Before the Saturday bike check I visited the chateau at Versailles where I stood in line for a considerable time and spent too long on my feet. I then fell off my bike on the way to the check when failing to unclip.
In front of Versailles chateau after the bike check
I was now officially registered and ready to go.
Drew Buck, from Bristol, once again rode a vintage machine from 1900, with a wooden brake that pressed down on the tyres and one massive gear only. He made it back in time. Hats off to him.
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| Drew's 1900's cycle. Note the spare inner tubes wrapped around his chest and the bottle on the bars. |
On the Saturday evening I took a trip into central Paris to meet Gary, who'd I'd ridden the majority of my 600 qualifier (Denmead) with. We went to a great Basque restaurant with a couple of friends of his, one of who, Claire, was riding a recumbent, and her partner who was the official support team and would be putting up a tent in Loudeac for them to enjoy both ways. On the Metro I passed the Eiffel Tower which was adorned with twinkling lights and looked ever so pretty. That night was spectacularly humid and I didn't sleep well and awoke thinking I was tired already. If it had been a 200 back home I wouldn't have bothered turning up, but it wasn't, this was the PBP and everywhere you looked people were there for a once in a lifetime ride, reminding you of what you had signed up for.
Prior to going to Paris a whole new drive train was put on the bike and new tyres and inners. On arrival at the gymnasium for the start I wheeled my bike down the ramp onto the athletics track and noticed I had a puncture. Rear, obviously. Better then than after starting though, so changed it over. Saw quite a few people I had met on the qualifiers including Martin and Tony with whom I'd ridden my 400, and many other British riders, thanks to the excellent Audax England jersies that had been produced which were spotted throughout the ride and made it really nice to see other fellow countryman. I didn't see Martin again until the run-in to Paris and we finished within a few minutes of each other.
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| Waiting to start |
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| The start |
The locals were out in force to cheer us on and I began to get an idea of how much the French support and respect this great event. At every junction the police stopped traffic, and at every road bridge people looked down from above with admiration.
The first stop was at Mortagne au Perche - not a control, just a feed stop, at about 2am. First thing I did was to buy 2 new inner tubes, then queue for about half an hour to get something to eat. A Canadian guy collapsed in the queue, probably from dehydration as it was still very warm. Although I was not overly hungry I made sure to make a good meal as I knew it would be a long night ahead. I was later glad of this strategy, which I repeated at every control, to have a full meal regardless of whether I felt like it or not. I had read many reports of people not eating through fatigue or dehydration and was determineted not to fail just because I had failed to refuel properly.
The next stage to Villaines I do not remember as being too bad. However, whether it was because as the event progressed everything became hazy, or because it was uneventful, I am not sure. What I can remember is the wonderful reception in Villaines, where the whole town seemed to turn out to welcome the randonneurs. The main street had been sectioned off, and I headed into the control to get my first stamp on the route card. After this there was the choice of a 'breakfast' French style i.e. coffee, bit of baguette and croissant, or the restaurant across the road. I went for the latter and had a full meal at about 7.00am, including a couple of cans of Coke for the sugar and calories - I normally cannot stand the stuff. The schoolchildren of the town had been rolled out to help and a girl carried my tray to a table - a very welcome touch, and a sign that they really understood what we were going through.
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| Arrival at Villaines |
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| Kipping at Villaines (pic by Lee Hargreaves) |
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| The first of many roadside stalls. Orange slices, chocolate, banana and coffee. |
Leaving Tinteniac I teamed up with Alex, who was riding fixed, and we made good progress to Quedillac, the secret control. I was sorry to stop here as we were going well and momentum, once gained, is all too easily lost. However this was a great little control although, being French and loving bureaucracy, they were a bit funny about their payment systems. You had to buy a token for a specific item and got a coloured ticket in return, the colour relating to the item you had requested. You then took one step to the left and handed the token to the person standing next to the person from whom you had bought the token, and received your item of food in return. I needed to use all my charm to convince the person selling hot drinks that it really did not matter if I had a coffee or a hot chocolate (I had a token for the former and wanted the latter) as they cost the same. I got my hot chocolate and the sky did not come crashing down on their heads.
The rain did however, with some very heavy downpours and thunder and lightning, meaning we stayed at the control 15 or 20 minutes longer than we intended. When we left the skies had cleared but we put on our heavy weather gear, and a good thing too, as after about half an hour an almighty thunderstorm broke right over us. We took refuge under a tree, just as the vedettes, the very fastest riders, passed us on their return from Brest. Not for them rainproofs, just a desire to get back in a quick time. These were the guys that got back to Paris in 44 hours with no real stops and at each control they had helpers feeding them, massaging them and applying soothing lotions to hurting parts all at the same time in order to save time.
The English way (a gross generalisation follows) is to ride the PBP unsupported, carrying all the kit you think you might need (and usually a lot you will not need) in a saddlebag (normally a Carradice) and on a steel bike with mudguards. Many many riders had stripped down racing bikes and obviously had helpers on the route who would cook up meals and give a bed in the camper van, or they would stay in pre-booked hotels en route with pre arranged bag drops for clean clothers. Nothing wrong with this, just a difference in approach. For me, it was a personal challenge against the distance and against the mental gremlins that would appear with increasing regularity as the ride went on.
An astute observer has remarked elsewhere that the ride may actually be harder having supporters at every turn throughout the ride, as the temptation to pack comes every 4 hours or so in a warm camper van, whereas if you're on your own you basically don't have a great deal of choice.
The majority of countries had national jersies and it was great to see so many nations represented. A surprisingly high number from the far east, such as Japan and Taiwan, who each had hundreds of riders.
The weather between Qudillac and Loudeac was foul and I was glad of all my wet weather gear. The route seemed to climb quite a lot, with wind turbines putting out flashing red lights, which in the lightning and dark, together with my sleep deprivation, made a surreal experience that at the time made me think of a giant 'ET phone home' device. We made it to Loudeac without being abducted by aliens however, and having dealt with the assault course that is the route into the control with barriers making sharp turns all over (which you can really do without after 24 hours in the saddle) and realised why this control was always regarded as a bit of a nightmare. I reckon about 2000 of the randoneurs must have been here at this time, although in fairness the restaurant was not too busy. After controlling at 23.30 I went to feed, and then sleep, in the restaurant, and had an hour's sleep, the most I got all trip. At 1.15am I got up and went outside and felt incredibly cold and very short of breath. I think I must have woken up in the middle of a cycle (a sleep cycle that is, not the middle of a cycle ride) and it took time to wake up and get going.
Carhaix Plouger was somewhere we had visited at Christmas and I sort of knew what to expect afterwards. I was helped on the road there by four Swedish riders who rode at a good pace and who helped greatly; the thing about the PBP is that there is normally a group at your pace. I felt strong on this stage and we made good time, getting to Carhaix just as it got light. Normal form on arrival, a meal and a quick 20 minutes sleep at the table, then up again, excited that the next stage would see me at Brest.
Many have said that it is important to see the ride as individual stages, not to think of the overall. I did often think of the overall, but tried to do so only in a positive way, such as 'quarter done', 'half done' etc, rather than 'another 900km to go'. Other than that cursory thought to the whole I tried to restrict myself to getting each stage done, and this somehow worked, however tired I was. Some stages were easy, some were hard; some started easy and ended hard; others started hard and ended easy. There was no real logic to any of it. The stage to Brest was unfortunately hard all the way. It was not helped by the weather which had closed in and was miserable. The road to Huelgoat seemed interminable and the climb up the Roc Trevezal was spoilt by an inability to see due to mist and rain clouding my spectacles, and a headwind. After cresting the Roc, the wonderful vista we had seen in December was shrouded in mist and the descent felt like a climb due to the headwind. Past Sizun, the route went on and on and there was a pointless detour (the route was over distance so there was no need to make up distance) around the houses to get to Brest, then an uninspiring route through the docks and back though the town centre to get to the control, which was the worst of the lot with no proper food. This 30km into Brest was the low point of the whole ride for me; although not the hardest bit physically, it was difficult mentally as in my mind I was already in Brest, yet the arrival took forever.
I thought I'd have a beer to celebrate the half way point but after one sip I could feel it, so gave it to a very happy German sitting opposite me. I had a ham baguette and a quick 20 minute sleep, then checked out the showers which had a endless queue so though better of it, and got back on my bike.
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| Arrival at Brest |
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| Sizun on the return. |
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| Climbing the Roc Trevezal on the return (pic by Deano). |
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| Someone knew I was coming |
Carhaix to Loudeac was a delight and for a strange reason the force was with me. There was a delightful roadside stall at Merleac where the baker's wife laid on coffee and fresh galette au buerre. Just what was required!
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| Roadside stall at Merleac. These are one of the things that made the ride special. |
I had always reckoned that Loudeac on the way back was the watershed and once there I was two-thirds of the way to Paris. Loudeac was the same shambles on the return with far too many there (although less than the way out). I tried to sleep in the cafe (most controls had a choice of a cafe for coffee and croissants, or a full restauarnt) but there was big draft whenever the door was opened so I moved to the restaurant and had a proper full-on sleep for 20 minutes.
I cannot really remember the stage from Loudeac to Tinteniac. There was a scret control where I slept for half an hour but rest is a bit of a haze. I was glad to arrive at Tinteniac and have a shower and I know I wasted a bit of time here but it was a beautiful morning and I left at about 1040 having stopped two hours here. Still, a shower and brushing the teeth made me feel a new man.
Not long after the 'flowergirl' came past as I drank coffee at a roadside stall.
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| 1200km on a sit up and beg bicycle. |
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| The famous crepe stand at La Tanniere |
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| Asleep in St Remy du Val |
This night was my nemesis, the clock was seemingly getting close and the road went up. That said, from Mamers I climbed with two Spanish guys and we tanked along at 25 - 30 kph and I even dropped them. Blimey! In the end I arrived in Mortagne with a full two hours to spare over my original time (plus 1h40 for the extra it took to get to the start) so there was nothing to worry about. At Mortagne the village barbeque was still going and I got a baguette with two sausages, just what was required, then a lot of fruit from inside. Did I sleep here? Not sure.
After the hard stage to Mortagne more of the same followed. It was dark, so I did not know what we were climbing and could not see how high or far it was. There must have been five good hills and by the end I was well and truly knackered; it was interminable. It was up there with the needless detour going into Brest as the only other place I had a sense of humour failure and wondered what on earth I was doing being there. My little girl had drawn a picture of me on a bicycle with the words 'Allez Daddy' and I kept this in my brevet card holder. When I was feeling down it was a great help to look at this and think of the folks back home willing me on.
The only way to keep going was to follow the white line in the middle of the road and on a couple of occassions I knew my eyes had been closed longer than they should have been. I was being passed by every other cyclist and was hallucinating.The road seemed to be composed of colourful paintings, but the best sight I saw was Scooby Doo standing at the side of the road. I had a serious attack of the dozies and had to stop and slept on the verge for ten minues, although I dropped my camera here.
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| My bed for night 4 |
That said, my behind was in some pain and this made progress slow and so for the first 40 km of the final stage I found it very hard going. Suddenly, from hardly being able to turn a pedal, I found myself powering along. This was not just because the end was in sight but was a regular occurrence throughout the ride; suddenly things would click and you would feel fine again having written yourself off five minutes earlier. The final 25km were a joy, pseudo-racing with young boys on carbon frames and beating them. What had seemed to pass quickly on the way out took a bit longer on the way back, but all of a sudden we were in Paris and in St Quintin; the final roundabout was reached with many people cheering and shouting, a great arrival, very emotional.
Afterwards it was nearly impossible to remember anything in any sort of logical order. It took about a week for the memory to sort itself out. I still cannot remember many of the names of the people I rode with, although I had long conversations with theam and can picture them. Physically, I was not in too bad shape; the ends of my fingers and toes were numb and my left achilles tendon hurt, but my shoulders did not hurt and I did not get too serious a bout of hot foot. The fatigue was very deep seated though and all I could do was sleep for a few days.
Looking back at my objectives last year:
1. To lose weight: a bit lost but not a lot. I feel I will always be built for stamina not for speed. Look at the photos if you need evidence.
2. To give up tobacco products: achieved (although I did have a large cigar, one of Mr Castro's finest, on my return home).
3. To do something special before I was 40: for sure, the PBP was, and is, something special, worth the investment in time and effort, something I will do again. It's not about the bike. It's about the people along the way and the atmosphere and experience that they create.
Until 2015!
1230 kms, 88h48m. Sleep 7.75 hours, 63 hours cycling. Which means about 1 hour per control feeding, getting validated, getting water, changing clothes and queuing.
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| The welcome home |
Awesome! Well done. LEL?!
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