Paris-Brest-Paris 2011

[Deano]

Apologies for the length, and the occasional typo.

PART 1

“Hey man, it’s just a ride – the world doesn’t stop for it”. So said Peter the Mad Magyar Messenger, but it’s easy to forget that the world’s still turning when you’re so caught up in the bubble of the ride, when cheerful French supporters line the route and  lean out of their houses to cheer you along, and whole villages party through the night to celebrate your passing. Actually, never mind just riding; there were times when you had to stand back and remind yourself that all this was for you, you weren’t an interloper but someone with a gilt-edged invite to the whole shebang.

There was, however, the prospect of having to ride 1200 km. This was twice as far as I’d previously cycled, and I’ll admit to some nervousness at stepping into the unknown.

The first night was stone starking bonkers crazy-insane.  After a day's dossing about and wasting nervous energy and watching the other starters depart, I rolled up to the stadium with Alex at about a quarter to nine. Boab and the Elgin CC lads were already there, waiting for the off and awarding marks for how well people rode down the ramp onto the track. I didn't had chance to ride down as everyone in front of me got off and walked, so naturally, I felt I deserved a proper go. I received raucous applause from the spectators for my re-entry into the stadium, but getting back up the ramp had been the most difficult part.  Boab accused me of being an exhibitionist, and oddly it wasn't the last time this accusation was levelled at me on the ride.


me and Alex at the start by dean.clementson, on Flickr

The advantage of the 9 pm 90-hour start was that it was smaller, so we avoided queues at controls, and avoided being ono the road with three hundred others of varying abilities.  It seemed to be very much in favour amongst Brits.

It also meant we weren't waiting long in the stadium, unlike the previous groups which were held for hours in the damn hot sun while endless ceremonies went on. "And now, the mayor of Loudéac! His deputy! His deputy's cousin's eldest son who once went to the supermarket sur velo! And now, the same again in English! German! Swahili!" etc. They skipped the ceremonies for us and just chucked us out into the night in groups of twelve or so.

I was behind boab and Alex and the Elgin lads in the line, ahead of Danial Webb and Julian Dyson - a booming Frenchman gave the bikes a once-over to make sure our lights and hi-viz jackets were in place, then booted us out into the crepuscular gloom.  There was a red phallic Velomobile starting with us, struggling with the wee ramp, so I weaved my way around him and onto the road. Filled with adrenalin, we set a blistering pace and we were soon catching up riders from previous groups, snarling at the frustrating red lights which cropped up every couple hundred yards (we stopped at most of them, honest!), and struggling not to be overwhelmed by the experience of dashing into the dark with still-cheering spectators and the hiss of the pressure valve threatening to overload. It's a long time in coming, PBP - it only happens once every four years, and there's at least a two-month gap after qualifying before the event itself.  For me, that first run into the darkness was a great release of tension. 

There was a group of mostly Irish who were cranking up the speed, and shelling riders behind them up the hills. I had to stop as my rear light was flashing (event rules stated: no flashing rear lights, else suffer a time penalty), and since it happened just at the point where the traffic lights ended at the Parisian city limits, I was using myself badly to try to catch up with the group. The pace they were setting was so high, there was no chance for slower groups to form, as everyone was trying to keep up.  I rode along with them for a while, but when Julian eased off I did the same.  Going off too fast on the first night was one hazard I wanted to avoid.  Turns out, this wasn't an issue for me.

I had been worried about getting water and provisions, as there were 190 km to the first port of call, but everyone said there was plenty of roadside support, and they were right. At about 70 kms a little girl filled my bottles, and at about 100 kms I stopped at Thymerais where the Sports Bar was open all night and there was a wild atmosphere.  The waitresses were all in fancy dress, a guy from the local news was filming the scene, and cyclists were draped about the chairs and tables, sleeping and snoring and sweating in the humid night.  I got myself an espresso and watched the riders milling around, already looking a bit spaced out, and I wondered what I’d signed up for.  I was bouncing with caffeine and adrenalin - everything seemed to exist in primary colours, which might have been the effect of some of the more out-there club jerseys.  Not to mention the compulsory hi-viz jackets of shame which we were obliged to wear during the hours of darkness.  I generally took mine off as soon as daylight came around - not that I found its weight a problem, but I preferred letting other people see my club jerset, and I would have preferred seeing other riders' club jerseys to the great wash of Health and Safety yellow which greeted mine eyes, even during the day.  So, first thing Monday morning, I sat up on my bike and de-hi-vizzed myself.  A broad Aussie voice behind me shouted "You effing show-off".  I shrugged.  Riding no-handed was to prove an exceptionally useful skill, as I could take the pressure off my hands, take off or put on my jacket of shame, and even stretch a bit while riding the bike.  And of course, it looks damn cool.

I built up a bit of good karma when I left the Sports Bar: a rider asked if I had spare batteries for his light, and since I had batteries to spare, I gave him a couple, and refused his kind offer of payment. It was that kind of convivial atmosphere. Loads of people were cheering you on, who all wanted you to succeed. And it turned out, I had the favour returned to me later on.

By this time the groups had fragmented, so we were a bunch of individuals on the road.  I rode at my own pace, overtaking a few riders. One Italian rider grabbed my wheel as I passed him, which was fair enough, but after seven or eight clicks I decided to let him do some work - he got the message when I almost pedalled to a standstill.  After my next turn, I simply swung off and he came through - we seemed to be working well together, though we spoke barely a word of the other's language. 

I was about to let him go, expecting him to descend faster than me when we were hitting the rolls about 50 km from Mortagne-au-Perch.  There were a couple of other cyclists around - I could see red lights streaming into the distance.  It was a ride where you would never be alone, unless you wanted to be.

Sadly, one of the riders up ahead took a tumble on the descent. I was about two hundred metres or so behind them, and either there was a touch of wheels between him and the rider close by him, or he fell asleep (though it seemed very early in the ride for that to happen), or a small animal ran into his wheel... I have no idea. However it happened, he took a header off the road and landed heavily. The other rider had already picked himself up by the time I got there, and a few others gathered around, and we called an ambulance, and the control at Mortagne to let them know what was happening. As it happened, an English doctor was riding, and he came along to the scene. I generally felt useless, but at least I could explain what had happened and advise English-speaking riders to keep moving on. The injured rider was Taiwanese, but unfortunately no other Taiwanese riders came along.  One rider asked if it was a secret control - I don't know if it was the ambulance, or the guy on the stretcher, or the pack of paramedics which gave him that impression.  I shook my head and waved him on. 

Along with the other riders who'd been close to the accident, I waited until he was packed off in an ambulance, and rode on, hoping that he was OK. There was, sad to say, one fatality on the ride, but I haven't heard anything about an injured Taiwanese rider.  I asked at a couple of controls, but no one had any information, so I hope that no news is good news.

I was a bit weirded out by the whole thing, and Mortagne couldn't come soon enough, where I hoped to get some coffee and a sit down and a bite to eat with familiar faces.  The route was rolling still, but I wasn't paying much attention, until I passed a rider who was walking his bike at the side of the road.

"Are you OK?" I asked.

"Erm, no," he replied.

So that was how I met Alex from Bangalore - his front mech clamp had snapped, and he couldn't even pedal the bike.  He refused my offer of help at first and insisted that I would make myself late, but I had the tools and know-how to split his chain, remove the mech and leave him with the use of a single chainring, so it would have been daft not to, especially as it saved him a 25 km walk, and only cost me about 25 minutes, including riding along with him a bit to make sure he could pedal. And to be honest, I was pleased to have something I could actually do, after feeling useless and helpess for more than an hour.

But being a good samaritan only goes so far - I got Alex riding and pedalling, then buggered off to Mortagne in search of coffee.  Caffeine dependency is a cruel mistress. 

I rode into Mortagne-au-Perch with a Canadian chap - I never caught his name, I only know him as the famous Hugh Porter, as his frame bore the name Hugh Porter, he complained that some people called him Hugh Porter, I mentioned that some people had asked if my name was Dave Yates, and I even made the mistake of asking who Hugh Porter was (the name did ring a vague bell), only to be told that he's a hero in my country.  Well, not in my fucking part of it, matey.  Such conversations are the stuff of night time rides.  I caught up with him later, shouted "Ah, you must be the famous Hugh Porter!" and carried on the conversation from before. It was only when the breaking daylight improved and allowed me to see his USA jersey, and I surreptitously took another look at his frame, that I realised it was a different, if similar, rider. I blame it on the hi-viz jackets of shame.  Dashed decent of him not to point out that we hadn't had a conversation previously, though.

I probably shouldn't mention the incident in the ladies' bogs at Mortagne - hey, it wasn't my fault.  There was a beardy bloke washing his face when I went in (insert standard comment about hairy Frenchwomen), so I thought it was the gents' and wandered in, but when I came out of the cubicle a female rider was giving me a very strange look. An honest mistake, m'lud.

I also saw some of the stars of the ride at Mortagne - Team David's Salon sat at the table next to me while I guzzled coffee and pastries and tried to get my shit together.  David is a British ex-pat who set up a chain of hair salons in the Phillippines, and in order to qualify he had to set up the qualifiers and create a long distance riding scene in the Phillippines.  He'd brought over a number of ladies from his salons (actually from the accounts department), and the plan was to ride as a team, in matching outfits.  I don't think it quite worked out, but when I saw them at Mortagne they were seated together, with David at the head of the table and the female riders flanking him.  I imagined that they went on the road in much the same way, David at the back and twin lines of ladies in front of him, riding a disciplined line and listening for his instructions to swap places.  Leader of the Pack came over the sound system, which seemed apt, especially after the line "They told me he was bad", which David echoed by saying "They told me it was flat!" Last I heard, David had packed, but he was cheering his remaining riders on from the roadside.

I left the slightly surreal scene behind, and I was very pleased to see Alex from Bangalore come into Mortagne just as I was leaving - he handed his bike over to the mechanic, hopefully for a more permanent repair. I wished him well, and at this point, I was simply hoping that the rest of the ride would be straightforward and simple, no more adventures or extraordinary happenings or chance meetings. A simple, easy ride back in, without any dramas.  Maybe I could handle a puncture, or a bit of rain. Be careful what you wish for.

Still, the riding itself was easy - for most of Monday morning after the sleepless night I was steadily overtaking other cyclists. The night had been warm and I'd drank six bottles of water, but the dawn was overcast and the day proved to be much cooler than the previous days.  Lantern rouge and I had ridden into Paris on the Thursday, when it was 35 degrees C. The ride would have been a very different experience if that had persisted.

I did my bit for UK-Taiwan relations (don't ask - or if you do, ask me in person, as it's a much better story when I can mime the actions), then for most of the rest of the day it was just a matter of pedalling, eating and shitting.  The squatting toilets at Villaines were a bit too much for me to cope with at that stage, but that's the great thing about a shite - sometimes you can hold it in (though don't tell Lantern rouge this, as he had a very different experience on the ride). I commented to Sven the Flemish hipster on the second or third day that these rides tend to reduce you to your most basic needs - get something to eat, have a piss and a crap, get some sleep, possibly have a shower, and keep going.  So if I do write a book of it, I'll want to call it "Eat. Sleep. Shit. Ride."

There was a brief rain shower, when I sheltered in a barn and ate the last of CrinklyLion's chocolate flapjack, which I'd carefully hoarded for such an occasion. An Alaskan named Buzz agreed with me that it was too warm for a rain jacket, as we rode past lines of cyclists donning all sorts of wet weather gear.  Later in the ride, I was inbetween partsandlabour, from Sunderland, who was sweating in shorts and short sleeves with the zip of his jersey right down, and his Porto Rican mate, who was icily cool in full length arm and leg warmers. That was one of the best bits of the madness, the array of nationalities riding, and the pleasure of company from different parts of the world. Apart from Alaskan Buzz, there was Geert the Smoking Dane, Sven the Flemish Hipster, a pair of US ex-pats living in Singapore, one of whom had the most fabulous full-of-attitude New Yoik accent. I could have listened to him all day.  As well as a rich mix of French, Italians, Japanese, Spaniards and Dutch, and a lesser-spotted Hungarian, Peter the Mad Magyar Messenger, who worked as a bicycle courier in Berlin, had ridden to the start, and rode around in a knackered looking wifebeater and a pair of corduroy shorts. I asked him if he hadn't had time to get changed into his cycling gear that morning, and he replied "Hey, this is how I roll, man".  I even rode with people from such exotic and faraway places as Kent and Wakefield.

I'd decided to have a big eat at Fougeres, to shelter from the rain (which had stopped before I left), and this was the right place to eat, as the food eas plentiful and not that expensive. Mind you, you probably needed a three-course meal to set you up for the walk from the control, to the restaurant, to the toilets, all of which seemed to be as far away from one another as was possible.  On the way back, I rode my bike up to the control, then to the bog.

Full of food, I enjoyed the grand ride past the chateau out of Fougeres in the sunshine.  I missed a turn in one of the villages, but thought to myself "not a problem - I'll just nip across this car park and back onto the route". Unfortunately I'd forgotten that the French don't do dropped pavements, so I took the entrance to the car park with more speed than was probably wise, and earned myself a snakebite puncture.  It was easy to fix, and I was managing fine, until a local came along and insisted on helping. He was most insistent, and I didn't really have the French or the heart to tell him to piss off and let me do it by myself.  I replaced the tube without a problem, but I made a right cock-up of re-setting the wheel. Riding fixed, this is a bit of an issue, and I noticed that my chain felt extraordinarily slack. I stopped pedalling, the sprocket unscrewed itself, and I came stupidly to a halt. Not in itself a big issue - there was no damage done, and I decided to flip the wheel to use the sprocket I had on the other side. With an audience of amused locals, I didn't find this especially simple, so my chain was still exceptionally slack when I set off, as Greenbank was kind enough to point out.
This was merely the first incident in a chain of punctures and mechanicals, all of which were simple enough, but in total they were a bit disheartening.  The low point was sitting in a field east of Loudeac, with one unpatchable tube, two tubes in which I couldn't find the puncture, and rumbles of thunder coming closer.  I didn't want to be stuck in a field in the rain, trying to bodge a repair, or have to take a ride with the motorbike support crew, who were hovering like vultures, or so it seemed.  Luckily enough, the first cyclist I flagged down had a spare tube which would fit my tyre.  PAul [], you are a gentleman and a scholar, but fuck knows why you had that tube when it wouldn't have fitted anything on your bike.

I vowed to buy more innertubes when I got to Loudeac, and rode on while the storm was still brewing.  Seems that the delay was a blessing in disguise, as it gave Lantern rouge a chance to catch up - he'd been having a torrid time with his digestion, and I think I'll leave it at that.  We rode together into Loudeac through an immense storm, which I found utterly wild and hilarious. I couldn't see a thing with my glasses on, as the rain covered the lenses, and even with my glasses off, I couldn't see far.  I soon lost Lantern rouge, and I thought he'd gone off the side of the road when someone shouted what I thought was my name and waved me down.  But it was just an over-enthusiastic local, crossing the line from friendly and supportive to annoying and intrusive (I had a wonderful ride, but that was one of the few moments where I became a bit irritated).  I rode back up to Lantern rouge and let out a series of whoops and exclamations to echo every shout of thunder, which must have made the experience exceptionally mad, as even he remembers it, in the blur of shitting and struggling to eat and sleep deprivation which was his ride. He got around, though, and I was there to cheer him back.

I was, I think, starting to suffer with sleep deprivation, since I'd been awake for 40 hours or so.  The lead-in to Loudeac was a bit of an assault course in the dark and wet, a series of narrow chicanes inbetween crash barriers which funneled us into the control.  There were bikes everywhere, partsandlabour was just leaving, looking a bit tired, knackered in fact.  I would probably have told him to stop and get some kip instead of carrying on, but I wanted his bike space...

Lantern rouge was pushing the time limit and was a bit concerned about getting sleep, so we went and found Julian Dyson, guru of timings on PBP, who told Lantern rouge how lonog he could afford to sleep. I saw Lantern rouge to his dorm and some much-needed rest, decided that a quick beer would send me off to sleep and sat in the cafe to guzzle it before following Lantern rouge into the dormitory.

Though I had a lot more time than him, I think I'd picked up on his sense of urgency, so I asked for a 3 am wake-up, which was far earlier than I really needed, and I spent a restless night waking up every half hour or so, probably not helped by the epic snoring and general noisiness of the place.  One guy took a phone call in the middle of the night, and only hung up when his neighbour asked "Dude, what the fuck?" Someone came to wake my neighbour at about 2.30, then started to have a conversation with him. I gave him a look filled with as much disdain as I could manage, which I think is quite a lot, even at dark o'clock.  Anyway, I took it as my cue to get up, get eating and get gone.
 

[Deano]

<a href="http://www.youtube.com/v/iRu8FkaOzs4&rel=1" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/v/iRu8FkaOzs4&rel=1</a>
 
The Mel and Tim song tends to go through my head when setting off again in the mornings. It takes a while for my legs to get going again, and it seemed especially so on that Tuesday morning out of Loudeac.  I felt as if it was going uphill forever, until I limped into a roadside cafe/tent at Merleac, which was a haven in the darkness. It's a temptation to describe the controls and wayside stops as refugee camps, as they have that air of transience and desperation, with riders slumped at tables and stumbling in covered in grime, rain and the detritus of endless hours on the road, or shovelling food and fuel into themselves.  I got myself a coffee and a croissant and watched the other riders come in, or pause and shake their heads before riding on. The roadside support was fabulous, but you couldn't stop at every one.  When I returned, I slowed to a crawl as I passed St-Martin at 3 in the morning, where the villagers had set up a massive canopy in the square outside the pub, with an enormous sound system and the enticing aromas of beer and barbecue, and were inviting riders in. It was a massive bouncing party which was only just getting going, but I shook my head and rode on rather than stopping, as I feared I wouldn't be able to leave. Someone compared it to the sirens, luring careless riders onto the rocks.

I was still half asleep, but the coffee had perked me up a bit.  I was still a long way from Brest, and I did start to feel the pressure of time, as I rode very slowly through the grey morning. The cloud was low and mizzle hung in the air, clinging to my specs and making it impossible to see. I rode for a while with Buzz, but I had to keep stopping to clear the moisture from my lenses, or riding very slowly without them. I was also feeling very sleepy again - I had vaguely planned to coincide my sleep stops with my usual dip at around about 6 am (I still find it hard to believe that there's more than one 6 o'clock in the day, and the one in the morning is definitely the wrong one), but this hadn't worked out, so I took a nap at the least-damp spot I could find, which was someone's driveway.  No one in the house seemed to mind or notice, and I was only asleep for ten minutes or so, which was enough to let me pedal on to the next control, at Carhaix.

Carhaix. It was grey, and bleak, and concrete.  I couldn't see anyone I knew in the hall, and none of the food was appetising, and I could barrely eat the soup, so I had a measly meal of bread and rice pudding (remembering that riz au lait was the French for rice pudding was a godsend). The place was busy, as the quicker riders were making it back to Carhaix, having already been to Brest; I saw Andy C come in, but I couldn't be bothered to go and talk to him. I did speak to bunbury and boab as I left, but I probably made even less sense than usual. I at least had the energy to put in my contact lenses, as the persistent mizzle was still persisting, and the sun showed no sign of breaking through the murk.  I was glad to leave the place.

Someone at Merleac had mentioned a huge 4-kilometre climb before Brest, so I was contemplating that as I rode away from Carhaix, but my legs had finally woken up, so I was fair shifting, and I got riding with a couple of good groups on the long, easy climb over one of the valleys. There were loads of riders coming the other way at this point, returning from Brest, and it was fun to spot fellow Brits and other riders I knew, and shout their names - the others in the group seemed impressed that I was so well known.  I got to the front as the road kicked up a wee bit, and led our little grupetto to the top of the climb which turned out to be Le Roc Trevezel, the dreaded climb of climbs.  We'd caned it. 

I let the group go on the descent, and peeled off the road to get out of the way of some fairly impatient wagon drivers, but I caught them up again in the village of Sizun, as I saw lantern rouge stopped in the square, so I stopped to chat and take in the atmosphere.  I brought my spork into action on a yoghurt from the supermarket.  It was another of those villages which seemed to celebrate the passing of the riders with a quadri-annual carnival, so I enjoyed sitting out there and watching the crowds cheer the riders past. 


Denise Hurst coming off Le Roc by dean.clementson, on Flickr

I rode the last 50 k or so into Brest with Andy, who was in much better form, but still struggling to keep anything down (or up, as the case may be).  About 10 km from Brest he dropped back to get a bit of, erm, privacy.

The roads were still busy with wagons which struggled to overtake the lines of cyclists. There was one huge convoy coming the other way, with a special load travelling at a relatively low speed, and I was amused to see a lone cyclist in the middle of the convoy, slipstreaming one of the trailers.  Some people will do anything to get that little bit extra.

The entry into Brest was wonderful - a downhill swoop onto a fine old stone bridge, with a grand view of the new bridge next to it.  We stopped for the obligatory photos. Unfortunately, I felt as though my legs had stopped at that point, and the route through the middle of the city to the control seemed to take an age and to cross about seventeen million billion level crossings, each of them at a more dangerous angle than the last.


me and Andy Wills by dean.clementson, on Flickr

Andy and I went to find the restaurant when we eventually got there, and we did eventually find it, after answering the three questions posed by the guardian, braving the mystic maze and descending the stairs of doom.  OK, I exaggerate, but it was a bloody long way to go, expecially when the queue was massive and they didn't have free beer, which someone had told me they gave you at Brest.  OK, so Ian gave me his beer, so I did get free beer, but not quite as advertised. I'd thought that it was low alcohol stuff, but it was definitely the full-blooded variety, which might help to explain my jelly legs as I rode away from Brest, back up past the old city walls and the church... and back out at last onto the open roads. Andy had stopped for some much-needed kip, but I was keen to ride on, as I was feeling good and relaxed at reaching the halfway point, where the time limits became less severe, and I could have an enjoyable cruise back, which I did.

Peter the Mad Magyar Messenger caught up with me riding away from Brest - actually, not long after I'd stopped for a roadside kip in a sheltered wood.  A bunch of Danes had woken me when they stopped for a piss nearby, and I rode dopily up the road, had a conversation with a pair of children and their grandfather in dopy French, and when they asked when I expected to get back to Paris, I replied "Ce soir," as I couldn't remember the French word for "Thursday". They smiled, and the little girl gave me a flower.

The fog was finally starting to lift, and climbing back over Le Roc, I was amazed to see views, and a mast at the top of a hill, and the hill itself, which had all been grey blankness that morning.  There were some quite spectacular masts on the ride, notably the fine example atop Le Roc, and another which we circumnavigated near Tinteniac.  For the most part, PBP isn't a ride memorable for spectacular views and vistas, but Brittany did look delightful that afternoon.

"Jeudi!" I shouted down the road.  That being the French word for Thursday, which I'd finally remembered.

Peter the Mad Magyar Messenger had told me to expect a sort of mental countdown on the return, as I re-visited all the controls which I'd already seen, but mostly I felt that they were all completely different, none more so than Carhaix on that Tuesday evening. I had an urge for chips as I rode towards the town, resisting the signs for Mcdonalds, and grabbing a portion of chips at a local kebab house, which I sat and ate on the grass outside the control while listening to the Breton pipe band in the warm evening sunshine. It was a perfect moment, and a complete contrast to my experience of Carhaix that morning. I especially enjoyed the riders who came over and asked longingly if they were doing chips at the control. Sorry pal, but no, and these are mine.

When I left Carhaix and took the turning for "Paris" rather than the turning for "Brest", well, that felt good too. I was astonished, though, at how many riders were still heading west - coming into Carhaix, I'd stopped to take one of the "Brest" waymarkers as a souvenir, but a Swedish rider interrupted me to check that it was the correct way to Brest (the routes diverged at that point, so he was seeing a stream of cyclists coming from a different direction to the one he was supposed to go, which was worrying him). I didn't point out that he'd be hours out of time before he got there, I just reassured him that he was on the correct route, and asked if there were many still behind him. "Yes, lots," he replied.  I left the waymarker where it was.

I continued to see riders still heading west as I rode away from Carhaix, though they became more infrequent and progressively more worn out as I went further east.

I was still buoyed by a glow of happiness which mostly stayed with me to the end of the ride. Again, I was overtaking loads of riders, especially on the hillier bit towards Loudeac. I was also being overtaken in turn by a few of the faster riders from the 84-hour group which had started seven or eight hours behind me. Feeling fit, I did try to grab onto a few wheels, but since I was topping 40 kph to catch up with them, I generally let them go before long. I was going well, but I didn't want to waste myself too early. 

I stopped again at the hilltop cafe in Merleac, to grab a coffee and a bite to eat to get me on to Loudeac - I'd already decided to sleep there again. My memory had erased much of the 10 km or so from Loudeac on the previous day, so that I remembered it being all uphill to Merleac, and therefore all downhill on the way back - I expressed this opinion to a couple of Americans who were struggling with the hills.  I do hope they'll forgive me, asit wasn't entirely gravity-assisted to Loudeac, though - like the rest of the route - I didn't find it particularly challenging. I was tiring a bit and ready for some sleep, but not so much that I lost all my faculties,as when leaving Merleac, I was riding behind a German, and we saw another rider come flogging up the hill in the other direction, then a group ahead of us stopped and turned back. We passed them, then the German lad stopped, and asked me "Have we gone off route?" I shook my head, as I didn't think we had, and even in darkness, it looked kinda familiar. He was keen to ride back up to the village, but I said we should just stop, and wait, and if any other riders came down the road, we'd know it was the right road.  It was less than thirty seconds later when a few lights came along, so we rode on. Not bad thinking, for after midnight. I'm probably far too sensible.

The crazy chicken-run through the chicanes into Loudeac seemed a little less challenging than it had the previous night, but otherwise my routine was much the same. A bit of beer and food and a chat with a few other riders at the cafe, then off to the dorm for sleep. I slept away five good hours, during which I stirred not even once.

A shower and more riz au lait for breakfast with mondo coffee, then I was away again. I'd probably have made a very obedient squaddie, as I awoke immediately and said "merci" as soon as I felt the waker-upper's hand on my shoulder. If there is an advantage to being completely rubbish in the mornings, then it's the slow response of non-essential thought processes and reactions. Before my brain lurtched into life, I was up and getting dressed and in the shower, all on near-automatic.  Nothing really filters through until the second coffee, I always feel.

This does have disadvantages, too.  The nights are long in France in August, and it was still dark when I left Loudeac, so it's probably not totally surprising that I followed a couple of cyclists off route, and completely the ignored the friendly French driver who tried to shepherd us back onto it. However, when he stopped me and a couple of Americans, between us we had enough French to realise that we were off the route, heading towards the motorway, and he'd point us back in the correct direction. Merci, mysterrious strrrangerrr.

Daylight came on and I began to notice the areas the route took us through more - around Loudeac and Quedillac it was very rural, lots of picturesque ramshackle houses, with a few better-kept than others. Someone pointed out that the better-kept ones were probably owned by Brits, and there were a couple of villages en route where the voices shouting out "Bon courage" and "bon route" were in strongly accented British. They'd obviously picked up on the whole roadside support ethos of most of the places en route, which was a big part of what made the ride such a buzz - I was floating on a wave of gentle happiness, apart from being stung on the tongue by an insect near Fougeres, which was an altogether different kind of buzz.

Most people I rode with commented on the atmosphere: Aussie Tony said that riding down the hill into Villaines, amongst the cheering crowds and into the scrum of a press pit where riders were being dragged off their bikes and interviewed, was like being a rock star. The Famous Hugh Porter shook his head when he saw me at Villaines and said "I don't know what they told these people was supposed to be happening". To my relief, the guy in the red velomobile was being interviewed on my way in, and the girl in the array of flowery dresses who rode along with flowers in her basket (as well as many changes of clothes) was being interviewed when I left, which spared me from having to attempt any French. 


P8230219 by dean.clementson, on Flickr

I spent most of Wednesday and Thursday riding with Sven the Flemish Hipster, and they were both good days. I'd had plenty of sleep, including an extra doze under the trees at Fougeres while Sven went for a massage, and about half an hour in a field after Villaines, and the roadsides were littered with people taking impromptu naps, in a variety of poses, from carefully perched atop a dyke, to the “fell-asleep where he fell”, and a couple of more outré poses, such as asleep in the road, as in on the road itself. One advantage of the recumbentist made itself clear in this situation: stop, park, sleep.

And the ones who had stopped to sleep were the sensible ones: there were plenty of riders who must have been pushing the time limit, or had convinced themselves that they’d be OK to the next control, who had a tendency to weave about the road unpredictably, and generally wouldn’t listen to advice to stop. You kept them where you could see them, or rode away from them as quickly as possible.

The last control before Paris was Dreux, which was dreur. Dreary Dreux. Depressing Dreux. Don’t do Dreux.  I had my only moments of real irritability on the ride, after failing to get much sleep in the busy control. I was asleep upright in a chair, and falling to my right, but I was dreaming that I was asleep between two other people and leaning on the shoulder of the person at my right… but luckily a volunteer propped me up before a tumble onto the creaky floorboards. That was the only positive thing to happen to me at Dreux, and I was immensely pleased to leave.

So, the last leg. We had time aplenty, and were aiming to finish at about midday, when there’d be crowds and people to cheer us in. Sven was limping a bit, so I fed him some good drugs and we rode slowly across the plains, under a huge sky. He was too tired to stop to piss, so he was experimenting with pissing while riding, which drew one or two comments from a couple of American riders, so I told them they weren’t taking their training seriously enough: it’s not just about riding your bike loads, you also have to think about saving time in other ways. They said they’d take my comments on board.


Sven Torfs by dean.clementson, on Flickr

Sven bought a bottle of cidre doux, and we passed it back and forth between us on the road into Paris, Tour de France-style. There may be photos out there somewhere. The sun was out as we rode down the boulevards (I only slowed to do up my jersey for the photos), the crowds were twelve-deep in my imagination, and Alex and Steve and a few other familiar faces were on the corner, and of course there was free beer at the end. I felt as though I’d surfed into Paris on a gentle wave of happiness and achievement. And even though Sven was suffering a bit, he did mention “Next time” once or twice.  Damn right, next time.


Dave Yates by dean.clementson, on Flickr

[Peter]

Dean Clementson, you are just an exhibitionist!

"Crepuscular gloom..."  Man, you're wasted on cycling.

Great report; it almost feels like I wasn't there.

[pipsuds]

Great report and interesting for me as you seem to have been fairly close to me time wise throughout except for a different choice of sleep stops, so felt similar to the ride I had

[MSeries]

"Crepuscular gloom..."  Man, you're wasted on cycling.

that made me smile too though I don't think it's the first time he's used it.

[Bledlow]

I also saw some of the stars of the ride at Mortagne - Team David's Salon sat at the table next to me while I guzzled coffee and pastries and tried to get my shit together.  David is a British ex-pat who set up a chain of hair salons in the Phillippines, and in order to qualify he had to set up the qualifiers and create a long distance riding scene in the Phillippines.  He'd brought over a number of ladies from his salons (actually from the accounts department), and the plan was to ride as a team, in matching outfits.  I don't think it quite worked out, . . .

One of them made it in the time. The majority seem to have packed in at the half way mark, when they were over 45 hours & probably didn't have a real chance of finishing in time. One packed in after 74 hours, again with too many km & too few hours remaining.

Nice report, BTW.

Oh yeah - what make is the little bag under your top tube?

[mattc]

Outstanding! Lots of familiar experiences, and I laughed a lot.

Incidentally:
Your Loudéac close time was about 0430, so 3 am wasn't an entirely daft wake-up call time (given that you had more than 3 hours in bed). Thought you might like to know ...

[Peter]

I also saw some of the stars of the ride at Mortagne - Team David's Salon sat at the table next to me while I guzzled coffee and pastries and tried to get my shit together.  David is a British ex-pat who set up a chain of hair salons in the Phillippines, and in order to qualify he had to set up the qualifiers and create a long distance riding scene in the Phillippines.  He'd brought over a number of ladies from his salons (actually from the accounts department), and the plan was to ride as a team, in matching outfits.  I don't think it quite worked out, . . .

Oh yeah - what make is the little bag under your top tube?

Looks like it might be one of those miniature pannier sets?

[jogler]

Oh yeah - what make is the little bag under your top tube?

At the risk of stealing Dean's thunder ( he left Darlo last week to ride to the antipodea's AIUI ) he makes reference to this kit elsewhere on the forum.Maybe in "Bought Any Cycling Stuff Today" thread 

[L CC]

Oh yeah - what make is the little bag under your top tube?

Mine mine mine.

I haz the Deano teeny weeny panniers now



(Great RR too, thanks Deano)

[Bledlow]

Ah, I see. And very nice they are.

[tiermat]

I got some similar from the bay of e this week, as I find standard tribags fall over when I turn the bars.

£6.99 + 99p postage from these guys :http://myworld.ebay.co.uk/takechargebikes/ but they don't seem to have any at the mo

[mattc]

i like tri-bags, but my knees catch them if they're overstuffed or leaning over, or the cover is flapping. So anything wider there would be mucho irritating.

EDIT: but boab makes a good point - it's the velcro bits that create the most irritation. Anyway, I have a top-tube mounted pump, so other stuff in that area probably wouldn't work. And then there's the DT shifters on certain bikes ...

[have we violated the no-replies rule yet?!?]

[L CC]

Deano generously donated his t-w p's to me as they obscure the down-tube shifters on his long distance tourer, and I had admired them at the PBP start line. I should've have admired the bike more, clearly
I have a tri-bag, but the teeny-weeny panniers are less knee-annoying. No velcro on the cyclists side, and they stay in the same spot however stuffed- no leaning.
[swaying even further off-topic]
I think I may start an anti-velcro on bikes campaign.
The velcro on the tri-bag when the lid wasn't closed properly would catch annoyingly on my 3/4s.
I have destroyed 2 pairs of longs with velcro on the rack pack.
The front of my PBP shorts is fluffy from too much catching on the flappy high vis velcro 'closure'.
Yesterday I nearly put another hole in the rear of shorts from the velcro attaching the GPS tracker catching on them.
You'd think I'd learn, but clearly not.

[Deano]

"Crepuscular gloom..."  Man, you're wasted on cycling.

that made me smile too though I don't think it's the first time he's used it.

I've used the word crepuscular before, and will do so again! It's a good word

[Redlight]

Hi Deano

We rode briefly together in the rain somewhere between Villaines and Fougeres on the outward leg, but I was still suffering from having spent the previous night throwing up so probably wasn't great company. I think I stopped for some food at a cafe and you pressed on.  Anyway, great report - brings back a lot of memories.