As a relative newcomer to Randonneuring, I have looked forward to PBP for four years with a range of emotions. Nervousness. Excitement. Doubt. Confidence. The common theme from the veterans when asked about PBP was “…there is nothing like it….an incredible experience…”. And indeed PBP 2003 was nothing less. What an adventure!
My adventurous experience got off to a bang, literally, early in the 2003 Brevet series. Four days before the SC 200k, peddling hard to get in 125k after work and home before a predicted storm, the rain catches me by 9:30 pm. Home is only 20 miles away, so as fast as my little legs can manage, I pick up the pace on familiar roads. Flying down a hill I suddenly find myself airborne over the handlebars…In slow motion it seems. “Oh no! Not again! My hip hasn’t fully recovered from the crash a few months ago!” Kaboom! Never saw the pothole. At least this time I fall on the right side and the legs feel ok. With the wet roads, the rash isn’t too bad. But what a bummer, two cracked helmets in five months. Then I notice the growing pain in my shoulder, the accompanying nausea and faintness. Not a good sign. It feels pretty busted up. An hour later in the E/R, fears are confirmed. Busted clavicle. Separated break, bones overlapping 3 centimeters. And a number of cracked ribs.
Four days later in agony, I am awaiting the start of the 200k brevet with bravo though feeling a bit weak from pain. I shed the x-brace because of discomfort, a decision later regretted. Somehow I manage to complete the ride with Vincent Peale on my mind. “Think positive. Endurance building. Character building. Mental toughness. Concentrate on the pleasant scenery, the pleasant people, the rhythm, the accomplishment. Smile. This too shall pass.” Indeed, I hope to never pass this way again. Hardest thing I have ever done.
Weeks later the 300k, 400k, and 600k are less painful, but quite a struggle since between brevets I limit the cycling in order to heal properly. Finally in June I feel good enough to rack up some miles and find myself in beautiful upstate SC/NC hills and mountains every weekend thru August 10. I feel ready. Riding is in form. Leftover shoulder pain is tolerable. Travel and hotel accommodations already made early in the year, the club bike case is to be returned by the current borrower a week before departure. Long hours at the office have work in good shape. Arrangements have been made for friends to check on our two teenage daughters who will be home alone while we are in France. School starts a week after we leave, so a friend graciously agrees to assist Amber (18) move into college to start her junior year. That will leave Becca (16) home by herself for much of the time, but this is where one of the benefits of a small town kicks in. Everyone seems to know everyone, so a good many people are looking after her. Fortunately, we are blessed with exceptionally mature, responsible children with strong ethics and convictions (no bias of course). All is lined up for a smooth experience.
Then the email comes from Holiday Inn Garden Court. Broken English, but the message is clear. “We screwed up…overbooked the motel.” They have made alternative arrangements for me to stay at the Novetel. No way. That’s not my plan. Novetel is five miles from nowhere. I called 800 Holiday Inn Intercontinental Services and plead with them to take care of this for me. A week later a call back informs me that I am to stay at the Holiday Inn. Good. Back on smooth tracks. But only for a while. Two weeks before departure I get a call from a kindly Frenchman explaining in broken English all over again… screwed up with reservations, must move you to Novetel. When he finally agrees to pay for the first night, I agree and ask him to email me a confirmation for Novetel. Several days later and one week before I leave, no confirmation. So I put in another call to Intercontinental Services and request a follow up with Garden Court and confirmation for Novetel. Three days before I leave, still waiting for a call back, so call again. “We apologize for not calling you back. You are confirmed to stay at the Holiday Inn.” What? Are you sure? “Yes.” Oh well, this is going to be interesting. Before departure I finally have received two email confirmations for Novetel and three for Holiday Inn. Guess I’m covered. Surely at least one of these emails will get me a bed.
Ok, back on smooth tracks again. But, wait! I leave in a few days. Where is the bike case? It should be here by now. After a number of attempts, I finally contact the guy who has the club’s case. He is back in the states, but since the bike would not fit on the plane, they are coming home via UPS. Should be here Monday. But I leave Tuesday. This is not smooth. I call and email everyone I know asking for a bike case. Finally Nick Dobey rescues me by loaning his old case. Thanks to Ann Mullins for the contact. I very gratefully pick it up on Sunday. Thank goodness because as it turns out, the other case does not come “home” until I have already left on Tuesday. Only one little problem. Nick’s case has no wheels. Not a big deal for a big strong guy like Nick… but for a little guy like me… So early Tuesday morning I am at the hardware store as soon as it opens getting the parts necessary to make a skate board. Works out great and rolls much smoother than the case with wheels.
I hurriedly pack the bike, load the suitcase and off to the airport we go! Now it’s time to relax on the 12 hour trip with exciting anticipation. Man-oh-man is this going to be fun! Four years of training, blood, sweat, toil and tears! Let’s roll!
Vive la France! We arrive around noon after a long but pleasant flight from Atlanta. Air France staff are superb. Plenty of food and wine make the trip a joy. Upon arriving at Charles De Gaul, we quickly find Claus who escorts us to the awaiting bus. Sure to their word (the last word) a room was waiting for us at the Holiday Inn. For the next four days I tour romantic Paris with the most beautiful woman in France (Stephanie, my wife of course). Paris is a beautiful place… love it dearly, but I must have walked the equivalent of PBP and was looking forward to the ride in order to do something “easier.” I had a great time meeting people. Often when I saw someone standing in a line who appeared to be English speaking, I would strike up a conversation by saying in a southern drawl…”You ain’t from around here, are ya?”. That turned out to be a nice icebreaker. Met a lot of interesting people from many different places. I quickly determined that Ausies like to talk… a lot! That fit fine with me since I am not a talker.
Early Saturday morning I take off by myself to peddle the first 35 miles of the course. I soon find myself lost, but before long come upon a dozen other cyclist who are also lost. Joining them, we eventually find the route and enjoy a pleasant ride. The pre-ride prologue the next day was likewise a joy. Got a kick out of two recumbent cyclist wearing long-tail tuxedos and top hats.
Bike inspection on Sunday went very smoothly, though I was a bit puzzled by the signage. One sign worded “Francais” was obviously for the french dudes. But what’s with this other sign that reads “Strangers”? Oh… a photo op. Later I am told the sign was changed to read “Foreigners.”
Monday night I arrive at the gym about 7pm and am impressed with all the festivities…the spectator crowds… the crazy bike rodeo… speeches by local VIPs. At 8pm the “racers” form up at the starting line and take off with a great cheer from the crowd. I tingle all over and the hair stands on end. My excitement is growing. Knowing there is nothing like the first-time, I freely let the emotions flow and enjoy the feel. Two more hours and it will be my turn. Four long years of anticipation and preparation…blood, sweat, toil and tears. I am about to pop with adrenalin. Why are my eyes moist? Never have I felt more alive. This is France! This is PBP! This first-time experience will never be repeated. I let the thrill seep through my pores!
For the next hour or so I mingle with other cyclists, enjoying every second. There are over 20 countries represented by 4093 riders. The USA team has 459. It seems the majority of the riders are well over 40 years old. The youngest is 18, the oldest was born in 1927! Something fantastic is happening when so many people from so many far off places, who have worked so hard for years, all gather for a common goal, for the common love of endurance cycling, for the oldest bicycling event in history. All with visions of their name being added to the prestigious PBP Great Book of anciens.
I eventually work my way into the starting line, wife by my side. I hug and kiss her several times, thanking her for coming. A TV cameraman comes up and asks, “You like to kiss?” Yep! This is France! This is PBP!
Slowly, we start moving to the street for the start. Then the group cut-off is made at my feet. Hey, this is working out great! I am on the front row of the second group. Stephanie will get some great pictures of me and I will have fewer people near or in front of me as the ride begins.
Our group takes off at 10:15pm. Again with much cheer from the crowd. I enjoy the emotions and quickly get into a comfortable pace behind the motorcycles. Ahhh! This is it! What a special moment! I feel like I can ride 1200k non-stop. Of course, I know reality will set-in eventually.
One of the special moments of the ride occurred within two hours. Riding in a group of about 100, one could hear the constant chatter of several different languages as we all enjoyed the cool, calm night. After a number of nice rollers, we turn onto a smooth, flat road. Immediately the lively chatter turns to silence, not even a whisper. For the longest while, we flow in a long, silky double pace line, moving at a brisk pace. Not even a breath could be heard. Only finely tuned bikes whispering their soothing hum in a poetry of motion. I was moved by the beauty of the moment. A sliver moon and twinkling stars shed their dim hew upon the vast countryside as we flew along. Silhouettes of trees and farmhouses evoked a warm since of peace and belonging. The presence of God is felt and a deep appreciation for the ability and means to participate in PBP sink in. So often and so easily taken for granted. Though many different countries were in the group, at this moment, we were all speaking the same language, thinking the same thoughts, feeling the same emotions, the same energy. This is PBP. The ride is still young and fresh. We know it will not be easy. What unknown challenges may lie ahead? Are we ready for them? Absolutely. The resolve is fortified in this moment of fluid meditation.
Eventually the sun opens the day with graceful rays and the beauty of the country begins to reveal itself. Rolling farm lands and quaint “Epcot perfect” villages. I am impressed. Though the roads are not all black-top smooth, not a single pot hole the entire route. Not a single piece of litter. Not a single road-kill. Even the dumpster areas were clean. Is it always like this or did the masses turn out for a major scrubbing before the event? I am told it always looks like this. I ponder how nice it must be to live in a society that takes such pride.
Almost every town we went through had a festival for the occasion. No matter the time, day or night, the locals were out with encouraging cheers. Often giving away bottled water and pastries. At one place far from any town, I saw a group of cheering children holding out water and knew this should be a stopping experience. The kids glowed and wiggled with excitement as I rolled up to them. An especially cute little french girl ran up to me and enthusiastically handed me a bottle of water, talking 100 miles per hour with the sweetest, biggest smile. I bent down to her eye level, patted her on the head, thanked her with all my heart and told her how special she was. Of course, I doubt she understood a word, except “merci, merci madame”. She was so excited she wouldn’t stop talking. I had no idea what she was saying, so just smiled and winked at her, blew her a kiss and peddled off. This is PBP. I glanced at the adults standing nearby. They were clearly enjoying the occasion.
At the Villaines control (223km) I am enjoying a meal in the café when Ian walks in. How nice. I finally see someone I know. He joins me and we ride together for much of the next 800km or so. This helps quite a bit as Ian is an experienced, well disciplined randonneur. The benefit turns out to be mutual when one of Ian’s tires wear through and I was able to loan him my folding spare.
We rolled into Loudeac with plenty of daylight left, so after changing clothes, Ian and I continued, pushing on to Carhaix (529km) were we caught our first real snooze. Crawling onto the cot sometime after 1:30am, I had arranged for a 4am wake up. As soon as I pulled the blanket over me I realized it would not do, as it made me break into a terrible itch. No problem, I’ll just pull out the space blanket. Big problem. I had no idea how noisy a space blanket is, having never used one before. After a few looong seconds of trying to unfold quietly, I realized this is not a good idea. Blushing, I toss the space blanket aside and roll over to sleep. You would think after being awake for 42 hours, sleep would come suddenly. Not for me. Having too much fun, I suppose. An hour or so later I am still tossing. Finally I fall into a deep sleep. Soon the wake-up came. My senses slowly tune in, ever so slowly. I have no idea where I am, and for a few minutes am totally mentally lost. What is going on? This is not my bedroom. Have I been in some sort of accident and now coming out of a coma? My vision slowly comes and I find myself staring into the eyes of a young french girl. She is leaning over me whispering, something lovely I think. Don’t know what it is, but it sounds nice. Am I dreaming? Slowly my brain crawls out of deep darkness and reality sets in and the girl leaves. Oh, this is PBP. Then it dawns on me…I just missed a great opportunity to sneak a kiss with a French girl. Now that would be neat PBP experience. I resolve to not miss this opportunity on the next sleep stop.
The terrain on PBP suited my riding style perfectly. Lots of climbing, something I seem to never get enough of. I love to climb. There is as much as 35,000 feet by some accounts. My guess is somewhere between 30,000 and 35,000. However, unlike BMB, the climbs were gentle, never very steep, simply wonderful diversions from the monotonous flats.
On day two we left Carhaix in the early predawn darkness. The air was cold (mid 40s I’m told) but I was apply dressed for it. The route from Carhaix to Brest seemed to be the hilliest, so as such the most enjoyable. It was during this section that I regret missing some great photo opportunities…a number or cyclist corpses along the way. Apparently the strategy of some is to ride until you drop, whip out the space blanket and collapse on the roadside for a few zzz’s. They sure looked dead to me. After the ride, more than one cyclist told me about a dude who pulled off the road and slept while still clipped into the pedals. To each his own.
Crossing the bridge into Brest, we stopped for the must-do photo before cruising into the control point. After gulping a bowl of coffee and downing some food we soon took off for the 81km of pleasant climbs back to Carhaix. Back in Carhaix the food lines were too long for our pleasure, so we continued on to Loudeac (773km) wolfed some food, and then on to Tinteniac (859km). By this time a swollen tendon in my right ankle was starting to be a real pain. One nice thing about PBP is great organized support, including first aide. Unfortunately, the volunteer doctor at Tinteniac had already gone home, and the techs at the station were not “authorized” to administer the magic lotion they said I needed. I’ll just have to push on.
I was feeling very sleepy by this time, and quite prepared for another sleep break. However, when Ian indicated he was continuing on, as he was feeling good, that was enough motivation for me. A quick bowl of coffee and food got me going again and the short jaunt to Fourgeres (914km) was pleasant enough. In fact so pleasant, that we added a few kilometers by missing a turn. Most of the peddling on this section was done with my left leg to ease the pain in the right ankle. Arriving around 2:30am, we arranged for a 5:30am wake up. This time we had hard pads instead of cots. Because of my back, I have great difficulty sleeping on anything firm, so most of the snooze time was spend turning over and over. Not much sleep, but at least it was rest. Remembering my resolution at the previous sleep stop, I was all ready to sneak a kiss with the French wake-up girl. When the time came, a low, deep voice is heard. Forget that experience.
I have noticed that the rigors of PBP, especially lack of sleep, seem to make some people act a bit “less than normal” shall we say. Upon preparing to leave Fourgeres, a British rider arrived and began shouting with panic…“Where is the control!? Where is the control!?…”. We were at the restaurant about a 100 yards below the control. He then dismounted his bike and began climbing a chain-link fence to get to what he thought was the control. Fortunately, a couple of officials were able to grab him and set him in the right direction.
This third day of the ride began to take a toll on me. Except for the ankle tendon, all the muscles and joints felt great, but the lack of sleep was proving to be a good test for my will power. Recalling the advise of many anciens…”just keep moving”, I dug deeper and did just that. Shortly after leaving Fourgeres, Ian’s tire casing wore through. He patched it with a tire boot, but it lasted only perhaps 20 miles. Having remembered by then my spare folding tire, I loaned it to Ian (memory working less than normal, shall we say). While Ian took care of the tire, I took a very effective power nap, was recharged and ready to roll.
Feeling stronger, I cruised on to Villaines (1002km control) with a little better pace, being careful to favor the tender right ankle. At this control, I was finely able to get medical attention. The staff was very nice and did a fine job of massaging the tendon with the magic lotion, taping me up and giving me some meds. I hit the road feeling recharged knowing there was only 223km left. However, the recharge didn’t last long. Sleep began tugging at me harder and harder. I arrived at Mortagne (1084km) at 3:25 pm almost ready to give into the mental challenge and succumb to sleep. It was by far the toughest part of the ride. But I continued on by telling myself…”just make it to Nogent (1167km), and I’ll reward you with a twelve hour sleep and finish the ride fresh before noon Saturday.” Fortunately, I rode the section with a variety of other cyclist, many who wanted to talk. This helped keep me awake. But soon there was something more that sparked me awake. Most every randonneur has experienced it. The closer I got to Nogent, the more I smelled the barn. And the adrenalin started flowing! Exploding! Total alertness soon returned. Energy level skyrocketed by the time I reached Nogent at 7:42pm. With only 58km to go, I was about to pop wide open with energy. Amazing! Where does this come from?
By this time I had linked up with Jimmy Williams from Georgia and a British tandem team. At quite a brisk pace we breezed into St Quentin and eventually crossed the finish line at 10:31 pm, Thursday night. What a thrill. 72 hours, 16 minutes. Assessing my condition, I was quite surprised. Except for the throbbing ankle, I felt great. No muscle fatigue whatsoever. All the joints feel fine. I should have ridden harder. Lack of sleep won out as the biggest challenge. The 10pm start obviously added to the effect. Next time I should sleep during that day. But hey! Why miss out on the excitement of the occasion by sleeping? Increase the challenge by doing the sleeping afterwards.
After another week of touring Paris (Mike’s Bike tour is a must-do), the flight back to the states was again enjoyed with plenty of food, wine, and new cherished memories. My precious wife acquired a very special surprise for me. She talked a vendor out of the last large (4’ x 6’) PBP poster. More than a couple hundred signatures from all over the world now adorn it. A perfect spot in our formal dining room awaits it. Know anyone who wants a very nice formal dining room mirror? (Oh, Hi Stephanie. I was just thinking about how special and precious you are).
Oh, yes. There is one last memorable event. Driving home from the airport, I-20, midnight. Tired, but happy. Suddenly there is a loud bang, like an explosion, and our car is tossed onto the shoulder. Quickly stopping the car as I get it back under control, I glance in the side mirror to see a car spinning out of control in the medium. Two eighteen wheelers and two other four wheelers screech to a halt. We all jump out and head towards the car in the medium. What’s this nut doing? Look! He’s trying to get away! A strong looking trucker prevents him. Witnesses claim the guy is doing 100 mph when he swerved into me. He appears somewhat soused and soon finds himself handcuffed and in the back seat of a state trooper’s car.
Fortunately, we suffered no injuries. And the high from PBP is still strong. Nothing can take that away. Never, ever. Never have I felt more dead, yet more alive at the same time. Never have I felt so terribly weak, yet at the same time encouragingly strong.
“…there is nothing like it… an incredible experience…”. This is PBP.