spirits, and had made quick,
professional work of his battery change. I was determined to keep
riding with this guy. If anyone deserved to finish PBP, I thought that
he did.
We came to Quedilliac (390km) in short order. Quedilliac was a secret
control designed to ensure that riders stayed on the route. It was
also set up for riders to stop and sleep there, and many were taking
advantage of the opportunity. Normally, stopping at about 400km is a
good idea for me on a 1200K. I’d planned to go to Loudeac, though, and
I wanted to stick to the plan. I didn’t want to “borrow against” time
in my budget on the first day unless I needed to. Other than being wet
and cold when I was stopped, I otherwise felt fine. I had two bowls of
coffee and some bread. It was going to be a very long night.
Pet’r and I ate together at Quedilliac, but somewhere before Loudeac
(448km) we parted ways. He’d slowed down quite a bit. Perhaps the
honey buzz had worn off; more likely he’d had little sleep on Sunday
night and was working on 36 hours without real rest. As much as I
wanted to keep pace with him and support him, I had to let him go and
continue on. I was already hours behind where I wanted to be. As it
was, I’d either be getting very little sleep or I’d be departing the
overnight control late, neither of which was a great idea.
I rode big chunks of this next section by myself. Exchanging greetings
with riders at the pointy end of the 80-hour group going the opposite
direction helped pass the miles. I thought about these guys out there
time-trialing, alone in the dark, with 800K in their legs and no
sleep. Man, I thought, at least I’m not in that position!
About an hour before Loudeac, I came upon David and Maria, who were
also in the 90-hour group. David is a friend from Ohio and is one of
the founders of Randonneurs USA. He’s in his third decade of
randonneuring and is one of the guys I want to be when I grow up:
smart, experienced, witty, and always in good spirits. Maria is from
Florida and is new this year to doing long rides, and here she was at
PBP. We rode together for a while. They were going to make the Loudeac
control in time, but just barely. They were delayed by Maria having a
broken cleat and having to ride the quite hilly terrain going into
Loudeac without foot retention on one pedal. I didn’t learn this until
later; you’d have never known from her sunny disposition and strong
pace that she was battling through a tough equipment failure.
I finally got to Loudeac at 2:47am, nearly three hours after I planned
to arrive. At least the rain had finally stopped, dissolving into a
fine fog and mist. I entertained the idea of continuing on – I wasn’t
tired and I thought, “At least I can ride some without getting rained
on.” There were lots of bikes and riders at the control, but it wasn’t
the zoo that it had been in 2007. Many folks were just heading out
after having rested. I saw Jeff and Tim in the cafeteria; I wasn’t
that far behind them, which made me feel better about my pace. I had a
beer and a meal and then retrieved my drop bag and headed to the
showers to get cleaned up and changed into dry clothes. There was hot
water – unlike 2007! – and it took triple the normal shower time to
get 280 miles of road grime off of me. Pulling a fresh kit from the
drop bag, I noticed the chain whip and bigger gears. The thought never
entered my mind to change gearing. I was doing ok, but was far from
certain that I would complete this ride. I felt that putting on a
bigger gear now would have been reckless folly.
Fresh and changed, I decided to stop for the night rather than press
my luck. Jeff and Tim were continuing on. I could join them. Or ride
with plenty of other people who were headed out. But I knew it was
best for me, in the long-run, to rest now rather than to get into
trouble in the middle of nowhere in an hour or two when I finally felt
tired.
I got a cot and asked to be woken at 6:30am, which would give me 3
hours of sleep and leave a 2-hour window before the control closed.
I’d be two hours behind my plan, and I’d have an hour less than the
amount of sleep I’d budgeted. It was far from ideal, but I’d have to
make the best of it. Considering the conditions, I felt things could
be worse.
I was dutifully awoken at 6:30am and marched off to the cafeteria to
eat again. You just can’t eat enough on these rides. Pet’r was there,
absorbed in conversation with a Russian rider. We greeted each other
and said our goodbyes. I figured he must be DNF’ing to still be there,
which was sad. He was clearly enjoying himself, though, which is what
this is all about, after all.
I was on the road a bit after 7am. Departing Loudeac, the control was
nearly vacant. I felt good, all things considered. I was at the tail
end of the bike ride.
Between Fougers and Tinteniac (360km), I began to fall off the pace. I
had made Tinteniac in daylight in 2007. I was behind that schedule
now, arriving there at 9:25pm. There was a huge crowd gathered at the
control in Tinteniac because the leaders would be coming through soon,
on their way back from Brest – they were 600km up the road! I had a
second dinner, tried not to shiver too much, and quickly headed out.
On the way to my bike, I saw the leaders arrive. Chris Ragsdale, an
American from Seattle, was among them – there were maybe a dozen guys
left – and I gave him an “Allez!” as he ran to get his card stamped at
the control. The crowd, hundreds strong, enthusiastically greeted the
arrival of the leaders, despite the downpour.
Back on the road, traffic was sparse. It seemed like a lot of riders
were hunkered down in Tinteniac, not wanting to go back out in the
dark and rain. After a few kilometers, I came upon Pet’r from
Uzbekistan, the only rider from his country at PBP. This guy was
incredible. He was riding a department-store bike. Fat tires. Straight
bars. All kinds of stuff strapped to his bike. He didn’t appear to
have cycling clothes – he was wearing a cycling jersey but the rest of
his kit looked like mountaineering garb. Still, Pet’r was an animal.
He’d stand up and just attack every hill, putting significant distance
into me. He’d pause at the top and we’d ride together until the next
rise, where this would be repeated. We chatted as much as our limited
language skills permitted.
After an hour or so, Pet’r needed to change the batteries in his
light, which was a mountaineering headlamp. I stopped to help him. He
made quick work of the project, after which he pulled out of his bag –
I am not making this up – a 5-pound jar of Uzbek honey that he’d
brought from home. This wasn't a commercial product; it had come right
off some farm. How he’d gotten that through French customs was beyond
me, but it tasted divine. We ate honey together by the side of the
road, in the dark, in the rain, for a few minutes. After a few
spoonfuls each -- he had a large, stainless steel serving spoon as the
delivery device -- he stowed the honey. What else was in that bag? We
soldiered on.
Pet’r was in the 90-hour group, which meant that I was somewhere
between 9 and 11 hours up the road from him. I’d begun to catch 90-
hour riders around Tinteniac. I feared that many of these folks’ rides
were in trouble. They were, or were about to be, declared out of time.
I could not figure out why Pet’r was in this situation. He was making
great time on the bike, was in high spirits, and had made quick,
professional work of his battery change. I was determined to keep
riding with this guy. If anyone deserved to finish PBP, I thought that
he did.
We came to Quedilliac (390km) in short order. Quedilliac was a secret
control designed to ensure that riders stayed on the route. It was
also set up for riders to stop and sleep there, and many were taking
advantage of the opportunity. Normally, stopping at about 400km is a
good idea for me on a 1200K. I’d planned to go to Loudeac, though, and
I wanted to stick to the plan. I didn’t want to “borrow against” time
in my budget on the first day unless I needed to. Other than being wet
and cold when I was stopped, I otherwise felt fine. I had two bowls of
coffee and some bread. It was going to be a very long night.
Pet’r and I ate together at Quedilliac, but somewhere before Loudeac
(448km) we parted ways. He’d slowed down quite a bit. Perhaps the
honey buzz had worn off; more likely he’d had little sleep on Sunday
night and was working on 36 hours without real rest. As much as I
wanted to keep pace with him and support him, I had to let him go and
continue on. I was already hours behind where I wanted to be. As it
was, I’d either be getting very little sleep or I’d be departing the
overnight control late, neither of which was a great idea.
I rode big chunks of this next section by myself. Exchanging greetings
with riders at the pointy end of the 80-hour group going the opposite
direction helped pass the miles. I thought about these guys out there
time-trialing, alone in the dark, with 800K in their legs and no
sleep. Man, I thought, at least I’m not in that position!
About an hour before Loudeac, I came upon David and Maria, who were
also in the 90-hour group. David is a friend from Ohio and is one of
the founders of Randonneurs USA. He’s in his third decade of
randonneuring and is one of the guys I want to be when I grow up:
smart, experienced, witty, and always in good spirits. Maria is from
Florida and is new this year to doing long rides, and here she was at
PBP. We rode together for a while. They were going to make the Loudeac
control in time, but just barely. They were delayed by Maria having a
broken cleat and having to ride the quite hilly terrain going into
Loudeac without foot retention on one pedal. I didn’t learn this until
later; you’d have never known from her sunny disposition and strong
pace that she was battling through a tough equipment failure.
I finally got to Loudeac at 2:47am, nearly three hours after I planned
to arrive. At least the rain had finally stopped, dissolving into a
fine fog and mist. I entertained the idea of continuing on – I wasn’t
tired and I thought, “At least I can ride some without getting rained
on.” There were lots of bikes and riders at the control, but it wasn’t
the zoo that it had been in 2007. Many folks were just heading out
after having rested. I saw Jeff and Tim in the cafeteria; I wasn’t
that far behind them, which made me feel better about my pace. I had a
beer and a meal and then retrieved my drop bag and headed to the
showers to get cleaned up and changed into dry clothes. There was hot
water – unlike 2007! – and it took triple the normal shower time to
get 280 miles of road grime off of me. Pulling a fresh kit from the
drop bag, I noticed the chain whip and bigger gears. The thought never
entered my mind to change gearing. I was doing ok, but was far from
certain that I would complete this ride. I felt that putting on a
bigger gear now would have been reckless folly.
Fresh and changed, I decided to stop for the night rather than press
my luck. Jeff and Tim were continuing on. I could join them. Or ride
with plenty of other people who were headed out. But I knew it was
best for me, in the long-run, to rest now rather than to get into
trouble in the middle of nowhere in an hour or two when I finally felt
tired.
I got a cot and asked to be woken at 6:30am, which would give me 3
hours of sleep and leave a 2-hour window before the control closed.
I’d be two hours behind my plan, and I’d have an hour less than the
amount of sleep I’d budgeted. It was far from ideal, but I’d have to
make the best of it. Considering the conditions, I felt things could
be worse.
I was dutifully awoken at 6:30am and marched off to the cafeteria to
eat again. You just can’t eat enough on these rides. Pet’r was there,
absorbed in conversation with a Russian rider. We greeted each other
and said our goodbyes. I figured he must be DNF’ing to still be there,
which was sad. He was clearly enjoying himself, though, which is what
this is all about, after all.
I was on the road a bit after 7am. Departing Loudeac, the control was
nearly vacant. I felt good, all things considered. I was at the tail
end of the bike ride.
Paul Rozelle
Sep 20, 2011, 2:23:33 PM9/20/11
to randon
PBP: Loudeac (448km) and back to Loudeac (782km)
The second day of PBP is tough. Coming out of Loudeac, there’s a climb
that tries to tear your legs off. You then get dealt one leg-breaker
after another, it seems, all the way to Carhaix (525km). I rode most
of this section at night in 2007, so this time around in the light of
day I could see how silly some of the hills were. None are big, but
many are steep. It’s death by a thousand cuts. There’s nothing for it
but to pick a cadence that will get you up and over without pushing
your heart rate too high. I recall very little of this section. I was
just focused on riding. There was a heavy, soaking fog that would not
burn off until mid-morning. We had occasional rain showers, but there
would be no soaking rain like the previous day. My cycling shoes were
still waterlogged, though. I’d have wet feet the entire ride.
I made Carhaix at 11:05am. David and Maria were there and I ate with
them. They still looked good but had not slept much. Solving Maria’s
cleat problem had chewed up precious time that they did not have.
Still, they were in great spirits and continuing on toward Brest.
1200Ks have a way of highlighting the strength, determination, and
character of the human spirit.
When I left Carhaix, the fog had lifted and it was going to be a nice
day. More light tailwinds would be wasted on me. From Carhaix to Sizun
(578km), you get more hills. This is a very pretty section of the
ride. Brittany is just beautiful. There is one big climb on PBP –
something called “Le Roc.” It goes up maybe 1,000 feet but it takes
15km to do it, so the climb is quite easy (as long as you’re not
wrecked when you get to it). I misremembered where this climb was. For
some reason, I thought it came after Sizun. I was most of the way up
it before realizing my error. I was especially excited at the top to
notice a shift in the wind, which was now a slight headwind that would
prove useful in checking my speed down the other side and avoid a lot
of painful spinning and braking.
Sizun has an interesting town square that was full of resting cyclists
and tourists. There’s a little grocery where I bought provisions for
making lunch – quicker and cheaper than a café. I snacked with some
other riders who had a similar idea.
The final stretch to Brest goes quickly. I rode a bit with a Frenchman
who appreciated the bike and wanted to hear all about Ventoux. I
managed the best I could in French. He had just completed PBP Audax,
which is totally separate from the randonneur version of PBP. Everyone
rides together at a constant pace. Meals and rests are taken together
and a route captain sets the pace and makes sure the group sticks to
the time table. PBP Audax is held every five years. In 2011, both
rides occurred in the same year and there were some who were doing
both rides, which is a serious accomplishment. That’s on the to-do
list. Very few Americans have ever ridden PBP Audax.
The view coming into Brest (618km) is impressive. You see the harbor
and the coastline stretching out to the North Atlantic. Our own Skyway
Bridge over Tampa Bay is modeled after the cable-stay bridge spanning
the harbor. Apparently, Bob Graham (our then-Governor) saw it while
visiting Brest and liked the design, and that’s how we ended up with
the new Skyway (after the old one was knocked down by an errant ship
in a storm). The bridge in Brest, though is tiny compared to the
Skyway. Still, it makes for a good photo backdrop, and I had a Swedish
rider snap my picture. I then chatted with some locals who marvel at
the bike and noticed the Ventoux placard and wanted all the details on
that adventure, too.
After a few minutes I was back on the bike and on my way to the
control. We rode along the harbor and passed some very interesting,
old defense works before climbing into the city. Some would later
complain about this route (it was urban and trafficy). I actually
enjoyed it quite a bit. Riding through a real, working city is a
cycling experience I have always enjoyed. It was rush hour and the
streets were clogged with people, many of whom paused to applaud as we
rode by.
Of course, the control was near the top of a huge hill. I arrived at
4:48pm, way behind schedule but I had still covered the first half of
the ride in 35:49. That’s not a great 600K time for me, especially for
only getting 3 hours of sleep. I had a beer to celebrate the half-way
point followed by a Coke because I still had a lot of riding to do.
I usually feel good about getting to the turn-around of an out-and-
back route. Each pedal stroke brings you closer to home. This time,
though, I was facing the prospect of another very long night and
little sleep. I felt fine, but I wasn’t too pumped up. I was all
business on the bike. I felt like I needed to get this ride a bit more
under control. I wasn’t anxious and I was definitely enjoying myself.
I just wasn’t having the totally carefree ride across France I’d hoped
and planned for.
I paused only briefly in Sizun to top off my bottles and pushed on to
Carhaix. I went flying up, and then down, Le Roc. I pretty much had
the climb and the descent all to myself. Carhaix (703km) came quickly,
just after nightfall. I’d planned a leisurely dinner there, but the
place looked pillaged. I’d caught back up to a lot of the 90-hour
riders and the control was crowded with riders from both fields. I did
what I could to get out of there quickly and back on the road.
I don’t particularly care for starting hilly, 50-mile rides at 10pm,
but that’s what I had to do. I was able to make pretty good pace with
a light tailwind that blew me up the hills. I had a good riding
companion from England for a short while, but again, I was mostly on
my own.
I was somewhere not too far from Loudeac (782km) when I began to get
really tired. It was midnight. It was pitch black out. I was alone.
And I could hardly stay awake. This had never happened to me. My usual
tricks for entertainment and staying alert at night – eat, drink,
sing, ride hard – didn’t work. This is ridiculous, I thought. But what
are you going to do. I’ve got to rest. You can’t finish if you crash.
I pulled into some tiny town and walked around the side of some
business there and lay down on the ground. I was out instantly. An
hour or more later – I have no idea how long I was asleep – I was
awake and feeling much better. I hopped back on the bike and carried
on and was able to ride a strong pace. I pulled into Loudeac at
3:33am. Yuck. I felt fine but I was not where I wanted to be on my
time. I ate something quickly, grabbed my drop bag, and headed
straight for bed. I’d shower in the morning.
The second day of PBP is tough. Coming out of Loudeac, there’s a climb
that tries to tear your legs off. You then get dealt one leg-breaker
after another, it seems, all the way to Carhaix (525km). I rode most
of this section at night in 2007, so this time around in the light of
day I could see how silly some of the hills were. None are big, but
many are steep. It’s death by a thousand cuts. There’s nothing for it
but to pick a cadence that will get you up and over without pushing
your heart rate too high. I recall very little of this section. I was
just focused on riding. There was a heavy, soaking fog that would not
burn off until mid-morning. We had occasional rain showers, but there
would be no soaking rain like the previous day. My cycling shoes were
still waterlogged, though. I’d have wet feet the entire ride.
I made Carhaix at 11:05am. David and Maria were there and I ate with
them. They still looked good but had not slept much. Solving Maria’s
cleat problem had chewed up precious time that they did not have.
Still, they were in great spirits and continuing on toward Brest.
1200Ks have a way of highlighting the strength, determination, and
character of the human spirit.
When I left Carhaix, the fog had lifted and it was going to be a nice
day. More light tailwinds would be wasted on me. From Carhaix to Sizun
(578km), you get more hills. This is a very pretty section of the
ride. Brittany is just beautiful. There is one big climb on PBP –
something called “Le Roc.” It goes up maybe 1,000 feet but it takes
15km to do it, so the climb is quite easy (as long as you’re not
wrecked when you get to it). I misremembered where this climb was. For
some reason, I thought it came after Sizun. I was most of the way up
it before realizing my error. I was especially excited at the top to
notice a shift in the wind, which was now a slight headwind that would
prove useful in checking my speed down the other side and avoid a lot
of painful spinning and braking.
Sizun has an interesting town square that was full of resting cyclists
and tourists. There’s a little grocery where I bought provisions for
making lunch – quicker and cheaper than a café. I snacked with some
other riders who had a similar idea.
The final stretch to Brest goes quickly. I rode a bit with a Frenchman
who appreciated the bike and wanted to hear all about Ventoux. I
managed the best I could in French. He had just completed PBP Audax,
which is totally separate from the randonneur version of PBP. Everyone
rides together at a constant pace. Meals and rests are taken together
and a route captain sets the pace and makes sure the group sticks to
the time table. PBP Audax is held every five years. In 2011, both
rides occurred in the same year and there were some who were doing
both rides, which is a serious accomplishment. That’s on the to-do
list. Very few Americans have ever ridden PBP Audax.
The view coming into Brest (618km) is impressive. You see the harbor
and the coastline stretching out to the North Atlantic. Our own Skyway
Bridge over Tampa Bay is modeled after the cable-stay bridge spanning
the harbor. Apparently, Bob Graham (our then-Governor) saw it while
visiting Brest and liked the design, and that’s how we ended up with
the new Skyway (after the old one was knocked down by an errant ship
in a storm). The bridge in Brest, though is tiny compared to the
Skyway. Still, it makes for a good photo backdrop, and I had a Swedish
rider snap my picture. I then chatted with some locals who marvel at
the bike and noticed the Ventoux placard and wanted all the details on
that adventure, too.
After a few minutes I was back on the bike and on my way to the
control. We rode along the harbor and passed some very interesting,
old defense works before climbing into the city. Some would later
complain about this route (it was urban and trafficy). I actually
enjoyed it quite a bit. Riding through a real, working city is a
cycling experience I have always enjoyed. It was rush hour and the
streets were clogged with people, many of whom paused to applaud as we
rode by.
Of course, the control was near the top of a huge hill. I arrived at
4:48pm, way behind schedule but I had still covered the first half of
the ride in 35:49. That’s not a great 600K time for me, especially for
only getting 3 hours of sleep. I had a beer to celebrate the half-way
point followed by a Coke because I still had a lot of riding to do.
I usually feel good about getting to the turn-around of an out-and-
back route. Each pedal stroke brings you closer to home. This time,
though, I was facing the prospect of another very long night and
little sleep. I felt fine, but I wasn’t too pumped up. I was all
business on the bike. I felt like I needed to get this ride a bit more
under control. I wasn’t anxious and I was definitely enjoying myself.
I just wasn’t having the totally carefree ride across France I’d hoped
and planned for.
I paused only briefly in Sizun to top off my bottles and pushed on to
Carhaix. I went flying up, and then down, Le Roc. I pretty much had
the climb and the descent all to myself. Carhaix (703km) came quickly,
just after nightfall. I’d planned a leisurely dinner there, but the
place looked pillaged. I’d caught back up to a lot of the 90-hour
riders and the control was crowded with riders from both fields. I did
what I could to get out of there quickly and back on the road.
I don’t particularly care for starting hilly, 50-mile rides at 10pm,
but that’s what I had to do. I was able to make pretty good pace with
a light tailwind that blew me up the hills. I had a good riding
companion from England for a short while, but again, I was mostly on
my own.
I was somewhere not too far from Loudeac (782km) when I began to get
really tired. It was midnight. It was pitch black out. I was alone.
And I could hardly stay awake. This had never happened to me. My usual
tricks for entertainment and staying alert at night – eat, drink,
sing, ride hard – didn’t work. This is ridiculous, I thought. But what
are you going to do. I’ve got to rest. You can’t finish if you crash.
I pulled into some tiny town and walked around the side of some
business there and lay down on the ground. I was out instantly. An
hour or more later – I have no idea how long I was asleep – I was
awake and feeling much better. I hopped back on the bike and carried
on and was able to ride a strong pace. I pulled into Loudeac at
3:33am. Yuck. I felt fine but I was not where I wanted to be on my
time. I ate something quickly, grabbed my drop bag, and headed
straight for bed. I’d shower in the morning.
Paul Rozelle
Sep 20, 2011, 2:24:03 PM9/20/11
to randon
PBP: Loudeac (782km) to Mortagne-au-Perche (1090km)
I got another 3 hours of sleep in Loudeac and felt grand when I woke
up. I felt even better after I showered, changed into new kit, and ate
breakfast. But, I was leaving the control an hour after it closed for
me. Definitely a risky practice. I was starting Day 3 at the very back
of the ride, once again. The thought never entered my mind to put a
bigger gear on. I was just too tired mentally to think about using a
chain whip. All I wanted to do was ride and eat and sleep. I could
handle those three things. Anything more taxed my brain too much.
Reasonably well rested, I could make good time on the bike. The clouds
were clearing off and it looked like it would be a sunny, warm day.
Once again, we had light tailwinds. I made a good pace to Illifault
(819km), the second secret control, where I had a nice meal and good
conversation with some folks from the D.C. club.
It was then off to Tinteniac (867km) on what would be among the
favorite parts of PBP for me. I fell in with a group from Medreac who
were riding together at a strong, consistent, disciplined pace and who
graciously allowed me to ride with them (no doubt in equal parts due
to the fixed-gear bike and to my enthusiasm for doing work at the
front).
I was enjoying the camaraderie but I especially wanted to ride with
these guys because I knew, from experience, what was about to happen.
We were going to pass through the town of Medreac! The Bretons go nuts
for their local guys riding PBP. I just had to see this. A few
kilometers out from town, we encountered these guys’ teammates who
were not riding PBP. They came out on the course, riding it backwards,
looking for the team, and joined in the ride. It was what I imagine
the last day of Le Tour to be like, with all kinds of on-the-bike
celebration going on. Soon we were in town and the streets were filled
with people to greet the team. It was all kinds of awesome revelry.
Medreac is close to Tinteniac, the control. Coming into Tinteniac,
things got even more cool. These guys really upped the pace – it
quickly became clear we’d be racing into town. The group got stripped
down to me and a few others. We ripped through the narrow streets and
roundabouts in town and then came to the large cattle chute heading
into the control, about 200 meters from the "finish." The control
workers were egging us on. I gave the last two guys a lead-out – I had
totally spun out 70” and we were going over 30mph! -- and then got out
of the way so they could settle it up before another large crowd of
enthusiastic locals who had been awaiting their arrival. I thanked the
guy who was clearly the team “leader” profusely, in French, for
letting me ride along with them and "experience PBP with a strong team
from Brittany." He returned the compliments. I’ve got a lot of great
cycling memories, but this was near the top of the list. Riding with
locals through their town on PBP is cycling at its best.
Thanks to these guys, I was in Tinteniac at 11:36am, with some time
back in the bank. I got out of there quickly to keep it that way.
Fougers comes next at 899km. For the life of me, I recall nothing of
this stretch. It must have been uneventful, and I must have been
riding well. I’ve seen a photo of myself at the Fougers control
(thanks, MG!) and I look good. I recall when it was taken I was
outside, walking past a grassy area that was littered with resting
randonneurs, many of whom didn’t look so good. I remember thinking as
I walked by, “At least I’m not in that bad a shape; things could be a
lot worse.”
I was certainly looking forward to Villaines-la-Juehl again (1009km).
Without the rain this time, it was a real festival atmosphere. Along
this stretch I rode with several of the U.K. fixed-gear riders. They
were all grouped closely together, and we exchanged stories of our
experiences and talked about the usual fixed-gear stuff: gearing and
how to handle the descents. One guy in particular, another fellow
named Paul, was especially social and we had a delightful ride
together.
We took a route into town that seemed different than in 2007 (either
that or I was sleep-deprived then, or now, and didn’t recall it). It
was a few kilometers long and parts of it were steep. I ran into John
at the base of this climb and we rode it together. John is also a St.
Pete guy. He’s a solo RAAM finisher and holds course records for a
large number of events. John “took it easy” at the Michigan 24 this
year and “only” rode 492 miles (which was still good enough for first
place overall in a 400+ rider field). The dude is a stud. This was his
first PBP, though. I proceeded to rib him about how I’d “run him
down.” John had a 12-hour head start on me, and here we were, riding
together. He responded by smiling and saying something like, “Let’s
settle this right now,” and took off up the hill. “Oh, shit,” I
thought, as I accelerated and matched his pace. He stopped and resumed
a casual pace right as I realized he was going to kick my butt. We
both had a good laugh. Of course, the only reason I had caught him was
he was taking it super-easy. He wanted to get the full PBP experience,
not race.
That's one of the things I love about randonneuring. You can't tell
anything about someone based on their finish time. Here was a RAAM guy
up against a control closing time. Was he weak? Slow? I was 12 hours
ahead of him. But was I somehow faster than him? Or a stronger rider?
Hell, no. The guys riding in 45 hours or less are clearly in a race,
and the first guy is the strongest guy, at least for that day. Beyond
that, though, finish times don't mean a damn thing. Noncompetitive
cycling at its finest.
Anyway, John was concerned about his pace and that he would not have
any time to sleep at the remaining controls, lest he risk being
declared out of time. He was right to be concerned: John and his
riding companion were barely going to make Villaines within time. They
badly needed rest, but if they took any, they’d get further behind.
It’s a vicious cycle, one begun, in his case, by "too many French
cafés." They ended up riding it in, going straight through the night
and finished PBP with 90 minutes to spare.
The party in Villaines was in full swing and I paused to watch Drew
Buck from England being interviewed and photographed with his 107-year-
old bike. Not a reproduction, mind you. The real deal, wooden rims and
all. Drew will have to ride a Bronze Age unicycle in ’15 to top this
year’s effort.
I had a huge meal and set back out, not long before sunset. I rode a
bit with a woman who was doing the ride on a beach cruiser (with a
Brooks saddle, of course!). She was wearing a dress and had a
handlebar basket full of flowers. “The locals come out to support the
event, so I might as well give them a show,” she explained. On top of
all this, she was quicker up the hills than most everyone else who was
more suitably equipped and attired. She had completed all of the
paved Ventoux climbs, but did each of them *twice* in the same day so
we passed the miles talking about our experiences on that wonderful
mountain.
It’s a long way from Villaines to Mortagne (1090km), where I planned
to stop for the night. There are also some long and desolate stretches
to get through. Needing to recharge, I stopped in some small town for
coffee. There, I helped the “Godfather of Taiwanese Randonneuring” –
the guy who single-handedly introduced the sport to his country –
adjust his saddle height to cure a painful Achilles.
I then ran into Rod from Australia (but who was currently living in
the U.K.), who came up to me and, out of the blue, said, “I got two
questions for you.” “Shoot,” I said. “Do you want another coffee?” he
asked. “Absolutely,” I replied. “And do you want to ride with us?” he
said as he gestured in the direction of two other cyclists. One guy
was Canadian, a guy from B.C. who I’d seen earlier in the ride and am
sure I’d met before, though I cannot for the life of me recall his
name now. Long rides will do that to your memory. The other guy was
simply known as The Swede. Big dude.... from Sweden. Rod added, “There
are requirements, though, if you want to ride with us.” “What are
those?” I inquired. “Well, really you just have to be able to talk a
lot of bullshit.” “I can handle that.” We finished our coffees and
were off.
Rod had put together a disparate group of riders and was shepherding
everyone along the course, trading off a faster pace for riding with
an amicable group. Rod was like a cycling corgi – just keeping the
herd moving down the road. The guy from B.C. and The Swede had
apparently had a low point earlier but they were both riding strong
now. Rod, for his part, was riding well below capacity, focused
intently on just having a good time. I was surprised to learn that
this was Rod’s first PBP, and first 1200K. The bullshit included
obligatory tales of previous rides and, more entertainingly, music and
politics. This is the kind of guy you want for a night-riding
companion. Never a dull moment.
By the time we got to Mortagne, it was late again, about 1:40am. Rod
wanted an 80-hour finish and was thinking about getting short rest and
then heading back out. I wanted no part of that and was intent on
getting some real sleep and I’m afraid I convinced him to sack the 80-
hour goal. We ate, skipped the shower, and opted for just under three
hours’ sleep.
I got another 3 hours of sleep in Loudeac and felt grand when I woke
up. I felt even better after I showered, changed into new kit, and ate
breakfast. But, I was leaving the control an hour after it closed for
me. Definitely a risky practice. I was starting Day 3 at the very back
of the ride, once again. The thought never entered my mind to put a
bigger gear on. I was just too tired mentally to think about using a
chain whip. All I wanted to do was ride and eat and sleep. I could
handle those three things. Anything more taxed my brain too much.
Reasonably well rested, I could make good time on the bike. The clouds
were clearing off and it looked like it would be a sunny, warm day.
Once again, we had light tailwinds. I made a good pace to Illifault
(819km), the second secret control, where I had a nice meal and good
conversation with some folks from the D.C. club.
It was then off to Tinteniac (867km) on what would be among the
favorite parts of PBP for me. I fell in with a group from Medreac who
were riding together at a strong, consistent, disciplined pace and who
graciously allowed me to ride with them (no doubt in equal parts due
to the fixed-gear bike and to my enthusiasm for doing work at the
front).
I was enjoying the camaraderie but I especially wanted to ride with
these guys because I knew, from experience, what was about to happen.
We were going to pass through the town of Medreac! The Bretons go nuts
for their local guys riding PBP. I just had to see this. A few
kilometers out from town, we encountered these guys’ teammates who
were not riding PBP. They came out on the course, riding it backwards,
looking for the team, and joined in the ride. It was what I imagine
the last day of Le Tour to be like, with all kinds of on-the-bike
celebration going on. Soon we were in town and the streets were filled
with people to greet the team. It was all kinds of awesome revelry.
Medreac is close to Tinteniac, the control. Coming into Tinteniac,
things got even more cool. These guys really upped the pace – it
quickly became clear we’d be racing into town. The group got stripped
down to me and a few others. We ripped through the narrow streets and
roundabouts in town and then came to the large cattle chute heading
into the control, about 200 meters from the "finish." The control
workers were egging us on. I gave the last two guys a lead-out – I had
totally spun out 70” and we were going over 30mph! -- and then got out
of the way so they could settle it up before another large crowd of
enthusiastic locals who had been awaiting their arrival. I thanked the
guy who was clearly the team “leader” profusely, in French, for
letting me ride along with them and "experience PBP with a strong team
from Brittany." He returned the compliments. I’ve got a lot of great
cycling memories, but this was near the top of the list. Riding with
locals through their town on PBP is cycling at its best.
Thanks to these guys, I was in Tinteniac at 11:36am, with some time
back in the bank. I got out of there quickly to keep it that way.
Fougers comes next at 899km. For the life of me, I recall nothing of
this stretch. It must have been uneventful, and I must have been
riding well. I’ve seen a photo of myself at the Fougers control
(thanks, MG!) and I look good. I recall when it was taken I was
outside, walking past a grassy area that was littered with resting
randonneurs, many of whom didn’t look so good. I remember thinking as
I walked by, “At least I’m not in that bad a shape; things could be a
lot worse.”
I was certainly looking forward to Villaines-la-Juehl again (1009km).
Without the rain this time, it was a real festival atmosphere. Along
this stretch I rode with several of the U.K. fixed-gear riders. They
were all grouped closely together, and we exchanged stories of our
experiences and talked about the usual fixed-gear stuff: gearing and
how to handle the descents. One guy in particular, another fellow
named Paul, was especially social and we had a delightful ride
together.
We took a route into town that seemed different than in 2007 (either
that or I was sleep-deprived then, or now, and didn’t recall it). It
was a few kilometers long and parts of it were steep. I ran into John
at the base of this climb and we rode it together. John is also a St.
Pete guy. He’s a solo RAAM finisher and holds course records for a
large number of events. John “took it easy” at the Michigan 24 this
year and “only” rode 492 miles (which was still good enough for first
place overall in a 400+ rider field). The dude is a stud. This was his
first PBP, though. I proceeded to rib him about how I’d “run him
down.” John had a 12-hour head start on me, and here we were, riding
together. He responded by smiling and saying something like, “Let’s
settle this right now,” and took off up the hill. “Oh, shit,” I
thought, as I accelerated and matched his pace. He stopped and resumed
a casual pace right as I realized he was going to kick my butt. We
both had a good laugh. Of course, the only reason I had caught him was
he was taking it super-easy. He wanted to get the full PBP experience,
not race.
That's one of the things I love about randonneuring. You can't tell
anything about someone based on their finish time. Here was a RAAM guy
up against a control closing time. Was he weak? Slow? I was 12 hours
ahead of him. But was I somehow faster than him? Or a stronger rider?
Hell, no. The guys riding in 45 hours or less are clearly in a race,
and the first guy is the strongest guy, at least for that day. Beyond
that, though, finish times don't mean a damn thing. Noncompetitive
cycling at its finest.
Anyway, John was concerned about his pace and that he would not have
any time to sleep at the remaining controls, lest he risk being
declared out of time. He was right to be concerned: John and his
riding companion were barely going to make Villaines within time. They
badly needed rest, but if they took any, they’d get further behind.
It’s a vicious cycle, one begun, in his case, by "too many French
cafés." They ended up riding it in, going straight through the night
and finished PBP with 90 minutes to spare.
The party in Villaines was in full swing and I paused to watch Drew
Buck from England being interviewed and photographed with his 107-year-
old bike. Not a reproduction, mind you. The real deal, wooden rims and
all. Drew will have to ride a Bronze Age unicycle in ’15 to top this
year’s effort.
I had a huge meal and set back out, not long before sunset. I rode a
bit with a woman who was doing the ride on a beach cruiser (with a
Brooks saddle, of course!). She was wearing a dress and had a
handlebar basket full of flowers. “The locals come out to support the
event, so I might as well give them a show,” she explained. On top of
all this, she was quicker up the hills than most everyone else who was
more suitably equipped and attired. She had completed all of the
paved Ventoux climbs, but did each of them *twice* in the same day so
we passed the miles talking about our experiences on that wonderful
mountain.
It’s a long way from Villaines to Mortagne (1090km), where I planned
to stop for the night. There are also some long and desolate stretches
to get through. Needing to recharge, I stopped in some small town for
coffee. There, I helped the “Godfather of Taiwanese Randonneuring” –
the guy who single-handedly introduced the sport to his country –
adjust his saddle height to cure a painful Achilles.
I then ran into Rod from Australia (but who was currently living in
the U.K.), who came up to me and, out of the blue, said, “I got two
questions for you.” “Shoot,” I said. “Do you want another coffee?” he
asked. “Absolutely,” I replied. “And do you want to ride with us?” he
said as he gestured in the direction of two other cyclists. One guy
was Canadian, a guy from B.C. who I’d seen earlier in the ride and am
sure I’d met before, though I cannot for the life of me recall his
name now. Long rides will do that to your memory. The other guy was
simply known as The Swede. Big dude.... from Sweden. Rod added, “There
are requirements, though, if you want to ride with us.” “What are
those?” I inquired. “Well, really you just have to be able to talk a
lot of bullshit.” “I can handle that.” We finished our coffees and
were off.
Rod had put together a disparate group of riders and was shepherding
everyone along the course, trading off a faster pace for riding with
an amicable group. Rod was like a cycling corgi – just keeping the
herd moving down the road. The guy from B.C. and The Swede had
apparently had a low point earlier but they were both riding strong
now. Rod, for his part, was riding well below capacity, focused
intently on just having a good time. I was surprised to learn that
this was Rod’s first PBP, and first 1200K. The bullshit included
obligatory tales of previous rides and, more entertainingly, music and
politics. This is the kind of guy you want for a night-riding
companion. Never a dull moment.
By the time we got to Mortagne, it was late again, about 1:40am. Rod
wanted an 80-hour finish and was thinking about getting short rest and
then heading back out. I wanted no part of that and was intent on
getting some real sleep and I’m afraid I convinced him to sack the 80-
hour goal. We ate, skipped the shower, and opted for just under three
hours’ sleep.
Paul Rozelle
Sep 20, 2011, 2:24:38 PM9/20/11
to randon
PBP: Mortagne (1090km) to Paris (1230km)
We awoke and, of course, ate again. The dawn pace out of Mortagne was
fairly pedestrian. You know you’re riding slowly when you get passed
by a guy who was pedaling with only one leg. His left crankarm was
just hanging limp at 6 o’clock as he worked the right leg vigorously.
Shit, I thought as the guy rode by, I ought to quit this sport and
take up golf. Still, we had about 12 hours to cover 87 miles. It
wasn’t in the bag yet, but barring total disaster, we were going to do
this.
It was another foggy morning but as we approached Dreux (1165km), it
burned off and another perfect, sunny day (with more tailwind!)
dawned. We arrived at the control at 9:44am. I realized as we arrived
that Rod had a shot at making 80 hours. I didn’t care about my finish
time – my only aims this year were to have fun and finish -- but I
knew he had wanted to make that mark, so I told him that if we left
soon and rode fast, he might be able to do it. He was quite excited
about this and we made quick work of the control and got back on the
road. Franz from Germany somehow got joined up with us – I think Rod
had ridden with him earlier in the event -- so we had a threesome for
the final 85km to the finish.
Franz was a real character. Apparently, he had tried to talk one of
his friends into riding PBP with him, but the guy had begged off,
complaining that he was too fat. They bet 24 liters of beer that Franz
could not complete PBP at his friend’s weight. So Franz loaded up a
touring bike with whatever the weight difference was. I can’t recall
the number, but it was significant weight. Franz was about to
complete PBP hauling many pounds of unnecessary crap across France
twice. I’m sure he was looking forward to some of the best-tasting
beer on the planet. Did I mention that Franz was 60 years old? Stud.
Finding a common riding pace was difficult. We didn’t have to kill it
to make 80 hours, but we did have to be business-like. Franz would
just lay it on in the towns and would go blasting up the hills. Rod
would hammer through the countryside, but then Franz would be too
trashed to keep up. It was like herding cats. Several times Franz
implored us to go on without him, but I resisted, explaining in the
best German I could muster – Alles zusammen! -- that we were all going
to finish together. I’d pace Franz up the hills and keep him
motivated. Part of this included lying by omission about all the hills
that remained. "What is this bullshit?" he'd yell, part-way up some
steep climb in the Rambouillet Forest. "Aw, sorry about that. Forgot
about that one," I'd reply.
As in 2007, when we approached the finish we began to pick up a lot of
spectators. Racing teams were also out riding the course backwards,
applauding the riders. The last hour or two of PBP is a very special
and moving experience.
We were not fortunate enough to pick up a police escort into town, so
we had some clock-watching and fingernail biting as the 80th hour
approached. PBP finishes in a large traffic circle that’s lined with
spectators. Rod’s and Franz’s families were there to greet them. At
the end, you tender your brevet card for the final time. The lady at
the table wrote “80:00” as the finish time. Mission accomplished.
There’s celebratory beer and food as you watch others finish. I hung
out for a few hours talking with others and taking in the scene. I
chatted with a number of the U.S. and U.K. fixed-gear riders. So far
as I could tell from talking with folks, every fixed-gear rider who
started the event had completed it, an impressive accomplishment.
PBP: Epilogue
The best recovery from a 1200K is to ride the next day for a few
hours. “Ouch,” you say. True, but it’s a lot more painful to do
nothing. You’re going to be sore regardless. You want to not be stiff,
too, and you want to spin some of that crap – lactic acid, dead muscle
cells – out of your legs. A long walk is good. If your butt can take
it, I think a ride is better. Hair of the dog.
With that in mind and with most of my gear already packed for
Saturday’s return flight, I set off for Paris mid-day Friday. I
proceeded to get hopelessly lost, despite an outstanding set of
directions I’d been provided with. Not lost, really, it was more like
I just wasn’t going where I wanted to or, rather, I wasn’t going there
by a very efficient route. I eventually dead-reckoned my way to the
Eifel Tower. I visited there for a bit and then rode up to L’Arc de
Triumph and took an obligatory lap on the cobbles on the Champs
d’Elysees. The cobbles weren’t bad at all, but playing in Parisian
rush hour traffic in those huge roundabouts was completely insane. The
secret to not dying is to take a line that’s way more inside than you
think possible or prudent. Ride the roundabout like it’s got no
traffic in it. There is no spoon. (That, and go as fast as humanly
possible.)
At the Place de Concorde, I ran into the president of the FFCT, his
wife, and several of his colleagues, who noticed my PBP jersey, the
still-attached Ventoux placard, and the fixed-gear bike. We had a
great conversation. He’d just completed his 10th PBP and 7th PBP Audax
(like others, he’d done both this year). He’d also done the three
paved routes on Ventoux in a day and wanted to hear all about what the
forest road was like, especially on a fixed gear. We took a few
pictures together and then I was off, back to Versailles. I was
running out of daylight and although I had lights with me I didn’t
want to try navigating this route in the dark.
I still managed to get hopelessly lost again. This time I added not
just bonus miles, but some huge climbs, too. Brilliant. I managed to
turn what should have been 20 miles of riding into a 50-mile day. Let
me suggest that after you do something like this you then NOT go out
for sushi. I was starving, and things got rather expensive.
I broke down the bike and early the next morning it was back to the
U.S. on a flight that lasted nearly 12 hours due to a diversion to
avoid Hurricane Irene. Plenty to time to write a very long ride
report. Mea culpa.
We awoke and, of course, ate again. The dawn pace out of Mortagne was
fairly pedestrian. You know you’re riding slowly when you get passed
by a guy who was pedaling with only one leg. His left crankarm was
just hanging limp at 6 o’clock as he worked the right leg vigorously.
Shit, I thought as the guy rode by, I ought to quit this sport and
take up golf. Still, we had about 12 hours to cover 87 miles. It
wasn’t in the bag yet, but barring total disaster, we were going to do
this.
It was another foggy morning but as we approached Dreux (1165km), it
burned off and another perfect, sunny day (with more tailwind!)
dawned. We arrived at the control at 9:44am. I realized as we arrived
that Rod had a shot at making 80 hours. I didn’t care about my finish
time – my only aims this year were to have fun and finish -- but I
knew he had wanted to make that mark, so I told him that if we left
soon and rode fast, he might be able to do it. He was quite excited
about this and we made quick work of the control and got back on the
road. Franz from Germany somehow got joined up with us – I think Rod
had ridden with him earlier in the event -- so we had a threesome for
the final 85km to the finish.
Franz was a real character. Apparently, he had tried to talk one of
his friends into riding PBP with him, but the guy had begged off,
complaining that he was too fat. They bet 24 liters of beer that Franz
could not complete PBP at his friend’s weight. So Franz loaded up a
touring bike with whatever the weight difference was. I can’t recall
the number, but it was significant weight. Franz was about to
complete PBP hauling many pounds of unnecessary crap across France
twice. I’m sure he was looking forward to some of the best-tasting
beer on the planet. Did I mention that Franz was 60 years old? Stud.
Finding a common riding pace was difficult. We didn’t have to kill it
to make 80 hours, but we did have to be business-like. Franz would
just lay it on in the towns and would go blasting up the hills. Rod
would hammer through the countryside, but then Franz would be too
trashed to keep up. It was like herding cats. Several times Franz
implored us to go on without him, but I resisted, explaining in the
best German I could muster – Alles zusammen! -- that we were all going
to finish together. I’d pace Franz up the hills and keep him
motivated. Part of this included lying by omission about all the hills
that remained. "What is this bullshit?" he'd yell, part-way up some
steep climb in the Rambouillet Forest. "Aw, sorry about that. Forgot
about that one," I'd reply.
As in 2007, when we approached the finish we began to pick up a lot of
spectators. Racing teams were also out riding the course backwards,
applauding the riders. The last hour or two of PBP is a very special
and moving experience.
We were not fortunate enough to pick up a police escort into town, so
we had some clock-watching and fingernail biting as the 80th hour
approached. PBP finishes in a large traffic circle that’s lined with
spectators. Rod’s and Franz’s families were there to greet them. At
the end, you tender your brevet card for the final time. The lady at
the table wrote “80:00” as the finish time. Mission accomplished.
There’s celebratory beer and food as you watch others finish. I hung
out for a few hours talking with others and taking in the scene. I
chatted with a number of the U.S. and U.K. fixed-gear riders. So far
as I could tell from talking with folks, every fixed-gear rider who
started the event had completed it, an impressive accomplishment.
PBP: Epilogue
The best recovery from a 1200K is to ride the next day for a few
hours. “Ouch,” you say. True, but it’s a lot more painful to do
nothing. You’re going to be sore regardless. You want to not be stiff,
too, and you want to spin some of that crap – lactic acid, dead muscle
cells – out of your legs. A long walk is good. If your butt can take
it, I think a ride is better. Hair of the dog.
With that in mind and with most of my gear already packed for
Saturday’s return flight, I set off for Paris mid-day Friday. I
proceeded to get hopelessly lost, despite an outstanding set of
directions I’d been provided with. Not lost, really, it was more like
I just wasn’t going where I wanted to or, rather, I wasn’t going there
by a very efficient route. I eventually dead-reckoned my way to the
Eifel Tower. I visited there for a bit and then rode up to L’Arc de
Triumph and took an obligatory lap on the cobbles on the Champs
d’Elysees. The cobbles weren’t bad at all, but playing in Parisian
rush hour traffic in those huge roundabouts was completely insane. The
secret to not dying is to take a line that’s way more inside than you
think possible or prudent. Ride the roundabout like it’s got no
traffic in it. There is no spoon. (That, and go as fast as humanly
possible.)
At the Place de Concorde, I ran into the president of the FFCT, his
wife, and several of his colleagues, who noticed my PBP jersey, the
still-attached Ventoux placard, and the fixed-gear bike. We had a
great conversation. He’d just completed his 10th PBP and 7th PBP Audax
(like others, he’d done both this year). He’d also done the three
paved routes on Ventoux in a day and wanted to hear all about what the
forest road was like, especially on a fixed gear. We took a few
pictures together and then I was off, back to Versailles. I was
running out of daylight and although I had lights with me I didn’t
want to try navigating this route in the dark.
I still managed to get hopelessly lost again. This time I added not
just bonus miles, but some huge climbs, too. Brilliant. I managed to
turn what should have been 20 miles of riding into a 50-mile day. Let
me suggest that after you do something like this you then NOT go out
for sushi. I was starving, and things got rather expensive.
I broke down the bike and early the next morning it was back to the
U.S. on a flight that lasted nearly 12 hours due to a diversion to
avoid Hurricane Irene. Plenty to time to write a very long ride
report. Mea culpa.
David Buzzee
Sep 21, 2011, 1:57:30 AM9/21/11
to Paul Rozelle, randon
Paul, this is one of the best - and best-written - PBP narratives I have read. Thanks for sharing it with us all. Oops - I wonder about your life's ambitions if you want to grow up to be just like me.
Best regards,
David
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Bob the Wheelbuilder
Sep 21, 2011, 5:55:53 PM9/21/11
to randon
Absolutely awesome writeup, thanks.
Paul Rozelle
Sep 22, 2011, 12:24:34 AM9/22/11
to randon
Photos of my PBP adventures are here: https://picasaweb.google.com/OctopusCycling/PBP2011
Charles Coldwell
Sep 23, 2011, 1:18:26 AM9/23/11
to Paul Rozelle, randon
On Sep 20, 2011, at 10:21 AM, Paul Rozelle wrote:
> And, as far as I know, all
> of the fixed-gear riders this year were men. Ladies….?
Emily O'Brien did it on fixed in 2007.
--
Charles M. Coldwell, W1CMC
"Turn on, log in, tune out"
Belmont, Massachusetts, New England (FN42jj)
Phil Chadwick
Sep 23, 2011, 8:09:32 AM9/23/11
to randon
Anne Learmonth was the first woman to ride it on fixed, in 1995, but I didn't see any females fixers this time.
best
Phil
best
Phil
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