Paris-Brest-Paris 2011 – The Ride
- Aug 25, 2011
- Posted By: Luis Bernhardt
- Tags: paris-brest-paris randonneur brevet
If there is one word that encapsulates the Paris-Brest-Paris Randonneur, it is courage. 1200 km over 90 hours - an 11 kmh average - to a hardcore cyclist may not seem like much, but at some point in this ride, the significance of the undertaking dawns on you.
Unless you attempt the ride, or unless you are a Breton, you will not understand the courage it takes to commit yourself to this journey. And it truly is a journey, not a mere ride.
Somewhere late in the first day, or on the second day, you begin to understand. Scattered groups of Bretons will be on the route, clapping as you ride by, at all hours, even in the dark of night. They cheer you on, they shout "bon courage!" and they really mean it. Brittainy is not just a hotbed of bike racing, with more than a few famous cycling legends. Bretons understand cycling - the saying is that there is a bike racer in every family. The locals have seen the effort on the faces of those racing PBP pounding hard at the front, or in the bodies of those toiling in quiet misery far behind, trying to make the next control before it closes, or unable to eat because of stomachs ailments, but determined to plod on anyway. They've seen the riders sprawled across the grassy fields sleeping off the exhaustion that overcomes the body after 16, 18, 24 hours in the saddle. The courage is displayed in many forms, and goes not unnoticed by the people who have lived along the route all of their lives.
But to begin: the 84-hour group of BC riders left the hotel in Plaisir at between 3h30 and 3h45, thru dark but not-quite empty streets – there were still cars dashing about at this early hour. All was quiet when we arrived at the stadium, no big crowds and loudspeakers and announcers as there were just the day before when the 80- and 90-hour groups left, just hundreds of riders lined up on the running track outside the soccer field. With about 30 minutes to start, we began to slowly file past the initial control to get our cards stamped, proof that we had started at the very beginning. From here we lined up on the starting grid. A somber quiet continued to pervade this peleton of the night, for it was still pitch dark save for the street lights, and it would remain dark until about 6h45, by which time we’d be well past the Forest of Rambouillet, outside the French region called Ile-de-France, where Paris is situated.
At 4h58 I flipped on my lightweight LED battery lights, and a minute later, the starter softly uttered “allez,” and we were off, about 600 riders in one big wave. We must have ridden over the electronic chip reader, as my official start time was 4h59. The serious contenders were likely well up the road, never to be seen again except coming back the other way. I was with a group of about 50, cruising comfortably at 35 kmh along the broad, well-lit boulevards of St. Quentin and Trappes. The nervousness of the pack was not as evident as I had expected; there were a few crazy riders doing stupid things to gain position, but they’d soon be repassed just by remaining smooth and being patient. Riders ahead were calling out approaching speed bumps and road furniture, and we wound nicely around wide roundabouts. The large peleton blew all the red lights and stop signs, with or without police controlling them, but at this hour there was no traffic on our route and we had strength in numbers. I had no idea where we were or if we were on the correct route; I left that to the riders ahead. There were official route arrows at all the key locations, and I got used to looking for them, but because of the pace, the dark, and the concentration required to maneuver with the pack, I honestly did not see one route arrow until I was alone off the back.
This coincided with the emergence of daylight, when we began climbing over broad, exposed farmland near Dreux. The speed picked up, and experience told me that I had used the pack to my advantage all that I could, and that pushing the tempo to stay with them, especially on a smaller fixed gear, would be stupid. So I relaxed into a comfortable pace, 30 kmh on the flat. I could still latch onto small groups that passed, but I wouldn’t “ burn any matches” to stay with them. The matchbook was still almost full, but there was a long day ahead that needed a steady flame.
It had been cloudy and cool; I was in arm- and leg-warmers & the requisite night-time reflective vest (gilet), which the organizers sold along with the souvenir jersey. The vest was an excellent investment; it kept you warm in the early morning and into the evening, it was light enough to roll up into a jersey pocket, and it was even stylish, with its banded collar. It just lacked back pockets, but you could buy the same gilet (but without the PBP logo) for about twice the price at registration. I also had my rain jacket rolled up and lashed to my seat bag in order to conserve jersey pocket space.
I was travelling extremely light compared to most of the real randonneurs here, but this was understandable given my racing - rather than cycletouring - background. No handlebar bag, no panniers, just a small seat bag containing 3 tubes, 2 plastic tire irons, patches of tire boot material, a 5/6mm and 4mm allen key, 4 AA and 4 AAA batteries, a tiny bottle of eye drops, a small tube of skin lotion, and a space blanket. My left jersey pocket held a number of 2010 Vancouver Olympic pins to give away on the road plus my reading glasses. If I took off arm or leg-warmers, they would go into this pocket. The center pocket held my thin waterproof compact camera and a pair of thicker gloves for wet weather and for when my hands became too uncomfotable in the thin gloves I was wearing, and was reserved for holding the rolled-up gilet. The right pocket held all my food – about six packets of Honey Stingers fruit gummies and four packets of gels. I figured I would get very tired of these on day 1, so this pocket would also be used to hold sandwiches purchased at the controles.
My route card, money, and spare camera battery were in a pouch worn around my neck. I decided to ride with just one large bottle, since I didn’t want to bring an extra frame pump. I’ve got a snap-on cage that fits on the downtube, but this means I need to move the pump to the top tube, which then interferes with the frame number. The cage is also an ugly pink color I detest, but I won it in a race and can’t complain. But in retrospect, a second large bottle would have been handy, as you are then less susceptible to the vagaries of the road and the benevolence of strangers. Those first controls on day one are also few and far between. Still, if I were wearing the vest, I had enough room to hold a bottle of juice in the middle jersey pocket.
The clouds looked darker where we were heading, and I had just reached the food stop at Mortagne-au-Perche when the first downpour started. It had been worthwhile to mount the fenders after all! I was also wearing very light shoe covers, not so much to keep my feet dry (which heavier rain booties can do for about 40 minutes tops, and then everything inside stays wet), but to keep my shoes clean. I do not like having to clean off the fine grit that gets into cycling shoes; much easier to just toss the shoe covers into the laundry.
By the time I’d filled my bottle, used the toilette, and downed a Coke, the rain had stopped, so I followed a couple of riders out of town, losing them on the first climb. One picturesque village rolled into the next. Most of the towns would be at the tops of hills, and I soon learned just how hilly France can be. And day one is not the climbing day!
You knew the next village was approaching when you saw its name on the signpost at the roundabout. Only one town would be announced at a time, unless it was a large town reached by an A (Autoroute) road. There would also be the route arrow, usually one before and one right after the circle. First-timers in France soon learned how to handle roundabouts; the ones in the country are good for getting acquainted and practicing. The real test comes if you ride in Paris, at the big traffic circles, such as Charles de Gaulle Etoile (Arc de Triomphe), where you have traffic on your left cutting you off to turn right, along with traffic on the right trying its best to kill you. Here in the country, though, the circles are easy.
Once on the D for departmental road to the town, you would begin to climb, the speed limit would drop (“Rappel”), you’d start seeing more houses, maybe the church steeple, and then the white town sign. On the opposite side of the road, if you looked back, you might see the town name with a red slash thru it.
Once in town, you’d have to be on guard for route arrows. The widest street is not necessarily the main road! In most towns, there would be individuals and small groups by the side of the road cheering you on, or pointing out the direction if there were a change in the middle of town. Cheering spectators actually stood in front of the route arrow in one town, but they laughingly pointed out the right way when I nearly came to a stop trying to read which way the arrow pointed! Several times, I saw riders ahead of me go off course, only to have a helpful townsperson quickly shout out the correction.
In small towns, the road would widen at a bend near the center of town, and this extra space that was roadway might contain a fountain, or it might just be the town square. This seemed to me to be the way living spaces had once been designed, to enhance conviviality.
Many towns had their local hero who was riding PBP. His or her name would be on signs hung up thru town, or held by children, or painted on the road. Being a hotbed of French bike racing, many of the Breton towns had start/finish lines permanently painted near the town square, two broad bands with a thin, 4-cm band left unpainted between them. It could only have been a finish line, and the banner would obviously be strung here!
Villaines la Jouhel was the first real controle, where I spent too much time. The reason it takes longer than you want to depart a controle is because there is no consistency to their layout. You have to figure out where everything is at each controle. The bike parking is easy; you are usually directed to the bike parking area. You then need to follow the signs to the controle proper, where your route card is stamped and where the chip reader is usually set up to record your time for the web site tracking (which is why the timing chip needs to be on your body instead of on the bike; I had mine on the strap of my right shoe). You then need to find the toilettes, and the taps to fill the bottles, and then find if there is a place to get a quick sandwich and a Coke, or if you have to go thru the cafeteria line. And some of the controles are really spread out! At Tinteniac, you ride thru a winding path between the crowd barriers that just goes on and on before you get to the bike parking. You then have to walk about 50 meters to get to the controle (and this is short!). Lots of walking in cycling shoes. Fortunately I was wearing Shimano RT-80’s – mountain bike shoes without the lugged soles, so you can walk in them. I think you would quickly wear out a set of road cleats on just one PBP. SPD pedals are highly recommended unless you're also carrying cleat covers!
On the road to Tineniac, I was running out of liquid, so I stopped at a couple of the local “lemonade stands” to refill the bottle. Besides water and juice, the locals serve an assortment of snacks. I even dashed past girls holding out Breton specialty cakes; I was going too fast to stop. And all they want in return is for you to send them a postcard!
It turned dark and rained hard between Tinteniac and Loudeac. I was worried that I might have to sleep in wet clothing. But the showers soon stopped, and then coming towards me in the night was a pace car and two motorcycles, with about 30 riders pedaling furiously back towards Paris. This was the modern PBP race – the competitors from the 80-hour group who had started 13 hours before my group – no longer professionals, but guys who had trained four years for this one ride. I cannot imagine racing all 1230 km. With a group like this, when would you sleep? No one would wait! They must all be hallucinating by the time they reach Villaine or Dreux, the last controles before Paris!
My plan was to sleep about six hours in Loudeac, which depended on my getting there by 22h. Because of the hilly terrain and delays at controles, I got there at 23h30. I could have stopped at Tinteniac, but this is only about 350 km in, and I would have had to leave the control before its closing time of 3h30. At Loudeac, km 450, I had until 8h30, which meant that I could start at my planned 5h the next morning. I figured it was possible to do a 60-hr ride in mostly daylight hours, but the key is to set up for a short day 3 by doing slightly longer days 1 and 2.
I had a welcome supper of real food in Loudeac, but the bed was a canvas cot with a horsehair blanket and no pillow. But I was so tired that I dropped right off despite the nearby snoring, and the value of paying 4 Euros for the facility becomes apparent when you are gently awakened at the exact time you had requested.
I had a wonderful breakfast in Loudeac – a plain omelette and mashed potatos. I asked for gravy, and the server dished out the jus from a tray of chicken. Later, as I rolled thru the foggy Breton countryside, I could still taste the hint of whiskey in the sauce – they must have used cognac in the recipe, vive la France!
Day 2 was the heavy climbing day – up and over Roc Trevezel into Brest. The climb is gentle, but it is long, and it was wet. I was in full raingear, but it was warm, and the rain stopped as I neared Brest. This year we rode all the way into Brest, which I understood had not been done in the past few editions of PBP. I kept looking for the Brest sign so I could stop and take a photo of my bike next to it, but seeing none, I rode in with the peleton that had formed on the road.
I had wanted to get back to Tinteniac by the end of day 2. This would give me a 350-km last day and a shot at 60 hours; well, 62 anyway. But I had lost a scheduled hour climbing the hills up to and over Roc Trevezel, and I lost another hour riding back over most of the same terrain, so it was already 22h when I reached Quedillac, with another hour to Tinteniac, so I dropped off from the wheel I had been following and turned into the rest stop in Quedillac.
As sleeping facilities go, this was outstanding: a thick mattress covered with a sheet and a heavy comforter! After a full day of riding, it is hard to eat solid food right away, so I had soup and fruit, saving the big meal for breakfast. Another early wakeup, a large breakfast, a sandwich in my pocket, and I was off into tailwinds on the finishing leg at 4h45.
Much of Day 3 was flat with tailwinds punctuated by climbing and descending. Using just technique to get up the hills on the fixed gear, I would pass riders and streamlined recumbents, and then on the descents I’d get passed by the recumbents rocketing down the hills, and caught by many of the riders I had passed. By this time, my butt was becoming a mess. There was some blistering on the right side, so I had to stop to apply the skin ointment because it hurt to sit down. At one stop, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, I had just unscrewed the cap when a car drove up from the dirt side road. I innocently fiddled with the tube and waited for them to drive past, but they stopped and parked! An old guy and his equally old wife started to get out. What could I do but turn away from them and reach deep into my shorts with my fingers covered in the white lotion. When I’d finished, I smiled and waved at them, gave them a friendly "bonjour!" and sped off on the bike. Now they will have a story about the human drama of PBP.
After the brutal climbs before and after Mortagne (always beware of French names with “Mort” in them), I reached the broad, flat plains and the accompanying tailwinds before Dreux, the final controle. I had already blown the 60-hour finish 2 hour earlier at 17h; but I still had 65 hours within my grasp if I could finish by 22h. When I left Dreux at 19h10, I was told that it was over 60 km to the finish. I didn’t take any food, but I filled the bottle half with beer and half with Coke, an old racing trick for the last 10 km of a race. A small amount of alcohol can be a stimulant; any more and it’s a depressant. And so I hammered the last section, since there was nothing else to conserve energy for.
At about km 1200, with about 30 km to go, you hit the last significant climb, and it happens to be the steepest climb of the entire ride, up the winding road thru the Forest of Rambouillet. Some riders were walking their bikes up, but it presented no difficulties to this old, tired, alcohol-crazed berserker on the faithful 44x17 fixed gear; it was just slow. Once over the hill, I was catching and passing individuals and groups. Sipping away on the race concoction, I no longer felt saddle pain, and the thought of being within 15, 10, and 5 km of the finish provided additional adrenalin. Finally, I recognized the roads we used to get to the start, and three of us, from three different countries, who had ridden the final kilometers together crossed the line at 21h40 to the applause of a small crowd at the finish.
So that does it; I am now an ancien, an initiated member of a small but remarkable group of cyclists, maybe even a cult. Some are racers, most are tourists, all have finished the ride, and all receive exactly the same medal, although the time inscribed might be different. But the effort required to finish inside 65 hours for one is really no different than what is required for 80 hours, or 89 hours for another. The amount of courage required is exactly the same. Somewhere, you make the decision to take the risk, and you continue despite the adversity you soon inevitably encounter. Even those who gave up displayed this courage because they had the audacity to dream they could do such a thing, and maybe one day they will.
But when you are out on your best bicycle, well-equipped and finely-tuned, rolling thru the quiet French countryside, the sun peering thru the clouds, or maybe breaking on the horizon, the wind in your face but not blowing hard, even with two solid days of riding behind you and another full day ahead, and every muscle in your body already sore and aching, there’s really nothing else you’d rather be doing.
Bon courage!
Comments
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Sep 23, 2011 at 1:33 PMThat 'barracks' in Loudeac reminded me of a Matthew Brady photo of a US Civil War field hospital! Full of the half-dead.
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Oct 10, 2011 at 1:23 AMLoudeac reminded me of a Matthew Brady photo of a US Civil War field hospital! Full of the half-dead.
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Nov 2, 2011 at 4:27 AMCongrats on great time on the fixie & going so light.I was the little Aussie that finished with you & remember you not wanting to run any red lights so as not to incurr a time penalty, think the other rider may have been Russian
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