Sunday, 18 August 2019
Alex writes: Paris-Brest-Paris Randonneur (PBP) is one of the oldest cycling events in the world. First run in 1891, PBP now has an established pattern of happening every four years as a grand randonnée in which riders from all of the world (there were 6,374 starters this year from over 60 countries) ride the 1200 km course out to the Atlantic port of Brest, and back.
I was one of several Cambridge riders taking part this year, and in the months before the start we formed a WhatsApp group to swap tips and fret about the weather forecast – this group included speedy veterans like Nick Jackson (this year making an amazing comeback after two months in hospital at the start of the year after having been knocked off his bike by a motorist), and our own Nick W, who successfully completed the 2015 edition of PBP on a Brompton, but was this year riding a vintage Peugeot fixed-gear bike.
In the days leading up to the start, the weather in France had been inauspicious, with strong winds and heavy rain. However on the day of PBP itself the rain cleared, as if respectfully making way for the event. We were forecast sunny spells but with a headwind outbound to Brest.
I had mentally divided the event, and the GPX track, into four roughly equal parts of approximately 300 km each. I saw the first task as getting to Fougères as efficiently as possible. With my 18:15 start this would mean riding through the first night and minimizing stops. I had selected the "Touriste" option; this meant I had 90 hours to complete the event.
After queueing in the sun for a while we were waved off, received a starting stamp in our brevet book, and passed the first timing receivers to get an official start time. This was it! I was riding out of the Rambouillet estate grounds on a gravelly track lined with cheering people.
But straight away a problem, a whirring/clicking sound. Something trapped in the spokes. Could it be a dynamo cable? – that could cause ride-jeopardising problems. I look up to see it's just a spectator with a football rattle. Calm down Alex.
At 5 km my ride nearly comes to an early end when the rider in front of me sheds their load, which had been precariously strapped to a rack. I swerved around and fortunately nobody went down (other groups were not so lucky, with some pile-ups caused by riders ploughing into uncalled street furniture). This was the first of many pieces of questionable cyclecraft I was to see throughout the event.
The field settled and at first everything was so easy: flat(ish) roads, big groups, fresh legs and a warm mellow evening. As expected, the road was a sea of red tail lights stretching as far as the eye could see, and official motorcycle outriders accompanied us, patrolling up and down the field. I made an effort to moderate my power, letting the faster groups go by and only overtaking the occasional rider, including one on a fat bike who – judging by their very slow speed this early on – was destined not to finish in time.
The first designated stop was at Mortagne-au-Perche (117 km), but since this was not a control I rode straight through, focussing on making progress. It was now nearly midnight and the temperature had started dropping. In my role as a weather Cassandra I had predicted to the Cambridge WhatsApp group that night-time temperatures might be as low as 8°C, so was slightly annoyed when my Garmin indicated 7°C. Fortunately I had packed for cold weather, and had donned an insulated jacked and winter gloves. But with no knee or leg warmers the damp air left my newly-shaved legs feeling uncomfortably chilled.
After a while I had drunk both my water bottles dry and so decided to take advantage of the roadside support. Already this had been much in evidence with the route spotted with clapping cheering spectators crying "Allez Allez!" and "Bravo!" and "Bon Courage!". It seemed some families liked nothing better than sitting outside on a cold night encouraging cyclists – quite a contrast from the UK. In one village I spotted a couple of teenagers listening to rock music on a ghetto blaster, with bottles of water by their sides. I stopped and they made haste to refill my bidons. Merci beaucoup!
I couldn't see the terrain, but by now a rhythm was emerging of an sequence of long effortful drags up followed by fast shallow descents. This was quite hard work, especially with the need to keep a wary eye on so many other unpredictable riders nearby on the road. There was also a niggling headwind. I began to yawn and felt at a low ebb. Did I really have it in me to ride another 1000 km? Did I really want to? The doubts started to accumulate.
I had been planning to bounce the first control (Villaines-la-Juhel @ 217 km) but what with the arduous cycling and my accumulating fatigue I was tempted to stop at a pop-up stall of Murielle and Hervé Horeau (Boulanger • Pâtissier • Chocolatier) where I bought a cup of coffee and the butteriest, richest pain aux raisins I have ever eaten. Much taken with this, I also a bought a pain au chocolat for my top tube bag, which nestled there plumply radiating good vibes. Always comforting to know there's a pastry in reserve.
The first 217 km had been covered in 10h20m – hardly a blistering time but a fair reflection of the terrain, headwind and my own abilities. With over 4 hours now "in hand" I had earned myself time enough to consider options. Whereas on the only very long ride I have done before, London-Edinburgh-London, I had devised an intricate plan which, like most plans, did not survive contact with the enemy, for this ride I felt confident enough to wing it, with only a broad outline idea of what I wanted to do. I had the control closing times taped to my top tube, and with my Garmin giving me data on progress I was able to recalculate and re-plan as the ride unfolded – in this way a lot of mental arithmetic was done!
After Villaines the sky started brightening but the actual dawn was a long time coming. I am used to through-the-night rides much closer to the summer solstice, and the extra hours of night time were thus a surprise I should have thought about – sun up was not until after 7 o'clock, but I knew its rays would be cheering and would help stave off the dozy feeling that was starting to make my eyelids feel increasingly heavy.
I reached Gorron (271 km) just before eight o'clock and by then the day had broken and was set to be a fine, sunny one. Spotting a café I stopped for coffee and croissants (two better than one!). With the night behind me and a good day in prospect my mood had improved and I was looking forward to the rest of the ride. I had got my "bad patch" out of the way early.
This section seemed to roll gently along a ridge with a valley to the side. Then, a turn south and a plunge down to Control No 2, Fougères (306 km), reached in 15h45m. Again, not a brisk time for "a 300", but sufficient for my purposes with over 4½ hours now in hand. At Fougères I noticed the restaurant queues were short (most randonneurs keep "normal" eating/sleeping hours, so at other times queues can be avoided) and so had a meal of rice and pasta salads and some plain yoghurt. During London-Edinburgh-London my tongue had become increasingly sore and ragged during the ride, and a suspected culprit for this was too much refined sugar, so I was going easier on sweet stuff this time.
Riders were being given a musical accompaniment to their exit from Fougères by a biniaouer: welcome to Brittany! At the roadside a warning sign signalled "randonneurs" in a way which spoke of the different attitude accorded to cyclists here. Indeed, during the event it was common to have cars stop on roundabouts and at junctions to wave the cyclists on, often with an encouraging and non-ironic "Bravo!".
On the road I found myself riding with multi-PBP ancien Tom Jackson who (despite being rather my senior) was riding much more strongly than me. Tom lamented the headwind and, it's true, the wind had got up and transitioned from being "niggling" to "bothersome". I, however, bore the scars of several audax Fenland traversals so while I was conscious the wind was slowing progress, mentally it counted for nothing and I could accept it. To defeat the wind one must surrender to the wind.
I passed through the Tinténiac control (360 km) quickly taking a jambon et fromage baguette from the "express" food stall. Back out on the road there was evidence the ride was beginning to take its toll on riders: some were stopped by the side of the road draped over their bars, others were asleep on the verge, and at one point the chap in front of me came to an abrupt stop and vomited. The day had become quite warm and I was feeling drowsy again. Condition were ripe for an audax "first" for me – a nap in a field. I pulled off the road, set my phone alarm for 20 minutes, pulled my buff over my eyes and lay my head on my dry bag of winter gear, which made a passable pillow.
Ten minutes of sleep banished the drowsiness and had a revivifying effect, so I set out with renewed vigour, which was just as well as the course was getting lumpier with what were beginning to feel like gratuitous hills. I rode straight past the Quedillac food stop (387 km) but was tempted to stop a little further on in Illifaut (409 km), where a friendly chap had assumed the role of village host ("Welcome! Welcome!") and was making cake recommendations and placing orders at Aux Saveurs d'Autrefois, the village boulangerie / patisserie. I selected a tarte aux fraises. Yumsk.
From here it was but a short step to to Loudéac (446 km), infamous (alongside Carhaix) as one of PBP's "war zones" because it is where many riders attempt to sleep both outbound and inbound.
The reception at Loudéac was fantastic – the long run in was lined with spectators who were going wild with no less abandon than if I had been Julian Alaphilippe winning the Tour de France with a sprint to the summit of Alpe d'Huez. A band was playing and sausages were sizzling on large open barbeques. The queues for the restaurant was long so I got some chips and a baguette from a kiosk, and only half-finished them before setting off again.
The further west the ride went, the more enthusiastic the support became. Village streets were lined with children keen to high-five passing cyclists. One little boy looked like he might explode with delight with each successful high five from a passing randonneur, and a few km after Loudéac the village of Saint-Martin-des-Prés was holding a three day party with marquees, roaring barbeques and raucous music.
I had intended to ride straight past the next food stop at Saint-Nicolas-du-Pélem (490 km) but flashing signs and marshalls in the road firmly ushered riders in: this, it turned out, was a "secret control" placed to ensure riders were sticking to the (mandatory) route and not cutting corners (though looking at Strava FlyBys, it's evident some of that went on!). Brevet card duly stamped, I rode on now feeling wearied by a lack of sleep and the increasingly challenging terrain.
Although I had originally thought I might try and ride through to Brest without a proper sleep, now was time for a rethink. I was tired, slow and with another cold night underway I started anticipating I would sleep at the next "war zone" control, Carhaix (523 km). But, when I arrived there I found myself witnessing a randonneuse pleading piteously with a volunteer in broken French: "Tout le monde désire dormir ici, mais il n'y a pas de lits. Ç'est quatre-vingts kilomètres à Brest, et je suis SI FROID." I didn't have the heart to intercede and tell her it was in fact quatre-vingts dix kilomètres à Brest, but nevertheless this exchange told me I was unlikely to be sleeping in a bed at Carhaix.
When I reached the cafeteria all the corridors and most of the floor space was already littered with prone randonneurs. I had a bland meal of rice and chicken – the food here was poor with the amazing exception of huge tray bakes of Far Breton with plenty of luscious prunes. This was needed fuel for the cold night ahead as it was clear, since I judged I wasn't exhausted enough to sleep in these conditions, that this was one of those moments you get on long rides when it's necessary to do the unpleasant thing. In this case, that unpleasant thing was going to be riding through the night to Brest.
Once underway I soon became desperate for a climb to warm up as, even with four layers (merino base, merino jersey, brevet insulated jacket, PBP gilet) and winter gloves, the damp air had a special penetrating cold quality. Fortunately my wish was granted, with interest, as there was plenty of climbing on this leg. I formed an impromptu riding party with a couple of recumbent riders, and we would pass and re-pass each other over the undulating terrain, bound in an unspoken kinship with Brest our common goal. A sign announced we had entered the Parc naturel régional d'Armorique and I was impressed with how much effort the French lavished on maintaining it, going so far as to paint the roads with amazing patterns of colour so they resembled the marbled end papers of old books.
Hang on. That's not right. I was hallucinating. Still, so long as the hallucinations are still recognizable as such it's okay (I told myself), and donned some headphones to see if music would keep me alert. Through the forest of Huelgoat we rode, and then onto the slopes of the only noted climb of the event, that of the Roc'h Trevezel. Although, with over 250m of ascent this is not to be sniffed at, the gradient is very gentle – almost a "false flat" – and in the cold the effort of climbing was welcome. By now the fastest riders at the front of the field were returning from Brest and white lights and whirring freehubs were shooting down the other side of the road during the ascent.
I reached the summit of the Roc'h at about 4am and sure enough, a guy with a folding table was busy dispensing free coffee and brioche. The coffee was instant and wickedly strong; the brioche was stodgy. It was somehow perfect.
Then the fast, very cold descent. My music selection is eclectic, being several hours of Philip Glass transitioning to a pop music miscellany. The Philip Glass hadn't really been doing it for me (though it was in keeping with the road surfaces I was imagining) but the pop music was even less welcome. I normally like Bob Dylan's stuff but now it just sounded like nasal whining. I stopped and ripped my headphones out. I sensed Brest was near but somehow it was a long time coming, with plenty of undulation and some complex round-the-houses navigation to dodge the main roads. With only 10 minutes of sleep in the last two nights, the dozies began to threaten and my eyelids started once again to droop: the grimly familiar "dawn dip". I started to pull some of the usual tricks to keep alert: out-of-the saddle efforts, shouting, shaking my head.
Suddenly there it was: we were on the old bridge leading into Brest, a traditional spot for a PBP photograph.
With the dozies banished it was time to ride into town and to the control. Half way: 613 km done in just under 37 hours. Again, hardly quick especially given my lack of a proper sleep stop – but sufficient to feel I was well set to go on and complete the ride in the remaining 53 hours allowed.
At the control I bumped into Tom Deakins (aka Tomsk) who had started in the same wave as me, and just arrived. This was a good sign since as an ultra-experienced randonneur Tomsk's pace is a good benchmark – though I am sure he'd had more sleep than I had.
Brest is a notorious control, especially for its bogs. Fortunately I didn't feel the need to pay a visit there, and indeed I was feeling no bodily stirring from that quarter. This was a concern since normally bowels conspire to play some kind of trick on a long ride. Truly I am an English randonneur.
I sought the "couchage" and booked myself a two-hour sleep, which I knew would be enough for me to have a full sleep cycle with some deep and some REM sleep. I was shown to a room with one other dozing cyclist, lay down, and fell asleep instantly.
However almost exactly one hour later I was awake with an urgent need for the loo: maybe the pruney goodness of that Far Breton from Carhaix was doing its work. Fortunately, the loos in the dormitory block at Brest are fine, and there was also a large bathroom giving me a chance for a good wash and brush up. That was it: I was awake now – time to get cycling!
Before setting off I checked the Cambridge PBP WhatsApp group on my phone. I discovered Nick had had serious stomach problems and so had slept at the first control while waiting for Immodium to take effect – he'd then been chasing the control cut off times heroically to try and stay in the game.
Martin had slept in a field (like me) but due to a phone SNAFU had overslept and was similarly chasing control closing times too. He had found time for a crêpe in Sizun though. Now there's a thought ...
I was in good spirits as I left Brest, cheered on by spectators merrily calling "Paris!" and pointing down the road. I felt in good physical shape too – legs not too sore – and so was looking forward to the remainder of the ride. Martin's message about a crêperie in Sizun had tantalized me, and this was now my immediate goal.
The terrain around Brest is typical of the PBP course: big rollers. These seemed a lot more benign – fun even – now I was "ticking them off" on the return leg.
It was another fine day, except annoyingly the firm westerly wind had now died and turned northerly, becoming a mild crosser rather than the anticipated tailwind. At least it wasn't a headwind …
At Sizun (649 km) I stopped at the Crêperie De L'argoat and ordered a Galette Bretonne Complète (ham, cheese, and egg) and – why not? – a bowl of Brittany cider. It was delicious, so delicious in fact that I then ordered a crêpe aux pommes and a double espresso. This was the high-point of the ride: a treat with time enough in hand to feel I could enjoy myself. It was like being on holiday.
Back on the road I bumped into Tom Jackson again, who had slept at a B&B and was still riding strongly. He wondered whether my carbon bike was more comfortable than his (admittedly very smart) steel one. It probably was. Still, he had the legs and soon vanished into the distance …
Seeing a transmitting mast I suddenly I realised I had re-climbed the Roc'h Trevezel, and now had a long fast descent to savour – this time in warm sunny weather in contrast to the previous night's misty cold.
Then towards Carhaix (on yet more rollers) I was overtaken by an AUK fixed-gear rider with characteristic wildly twirling legs – and a dodgy clicking bottom bracket. I was curious, and put in some effort to catch them: what gearing had they chosen? It turned out to be Bristol-based audaxer Adam Watkins, famous for his great videos of audax rides, and here essaying PBP on a fixie (~71 gear inches). He was also making a video of this ride (it is worth watching because, like a found-footage horror film, it chronicles the descent of the protagonist from being in good shape to being a broken husk). We chatted until Carhaix where I peeled off just before the control to visit the town's McDonalds, as much for its McLoos as for its food (those prunes were still at work). Unfortunately this McDonalds was unlike UK ones in that (a) service was slow and (b) the loo had no toilet paper or soap. Dommage! I spoke to a group of AUKs who had DNF'd outbound because of the headwind.
After a quick stamp at the Carhaix control (696 km) it was out on the road with night number three in prospect. I was unsure what my plan was. I had thought I might reach Fougères before sleeping but realistically I was probably too tired to make it that far. We would see.
I arrived back at the "secret control" of Saint-Nicolas-du-Pélem (741 km) in the early evening and decided to try and bank more sleep. I booked an hour and was ushered into the over-warm dormitory where I put my head down and fell asleep.
Ten minutes later I was awoken by somebody's phone. A French guy had taken a call and was having an animated full-volume conversation oblivious to the death stares he was getting from every corner of the room. That was it: I was awake – better to be cycling than stopped and not sleeping. I left the control unsure how far I could get before needing to sleep again.
Now night was falling, and the terrain was getting lumpier. A (new for this year) route into Loudéac featured a steep climb and rough, sketchy descent ("attention sur la descent" warned a marshall, for the only time on the event) and the lumpiness sapped the legs. I realised that in the last 250 km I had only eaten two crêpes and a McDonalds chicken burger – not much. Evidently I was running on fat reserves; something my looser-feeling clothing and hollow-feeling stomach seemed to bear out.
Food was needed! So at the Loudéac control (786 km) I filled up on bland food: pasta, poached chicken, white sauce, white bread rolls and natural yoghurt. All white!
At Ménéac (814 km) there was a chance for dessert, as a family had opened their garage and were serving coffee and crêpes out of it. The deal was that in return you'd send them a postcard from home so they could display it "next time" PBP ran. It was now 2am – well into the third night on the road, and with only 90 minutes of sleep on the ride so far I was beginning to feel ragged. My resolve to reach Fougères was wavering: perhaps I should try and sleep at the next food stop (Quedillac @ 847 km)? or maybe I could get as far as Tinténiac (874 km)?
So when I reached the Quedillac food stop I paused at the entrance to the driveway and wondered whether to go in. But as I wondered, I noticed a familiar figure on an orange Condor Fratello ride out – it was fellow Cantabrigian Martin! I put on an extra layer (my waterproof – bringing the layer count to five) and rushed after him.
Martin had started 45 minutes before me and was trying to build more of a time buffer by pressing on. He protested he was riding slowly but his speed matched my own and we settled into riding together well – something which initially involved what felt like a lot of ascent to the site of the Saint Pern radio mast, whose red blinking lights exerted a baleful influence over our progress like Sauron's tower.
Thinking we'd need something to keep us awake through the night, I suggested to Martin that I draw on my treasured store of long jokes, but Martin thought that wasn't necessary. This was no doubt wise: as a doctor Martin instinctively knew that the strongest medicine needed to be kept in reserve for when it was really needed.
We were joined for a while by Duncan and Janet, riding a very heavy recumbent/upright Pino tandem and going smoothly (sadly, they later abandoned just 100 km from the end in a state of confusion, only to realise post-ride that they had had time enough in hand to sleep and continue). Then for a while we rode with a Brazilian rider who told us quite a few of her compatriots had abandoned because they could not cope with the wind and low temperatures.
This night too was proving another chilly one, with the temperature dropping to 4°C again. The longed-for dawn, when it eventually came, was a striking one, with an apricot sun illuminating a scene softened by mist. "This has got to be worth stopping for a photo" said Martin.
A little further on Martin started to suffer from the dozies and, spying a likely looking bench, decided to bivvy down for a nap. I pressed on to Fougères but not before stopping in Saint-Hilaire-des-Landes (913 km), where a boulangerie was doing roaring trade serving coffees and – why not? – I paired mine with a Paris-Brest.
Even with such tasty sustenance my reserves of energy were depleted, and I was feeling very sleepy as I arrived at the Fougères control (927 km). Nevertheless it had been great to ride with Martin through the night and break the back of the ride. With 2h20m in hand I could afford a 90 minute nap. I was aware the control closing times were back loaded to make the return from Brest more relaxed than the outbound leg, but it was apparent most of that back loading was at the very end of the event (e.g. the final 43 km were allotted 3h44m) – for now I felt I was still being kept on my toes.
I went to the couchage block, was sold a packeted reflective emergency blanket and shown to a room where a judo mat was to be my bed for the next 90 minutes. Rather than wake everybody by unpacking my blanket, I opted to use a discarded one lying on the floor. This was a mistake, as I quickly found these blankets are strangely capable of absorbing quite a lot of odour. I didn't have much time to rue my decision before I was fast asleep.
Fougères to Rambouillet Oddly, my body seems very precisely to permit me a maximum one hour sleep session during long rides, and it repeated this trick again. I got up, thankfully left the fœtid fug of the dormitory room and found a washroom for a scrub-up. Feeling passably restored, it was time to get back on the bike and begin (what I saw as) the final stretch. I was looking forward to this section to the next control as, in my mind, it had seemed on the outbound leg to be only gently rolling along a ridge – but first there was a long drag up out of town to get up to that imagined "ridge".
By this point in the ride I was in "maximum treat" mode, willing to indulge in anything likely to give me a psychological boost. That was easily done as this section provided plenty of opportunity for leaning on roadside support. First there was PBP ancien Paul Rogue's famous crêpe stand in La Tanniere (948 km), the original postcard-for-crêpes stop, where I had a coffee and superb crêpe sucre. Then a little further on a family had put garden chairs out by the roadside and were handing out coffee and slices of brioche. Another welcome breather.
A fast peloton zoomed by, and among them I spied Martin who looked to be riding strongly. I caught up and hung on for a while but soon concluded the speed was too tasty for me, so dropped back to ride at my own, more contemplatif, pace. By now it was quite hot, with the temperature approaching 30°C, and I began to use some of the hot weather tricks I had learned during the Raid Pyrénéen: wetting my sleeves, water down the back, and so on. When I got to Le Ribay (999 km) I put my head under an outside tap for a while. Then I spotted various snacks for sale and could not resist a sausage wrapped in a galette. Double yumsk.
The Villaines-la-Juhel control (1017 km) was, as expected, vibrant with cheering crowds and a compère with a booming microphone offering commentary and conducting interviews. I didn't want to hang around so grabbed a quick baguette and headed off again. All that was left of PBP now was a "200" and there were 18h45m in which to do it. How hard could that be?
Still in "maximum treat" mode I spied some riders stopped in Sougé-le-Ganelon (1038 km) and wondered what they'd found. A supermarket! I stopped too and, craving salt, bought some salted peanuts and cans of soda, steeling myself for riding through a fourth night.
By this stage of the ride is was noticeable that many riders were not sitting squarely on their saddles, but were perched on them using some area of their backside presumably that was not sore. Consequently many riders were riding at an angle and not many were holding a steady line including, I realised, me – with much diminished power it was hard to hold a line when climbing (slowly) and I was aware that my bar bag wasn't helping matters.
As night fell the terrain, which had initially been quite flat after Villaines, began to roll again. I stopped at a roadside pop-up for more free coffee and biscuits. The woman running it glanced at my Garmin which was set to display the elevation profile and was showing a rolling sine-wave of hills ahead. "That's not right" she said "Since you're going to Mortagne it should be showing up! up! up!". And so it proved, with a final 180 metre drag up to Mortagne (funny that hadn't been there on the way out!) followed by a ramp up to the control itself. Grinding away I began to imagine that Mortagne-au-Perche was French for "perched on a mountain" as, with shredded legs, that is how it seemed. My mind was beginning to malfunction again: I believed I was leading the ride and that all my fellow riders were silently hating me for designing a course with too much climbing in it. However I was still aware enough to recognize this paranoia for what it was and put it in a box, even if I couldn't close the lid. I began to appreciate more the tale of the mayor of Mortagne-au-Perche, and other anecdotes of riders having psychotic episodes on long rides.
At the Mortagne control (1100 km) I sat with Graham, a London-based audaxer with whom I've shared quite a few rides. He was having a light snack before pressing on, and stared in amazement at the huge plate of pasta Bolognese, bread rolls and yoghurt I had bought myself (also, alcohol-free beer!). I ate all this and wondered what to do next – with my mental state and energy levels deteriorating I thought it wise to sleep, but if there was a dormitory it would be full, and the cafeteria floor was already littered with "baked potato" riders wrapped in emergency blankets. Maybe I should, for the first time, try a table nap? I inserted earplugs and studied some table nappers, copying how they folded their arms as a head rest. I put my head down. This was ridiculous; nobody can possibly sleep like this.
I awoke almost exactly one hour later (again! And maybe fortunately since I'd set no alarm), feeling a little better for the hot food and rest. Back on the bike, the night was especially chilly after the sleep in the warm cafeteria, and with all that height to lose from Mortagne's "perch" there was no chance of warming up on long freewheeling descents. Some riders had fashioned leg warmers for themselves out of emergency blanket, and were crinkling and twinkling as they rode along.
I had heard from other riders that the final stages flattened out so, expecting this, my heart sank when the familiar sequence of big rollers resumed: hard grind up; cold freewheel down. And repeat. What if it was like this all the way back to Rambouillet? But it wasn't: the terrain did flatten and the going became easier. At one point a large peloton of around 50 riders swept by at speed – large enough a group to have attracted attention from the motos, who I could see riding ahead closing roads so the peloton could sweep forward unimpeded. Too fast for me to latch on to, alas.
I came across Graham again who said he was having difficulty with reality, and was becoming convinced that he was in a video game and that none of this was real. My rest at Mortagne, in contrast, seemed to have settled my mind and given me a little extra energy. It was still numbingly cold though and I began to shout "come on Sun" as the sky all-too-slowly lightened.
By the time I got to Dreux the sun had finally risen but it was still cold, so a "grand café au lait" and warm pain au chocolat were welcome. I took stock: since I was going to be quite near the time limit getting back to Rambouillet, I decided that I would time things so as to become eligible to join La Société Adrian Hands – to do this I would need to have 65 minutes or less in hand at the end. So, I killed time, finding other riders to chat to and waiting until the day had warmed up.
Back on the bike, I anticipated how I would end the ride. With time in hand I wouldn't want to finish too early, so could get back to Rambouillet and spend some leisurely time in a café safely close to the finish before riding over the line with – say – an hour in hand. Or maybe I'd see a nice place for a second breakfast en route. Easy.
But an uneasy suspicion begins to cloud my mind. 65 minutes. I have that figure in my mind but have been nonsensically adding it to my finishing deadline. But, surely (my slow brain surfaces the information from some deep ocean cavern) my finishing deadline is not affected by whether I wanted to join a society or not? With a sudden jolt of realisation I saw I had been confused, that I had much less time in hand than I thought, and that it would require some commitment to get to the finish on time. My Garmin, which has been behaving itself all ride, now chooses this moment to pounce, announcing that it has no routable map it can use (it does! I loaded it myself! you $%!*! piece of *%&! – I thus channel Basil Fawlty) No problem, I think, I'll just follow the arrows at every junction. But then I come to a cross roads with no sign (probably taken by somebody as a souvenir: in my view such riders should be disqualified and have their bike crushed in front of them). Some riders turn left, some right, and some go straight on. Local club riders appear and say the correct way is straight on. Unconvinced, I take their suggestion, my mood blackening.
I try to up the pace but my body is powerfully reluctant. In an uncanny reprise of the condition which affected the day four morning of my LEL in 2017, I find myself unable to pedal smoothly but instead jolting along in a pedal-pedal-freewheel sequence. I am conscious my neck muscles are giving way and it takes an effort to raise my head at intervals to see ahead (probably the early signs of Shermer's neck, fortunately occurring late enough in the ride to not become a real issue). My shorts, which up until now have been comfortable to the point of my not noticing them, now feel like they offer little protection from a road which seems increasingly bumpy. I start swearing loudly at every surface imperfection. It's fair to say I am not at my mild-mannered best.
At least the route arrows reappear – so I am getting there, albeit slowly. It is an almighty grind but eventually Rambouillet arrives and I turn into the grounds – only to find myself dodging camper vans, impatient cars and milling spectators on the approach road to the finish. Then a naked torso'd local riding a mountain bike blocks my way, wobbling up the funnel towards the finish and showboating in the applause – surely my applause – from the crowd. Finally it's a turn into the courtyard, a surprising circuit on a cobbled then loose surface, and past the timing device to get a time. 89h30m48s – cutting it finer than I'd planned.
After this there was some unseemly barging on the way to the bike park, as some riders were desperate to get a "time" stamped into their brevet card (maybe because their chip had malfunctioned, or maybe because they were unaware that the chip time had primacy). Unfortunately the end of the event had been chaotic. It was calming to see fellow AUKs from my start group Tomsk (78h26m) and Allen O'Leary who, by finishing successfully (86h35m) had successfully removed a monkey from his back from PBP 2015.
After a short train ride north I put on my medal to ride through Versailles back to my hotel. Recognizing it, various bystanders cheered and shouted bravo. Wouldn't get that back home! I could begin to bask in the glow of the achievement … and start thinking about the next one.
Overall performance. PBP was in many ways a re-run of my LEL, performance-wise. The key feature was a steady drop in power most likely caused by being tired – I only had 3h20m sleep over the whole ride. I wish I could sleep more as then I am sure I'd lose less power and be faster on the road, thus gaining time to sleep more – a virtuous circle. I need to find a way for my body to allow me to sleep more, rather than only permitting me one hour naps.
Injuries. Mild nerve damage to a little finger and little toe. No repeat of the "gentleman's issues" that followed LEL, achieved by this time using a cut-out saddle (Gilles Berthoud 'Aspin') and Assos bib shorts with their codpiece-like "kuku penthouse".
Medication taken. Two indigestion tablets. No ibuprofen.
Luggage. An Apidura "bikepacking" rear bag and a small light bar bag. Frequently used stuff was put in a dry bag bungeed to the top of the Apidura bag. The combo worked okay with the MO being that the Apidura bag should be opened as little as possible. Downsides are that it wagged around and when I did have to open it it was a pain to re-close. Might revert to Carradice.
Bike. Trusty 2017 model Trek Domane SLR Disc which I know I can do long distances on in relative comfort. Hydraulic brakes and Di2 gear shifting keep the hands fresh. Dynamo lighting.
Tyres. Continental GP 5000 tubeless, 25mm (actual width 26mm on my rims). I am not alone in thinking these have easily displaced everything else as the audax tyre of choice: tough, fast and comfortable.
Mechanicals. The articulated bracket holding the front light in position lost tension and needed two Torx keys to tighten, which I didn't have. Fixed with a cable tie.
Clothing. Merino base layer, chill sleeves, merino jersey, Assos bib shorts, thick wool socks and SPD sandals. Extra warmth from: arm warmers, Rapha insulated brevet jacket, the PBP gillet, Gore waterproof. Should have packed knee warmers.
Helmet? Yes, but I suspect this contributed to inklings of Shermer's neck.
Strava. Stuff is here.
Would I do it again? Afterwards I thought not. But who am I kidding? Yes.