A Heroes' Welcome

 

I'm sure I've forgotten a few things about the ride. A lot of things aren't worth telling. However, one thing I won't soon forget was the inbound control at Villaines-la-Juhel. Upon arriving you are greeted by an MC announcing your name, to cheers and applause from a large crowd! On top of that, in the cafeteria, they have school kids standing by to carry your tray to a seat of honor in a large dining room.

Rolling into Villaines. So many people on hand, having a good time.

Here it seems like the whole town has turned out, there's music and a bar, and the cafeteria is open to anyone. It's a proper party. What a boost to the spirits of a weary rider! I hated to leave, but I didn't know anybody, and the sun was now setting. I needed to keep moving if I was going to get any rest that night for the final push to Rambouillet tomorrow.

Between Villaines and Mortagne I only stopped in Mamers, where the local cycling club had set up an aid station in the old marketplace. The imposing and ancient-looking Halles of the market, all lit up in the middle of the night, was a dreamlike setting for what must have been my 50th bowl of potage.

Potage is a thick, roughly pureed vegetable soup. It's easy to drink from the bowl in a few gulps, and seems to have everything you need to keep going. I got it at one of the first controls by accident, and then had it at every subsequent control. It was never very delicious, but always satisfying. I also noticed that many of the French riders insisted on a bowl too, so I came to believe that I had found one of their rando secrets, which no doubt added to it's allure.

I had been riding pretty much on my own since Brest, and with each passing hour there were fewer bikes on the road. Not to say that they were rare. It was just that you could at times start to feel lonely. Well, when I pulled into Mortagne, I finally found where everybody had gone. This control was packed.

The mood here was a strange mixture of excitement and exhaustion. Before going in, we had to make way for woman rider being carried out into the medical area. It looked like her legs were gone and she was unable to bear any weight. Inside, riders were splayed out everywhere in the cafeteria and in the hallways. But there were also many riders who were awake and were excited to be so close to the finish. I was wandering around, looking for the dormitory before hitting the cafeteria, when I thought I heard someone call my name.

I looked around. My mental state wasn't the best, and it was entirely possible I was just hearing someone asking for a cigarette in Dutch or something. But it wasn't a Dutch smoker, it was Lane! I was great to finally see a friendly face. He was on his way out but wanted the scoop, so we found a spot in the crowded cafeteria and discussed our respective situations.

He had recently started having terrible pain in his achilles tendons. Now unable to put out much power, he was worried about finishing in time. Because of this, he was not resting at Mortagne, but riding straight through the night.

Lane also was concerned about my time. He had warned me that the times printed in the card were wrong before we started. Having much time to think while riding, I had calculated the times myself over and over and over, until I was thoroughly confused. I concluded that, one, how could they possibly print the wrong times in the book? And two, to be safe, I would aim to finish before the earliest closing time I calculated to be 90 hours from my start time.

However, my resolve to do this was wavering. I had been goading myself on for days now. Frankly I was sick of that guy. I wanted to sleep so badly. If I hadn't run into Lane here, it's pretty likely I would have slept too much and finished late.

I walked him out to his bike and finally got a spare tube from him. It was another cold night and I did not envy what he had to do. I might not get the five hours of sleep I wanted, but at least I could take a couple and warm up. We wished each other good luck, and he rode off toward the finish.

 

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Sleeping was not possible this time though, and I left the dorm early Thursday morning. It was still dark, and still cold. I downed a cup of coffee and a pastry and set off. Right away I got in with a group of San Francisco Randonneurs who were setting a good pace. I was just getting around to introducing myself, when a rider just behind us screeched to a halt at a wide open left turn and started yelling something, in Spanish I think. There were taillights straight ahead, off in the distance, but we quickly understood that he was trying to warn us we were going the wrong way!

The last sunrise of PBP 2019.

The San Franciscans were taking a bit of time discussing the situation; I had recently started to doubt their leadership, so I took off alone, in the right direction. Ahead the sun was coming up behind a wooded hill, warming the horizon. The road traversed open fields and wetlands, where mist was rising to form thin wisps of fog that hung here and there. A morning chorus of birds was tuning up. It was the perfect setting for some wistful thoughts. I had enjoyed the experience completely, and was going to be sad to end it in a few short hours, challenging though it had been.

Passing through a village, I noticed a person up ahead. He was sitting on the edge of an adorable little stone bridge, using his phone. I thought he had a familiar silhouette from a distance, as did his bike, but I couldn't be sure. As I passed by, I realized it really was Jason! I yelled at him and he looked up and spotted me. I circled back, and after a short greeting we continued on together.

As we rode along, he told me the story of his PBP. He had unfortunately had some mechanical problems with his bike. These included having a rubbing brake that was really slowing him down without his knowledge. Eventually he realized what the problem was and fixed it, but not before he had become exhausted from the extra effort.

After finding the problem, he rode onto the next control, planning on resting for awhile then catching a train back to Rambouillet. Instead, he ran into a friend, a veteran randonneur who was there as a volunteer. He advised Jason to ride back slowly and enjoy the trip as a tourist. So that's what he had done, and he had enjoyed it.

"I mean, of course, but I still ate it." Dreux (JK)

After an hour or so of riding, during which I think I yammered incessantly, we pulled into Dreux. The penultimate control. I remember really craving something specific for breakfast, which of course they didn't have. We sat down across from a exceedingly pleasant fellow from the UK named Simon and struck up a conversation. We discussed how amazingly well the event is run by the volunteers. We agreed that the help and encouragement we received from so many people along the way was something special. It might have been fatigue, but I think we were all pretty awed by the experience.

From Dreux to the finish was a rolling celebration. I became convinced that clubs and groups collected at Mortagne so they could ride into the finish together. We were constantly passing or being passed by groups of riders talking excitedly, laughing and having a great time. It was a stark contrast to preceding days, which at times resembled more than anything a death march. Now, everyone knew that they, and everyone else on the road, was going to make it. It was a fantastic way to finish, made the better for being able to finish with Jason and join in the sociability.

The final miles were some of the prettiest, moving from wide open farm fields into the lush green of the Forests surrounding Rambouillet. It was great to find that Lane had finished within the time limit, in spite of the pain. After a few minutes spent in taking pictures and mutual congratulations, the last of the adrenaline washed out and the fatigue set in. Lane and Jason headed back to the hotel to clean up. There we'd wait for word that Ken was closing in, so we could all go back to the finish line to see him arrive. Karel had long since finished, and gone home.

The End (Darcy)

I wandered around the finish area for an hour or so after they had left. I don't think I was ready to end it. After a while I went to partake in the banquet for finishers. Walking into the cafeteria I looked around for someone familiar and spotted Simon. We picked up right were we left off in Dreux, but with an extra helping of awe.

After parting with Simon I also fell back to the hotel. Lane had offered to let me borrow the shower in their room, and I had stashed a change of clothes there as well. Lane's wife Darcy let me in to their room. Lane was in bed, and down for the count. I got cleaned up and tiptoed out. It didn't look like we'd be seeing Lane again that day. Understandable.

I got a snack and a coke and sat out in front of the hotel, watching the comings and goings. I reflected some on the experience, but mostly just sat there in a daze. My phone was never very reliable over there, and I ended up missing seeing Ken come in. But he did make an appearance at the hotel so we congratulated each other, and I told him about my eventful ride. It was nice to hear praise from a man who had just completed his ninth Paris-Brest-Paris.

Our celebratory diner planned for tomorrow, Jason and Ken departed for their hotel in Saint Quentin. I had also been invited by my hosts to dinner, So I set off for Dampierre.

A Pastry named for PBP. It's a wheel, see? (Wikimedia)

After a little delay with the trains, I made it back to my lodgings around eight and went to visit my hosts. They speak French of course, and German, but less English. I'm not sure that in my mental state I was the most engaging dinner guest either. So we did the best we could in conversation. We did have some things in common, being 'country folks'. So we talked mostly about wildlife and fishing, and Montana. They treated me to a fine three course meal, complete with a “Paris-Brest” for dessert.

I'd finished the ride at high noon, and didn't get to bed until about 11pm. But I was feeling fine. I was feeling very lucky I had chanced to stay here. It was a little out of the way, but they were such wonderful people. They had taken me in and made me feel at home the whole time I was there. They put up with my weird comings and goings let me skip out on my minibar tab. The little hut was the prefect setting for me to prepare for the challenge of PBP, physically and mentally. So to the DeWinters, merci beaucoup pour votre hospitalite!

Au Coeur

The climbing back over the Roc'h Trevezel was long but not steep, and aided by a slight tailwind I think. We had seen the front of the pack headed back to Paris the evening before. I was by now used to seeing oncoming bikes, but now I was on the home stretch! Scanning the faces of the oncoming riders heading to Brest, I didn't expect to recognize any. So I was surprised to spot Ken! He had started early Monday morning and must have been riding well to be that close behind me, my delays notwithstanding. I yelled his name and we exchanged a wave as we passed. Along the route between Carhaix and Brest, outbound and inbound traffic were often on different roads, so it was a fortunate coincidence to meet at all.

Getting back to Carhaix was uneventful. I made the requisite check-in. I was still looking forward to the beef bourguignon in St. Nicholas, so I just had a snack to tide me over. And by snack, I mean what a regular person would call a meal. If you like eating, randonneuring may be for you.

Over the past few days I had grown accustomed to seeing riders stopped everywhere, pausing to adjust clothing, to eat, to pee. Whatever their occupation, they usually looked alert or at least able. Now these stopped riders started to look different. A lot of them looked done. I was also coming across folks who were still riding but barely. Riding so slowly, or erratically, or in odd positions on the road. Or all of the above. Knowing how much work goes into just getting to the start line, and thinking of how narrowly I had avoided my own disasters, I could feel their pain. It was sad to see.

Nothing was sadder though, than finding no more beef bourguignon at St. Nicholas. Oh well. I ate a whole bunch of pasta bolognese instead, and bread, maybe a rice pudding or something, and a couple beers. I sat across the table from a French gentleman who noticed my Alex Singer cap and asked if I rode one. I said I didn't, but wished I did. He said he had an old one gathering dust in his garage.

It was midnight when I arrived back at Loudeac. On my outbound visit here I was in 'the bulge' and it was controlled chaos. Now that I was riding with the stragglers, things were much more sedate. Another hearty meal was enjoyed, and without further ado I continued. It never seems right to ride away into the darkness from a perfectly good place like that.

The next major checkpoint was Tinteniac, and I intended to take a sleep break there. But first came Quedillac. It was around 3 a.m. The cafeteria here was outdoors, and by the time I finished eating I was shivering and my teeth were chattering. I decided to investigate the dormitory, and was glad I did. The bunks here were little twin mattresses! And the room was warm! I got a couple hours of very good sleep. After a quick breakfast I hit the road again feeling pretty refreshed. The sun was coming up but there was fog, and everything was wet again. I decided it was finally time to brush my teeth, which I did while riding.

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Tinteniac was a quick stop. I ate another quick breakfast, took a pain au chocolat for later, wandered about for awhile, then got back on the bike. It was still early and not overly warm yet, and no accordions this time.

I hit Fougeres about noon. There is a joke (sorta) about riding PBP. Basically it goes like this: The ride is not too hard really. All you have to do is ride to the town on top of that hill, take a quick break, then ride to the town on top of the next hill! Anyway, the landscape is all hills, and there are no towns in the valleys. Fougeres is the perfect example, with it's awesome medieval castle, perched atop a big hill.

Noon on Wednesday also meant that I had about 24 hours left to finish the ride on time. I knew I was flirting with the cutoffs but I was feeling confident. The day had warmed up nicely so I bought a sandwich and a coke and went out to have a picnic lunch. There were a few other folks out on the lawn too, enjoying the sunshine. I nibbled at the sandwich a little, then laid down and closed my eyes for a nap.

I hadn't dozed off yet when an interesting little incident unfolding nearby attracted my attention. I tried to act like I was sleeping, or at least uninterested. But it was like the proverbial car wreck, and I could not look away. After witnessing some pretty distasteful human behavior, I decided a nap wasn't going to happen after all. That was probably for the best, I needed to keep moving.

Tanniere, P. Rogue's stand, waves from my Scottish friend

Sometime that afternoon I stopped at Paul Rogue's stand in Tanniere, whose claim to fame is the crepes and a wall of postcards sent by riders from all over the world. But at that time I did not know all that, and didn't get a crepe. I was able to have a short chat with a neighbor originally from Scotland though. I traded one of my patches for a cup of coffee and a couple cookies and promised to send a postcard.

Awhile later I pulled over at a house in Chantrigné where they were filling water bottles. As a bonus they were also handing out delicious little green plums they had grown. Just before I left, grandpa came out of the house and blessed us with bottled water. Whether he was ordained I'll never know. I did feel blessed though.

 

 The white balance was off when I recorded this video, it's not you.

 

It's All Downhill From Here

I rolled out of Loudeac sometime after 10pm. Originally I had wanted to get to Carhaix before sleeping. Now the goal was to get there in the early morning and take another short sleep break. I also knew that my friend Lane had a hotel room reserved there. Lane and I run the exact same tires, so it was my hope that I could find him and bum a tube.

Riding on this second night was a quite different than the first. It was much lonelier. There were times, albeit short, when I couldn't see another rider on the road. The ever present hills were now bigger as well. Without company, I was having trouble fighting off drowsiness. So I was much relieved to reach St. Nicholas-du-Pellem.

St. Nick turned out to be the secret checkpoint. A lot of riders were just getting their cards stamped and heading back out, but I was hungry again, and cold. I'm glad I stopped, because I had a bowl of Boeuf Bourguignon there that was so good! I immediately started looking forward to eating there again on the way back.

After the midnight snack, I was still feeling the sleep deprivation and the cold. I asked one of the volunteers for the dormitory. It was a weak moment. He pointed at a large open sided party tent, where a couple riders were getting situated under space blankets. I don't think I'd ever seen anything look so inhospitable. Thus motivated, I continued on to Carhaix.

This was a tough stretch, staying awake was difficult at times. But often there was some hill to climb or descend, and occasionally other riders around. I stopped at a lonely house along the road where a family were serving hot coffee and treats, and tending a fantastically welcoming fire. They had a few mattresses laid out in a shed, which were occupied. I handed the kids each a patch, which they thought was pretty cool. Then I continued, feeling a bit revived.

By the time I got to Carhaix, I was pretty cold again. I suppose I ate but the only thing I remember is how damned far away the dormitory was from the bike parking and the cafeteria. It was getting quite cold at night, I've heard down into the 40's. With the high humidity, there was heavy fog every morning which made everything wet, and added to the chill. I remember just wanting to go to sleep, but having to walk what seemed like a mile across a dark icy swamp to get there.

It was a nice surprise to find in one corner of the dorm check-in, a big medusa's head wad of every USB cord known to man. I had brought the wrong cord for my phone along, and it was now long dead. I wouldn't be able to get a hold of Lane without a phone, so that problem was seemingly solved.

I asked for two hours of sleep, but the disposable paper sheet I was issued had about as much insulating power as you would expect. I was able to sleep some, but when I woke I was cold again and shivering. It was almost time to get going anyway, and I figured the only way I was going to get warm was to get moving. I stumbled out to the bathroom, then retrieved my phone, which had been unplugged sometime earlier. Great.

Anxiously I pressed the power button, and was relieved to find it had gotten most of a charge. I found out later that I was probably supposed to get permission to use the cords. In fairness, that makes sense.

It was early morning and just getting light. I made the trek through heavy fog over to the cafeteria and had a quick breakfast before hitting the road again. I had burned up a lot of time with the flats and the stomach issues. And I hadn't been very quick through the controls either. I calculated that I would be able to make the time cutoff at Brest, but only if I hustled. I would not have time to track down Lane either.

The sun was just peeking above the hills, and it was still raw, cold and damp. I think it was around this point, having experienced a couple such mornings, that I decided that these hours just before sunrise would be the best spent in a warm bed. Once the sun came up, it was easy enough to stay warm working on the bike.

The fog did make for a dramatic setting though. This morning in the forests around Carhaix and Huelgoat were especially beautiful. The largest climb of the entire ride, the Roc'h Trevezel, was just ahead but I was riding strong, better than my expectations really. So it was great fun, riding that misty two lane road at sunrise, in and out of the sun, at full tilt.

It was a tough climb to the top of Roc'h Trevezel, but presented no real problem. Then it's downhill all the way to Brest. I tried not to think about going over it again on the return trip.

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<=Brest=(Elorn R.)=Paris=>

A popular souvenir with PBP riders is a selfie on the Albert Louppe bridge, just outside of Brest. A lot of riders recall how emotional they were on reaching this prominent symbol of the halfway point. I was having such a good time, honestly, that I remember remember feeling pretty low-key, and even sad to think it was half over. I stopped to take a picture of my bike, but almost didn't.

The route through the town itself was labyrinthine and featured some near vertical streets that seemed just diabolical at the time. I got my card stamped well within time. I waited in line for food with a gentleman with nothing positive to say. I ate by myself.

I took a shower and changed my shirt and socks and drawers. Reaching the control inside the time limit was a relief, but nothing to celebrate. I had to get back to Paris.

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow

 

I rode sometimes on my own, sometimes with groups, but never alone on Monday. Between Villaines and Fougeres I rode in a huge peloton of 50, maybe more. It's somewhat nerve wracking to be in such a large group. There was constant jockeying. You can never completely relax. A big part of me wanted to get out.

But at the same time it is a massive thrill to be so swiftly carried along, barely pedaling, in a huge current of humanity. So with 500 miles or more still ahead, I stayed in the current.

I can't recall exactly why or where I let that big peloton go, or if it just sort of dissapated. But at this stage of the ride it wasn't hard to find another. Although they were never as big, they were just as effective for saving energy. So in this way, I wheel-sucked my way to Fougeres and beyond, all the way to Tinteniac.

The "quick" meals at Fougeres. Hot meals were elsewhere

Fougeres was a puzzle for me. I guess the cafeteria was somewhere away from the control. Anyway, I never figured out where it was. So it was a quick sandwich here, jambon et beurre, and back out on the road to Tinteniac.

At Tinteniac, the Breton culture was becoming more evident. There was a group playing music for us at the control, which was cool. Some riders feeling an excess of energy or bonhomie joined the locals in a folk dance.

From Tinteniac, I still felt great. The weather was perfect, and the riding pleasant. The big groups now seemed to have all dispersed, and I was riding mostly solo. Time always gets a little warped on these long rides for me. After awhile, an hour can pass in what seems like minutes. Anyway, people do tend to remember the hardships better than the good times. So I don't remember a lot of specifics about this stretch.

At Quedillac, I had the pleasure of meeting Betty Jean from Georgia. After talking for a bit about our pets back home, I realized I recognized part of her story about her dogs from an article she had written in the American Randonneur magazine. It was great to chat with another American, but listening to her southern drawl, familiar yet strange, while sleep deprived and immersed in so much foreign-ness, was particularly surreal.

Out in the parking lot I tried, but most failed, to talk with a trio of older French gents about my bike. My bike attracted some attention. I think a lot of the French, who believe they know something (and do) about cycling, are still a bit puzzled by the reappearance of the fat-tired “gravel” or “all-road” bikes that so many of the Americans seem to be on. But at the same time, they love to see Americans on French bikes, as a matter of national pride. So I fielded a few questions along the way, but I doubt I cleared anything up. Anyway, if I had roads like they do, I'd probably be puzzled about it too.

Event photographer caught Paul & I (Maindru)

From Quedillac the endlessly hilly terrain became more so. Somewhere along in here I met Paul from Dorset in the UK. We chatted some about our respective hometowns, and told all the bad jokes we could remember, among other things. He was a super riding companion, and we had a great time chatting. Along here on a forested climb we had a little rain shower, the only rain on the ride I remember.

A few miles outside of Loudeac we caught up with an acquaintance of Paul's and the three of us rode into Loudeac together. I started sagging a little through here, I think I was running on fumes. They really helped keep my spirits up and pedaling.

 Once we had parked, they were off to look for their drop bags or something, and I was looking to eat. We exchanged souvenirs just in case, but I assumed I'd meet back up with them in the cafeteria. But as it happened I never did.

There was a bit of a line for food here, but I was hungry and had time. I might not have felt totally well, but I did not expect to get nauseous as I entered the vestibule of the cafeteria. Just smelling the food inside made me feel like I could puke. I tried to continue, hoping it might subside. But no dice, I was going to vomit if I got any closer to the food. Escaping out into fresh air resolved the nausea, but not the hunger. I needed to eat, but couldn't, and I wasn't totally sure what to do next.

Drop bags by the hundreds

I milled around a bit, used the bathroom, checked messages. I went and gave the cafeteria another try, but still no go. More stalling, back to the cafeteria, but the third time was not the charm. For awhile I felt pretty hopeless and was at a loss as to what to do. But the evening air was cool and felt good, so I sat down outside to do some thinking.

The received rando-wisdom in this situation is to sleep on it, if you have time. Or put another way, don't abandon the ride until you've rested. It was now seven or eight in the evening. I had been shooting for Carhaix for my first sleep stop, but what choice did I really have? I was not optimistic, but with nothing to loose and some time in hand I headed for the dormitory.

All the checkpoints have dormitories where a small fee gets you a bed. You check in, they record your bed number and wake-up time, then usher you to your bunk. When the appointed time comes, they come and wake you up. The dormitories have hundreds of beds, and accommodations range from yoga mats and disposable paper sheets on a gym floor in some, to mattresses and wool blankets in the nicer ones.

This dormitory was busy and loud, which was not unexpected. Loudeac is a popular control for layovers, being at about the 1/3 and 2/3 point of the ride. The accommodations were nice though. My bunk was familiar, a comfortable army surplus cot just like the one I'd slept on many a night in hunting camp, and a thick wool blanket. I hoped that a couple hours downtime would be enough for my gut to sort itself out. I remembered of all the folks rooting for me back home. I did not want to disappoint them. It was a galvanizing thought, and I resolved to try to keep going no matter what should happen next.

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Two hours later, and right on time I was awoken. I must have fallen asleep quickly, and slept hard. I felt surprisingly well rested, which was in itself a blessing. But it was impossible to tell how I would fare in the cafeteria. My stomach felt basically OK, just as it had before. I gathered up my junk and headed for the mess hall.

I passed the smell test, and tentatively sampled some easily-digested-looking things. They stayed down, and I started to feel better about my prospects. Misery loves company though, and looking around the cafeteria, I noticed another solo American sitting one table over. He was looking a little forlorn too. I introduced myself, and we commiserated about the problems we both were having. By the time we were done eating, I think we'd both decided we had the better hand after all. Funny how these things work out!

Lots of gilets jaunes at Loudeac control.

Let's Ride

My start time was 7:15 pm. It was raining again Sunday morning when I got up, after having slept surprisingly well. I wanted to get to the start area early to see my friends off, and get some idea of how it all worked for when my start time rolled around. There was plenty of time to do that, and the rain was supposed to quit in the afternoon, so I wasn't too concerned. 

 

Il y avait de la pluie le jour du depart.

After breakfast, checking and double-checking all my gear, I was satisfied that I was as ready as I was going to be. The rain alternated between steady drizzle and occasional heavy downpour. Several times I started to leave when another deluge would pass over. Around noon a lively and talkative carload of picnickers arrived, along with the heaviest rain yet. So while Ina and Laura made coffee for everyone, I got to explain what I was doing standing on the porch of a fishing lodge in cycling costume.

With help from Ina and Laura I was able to explain what I was up to. They were suitably impressed, and wished me good luck. It was nice to hang around the porch with warm coffee and good company. But eventually the rain quit and the sun started peeking through, so I said au revoir and I set off toward Rambouillet.

I reunited with my friends from Montana at the hotel Mecure, the center of much activity. Everyone staying there was either riding PBP or knew someone who was. It was quite the scene. Over a late lunch we traded tales of our time in France thus far. We all seemed to be in good spirits, well rested and ready. 

The Montana crew, minus Karel; Me, Jason, Lane, and Ken (photo credit to Darcy)

 

Riders in waves of roughly 300 departed every 15 minutes all afternoon and evening, and again Monday morning. There was a large crowd of spectators on hand cheering them on. The grounds of the chateau were crawling with bikes and riders, lounging under trees or expending nervous energy in anticipation of their turn to go. The waiting sometimes is the hardest part.

Ken & I at pre-ride lunch. I had the "ham" (JK)

Lane would be the first of us to depart at 5:15, with Karel and then Jason following a little later. I would be the last of us to start Sunday, Ken would depart early Monday morning. and The skies were now clear and temperatures cool, just right for riding. A little headwind was blowing in from the east, but overall I thought conditions were nearly ideal.

Lane & I in the hotel lobby. (Darcy)

After seeing Jason depart I gravitated toward a few other Americans in the crowd. I don't remember their names unfortunately, but one was from San Luis Obispo and one from Seattle. A guy from San Francisco wandered by, looking for a tire pump bigger than the mini pump he packed for emergencies. I lent him my frame pump. We watched him work, restraining that innate male instinct to provide unsolicited advice. But the pressure became too much, and as relief, I remarked on how I hadn't checked my tires.

“With my luck, I'd break a valve stem or something,” I reasoned, to nods of agreement.

“If it ain't broke, don't fix it,” was the sage reply, or something similar along those lines.

I got my pump back, and that was that.

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Wrangling 6,000-plus high-strung cyclists is no small task, but one which our French overseers would prove equal to. As an example, Riders were supposed to find the pen marked with their start group letter (mine was N), and amass there. From there we'd be lead, in orderly fashion, to the start. Sounds logical, right?

Jason & I jammed in with Karel in start pens (JK)

Instead I waited by the “taxiway” until I saw N's filing by, and jumped in. I was far from the only person to do this. The system works even when people don't follow directions!

As we processed slowly forward, I was surprised to hear my name from the crowd. Who should it be but my pal from the train station, Pierre! I was glad to see him again. Now I could give him one of the patches I'd made to hand out along the route, which I had forgotten the other night, and regretted. It seemed like the stars truly were aligning. I was feeling very good about the whole thing.

Passing through the starting checkpoint, still walking in slow procession, I got the first of many stamps applied to my card. From there the course widened, we rode over the official timing mats, down a chute, around a sharp left and out into a fine evening on the French countryside. It was really happening. Soaking it all in and generally feeling unstoppable, I could not imagine a better set of circumstances from which to start such an undertaking.

Predictably though, a mass-start of amateur cyclists is destined to feature chaos. On guard to that eventuality, I managed to avoid disaster when the rider directly in front of me lost his battery pack going around the first corner. It danced along the cobblestones, still tethered to the bike by its cord. Meanwhile its owner returned each enthusiastic attempt to bring this to his attention with equally enthusiastic waves to his adoring fans.

As the pack thinned and settled into groups of similar pace, I added a dash of smugness to my euphoria, as I congratulated myself for avoiding that embarrassing mishap. Unfortunately, smugness too goeth before a fall.

At first my aura of invincibility would not allow me to believe it. I literally hadn't had a flat tire in years! Nevertheless, it became harder and harder to keep the bike going straight, and I was forced to accept reality. My front tire was going flat. Being at the front of a small group, I dove off the road into the barrow pit.

The full saga of The Flat Tire is too tedious to recount here in detail, but rest assured that I will remember it vividly as long as I live. Things did not go well. The first spare tube I installed in the tire had a hole. My pump did not seem to be working right. The second tube mercifully seemed to hold air, but now I was without a good spare. I had been running the tires tubeless, and so the tire was filled with sealant. This sealant, combined with brake dust made an absolute mess of my hands. But it couldn't be helped. I wrapped my filthy hands around the freshly taped handlebars and set off again, some 45 minutes after flatting.

 

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Rounding a bend (event photo-Maindru)

I am not one to plan my rides down to the minute as so many randonneurs do. That might sound ironic to some, considering. Stuff happens, you have to be adaptable. But I did have a general idea of what I thought I could get away with. Having never done a ride this long before, I figured I'd have to play it mostly by ear anyway.

One thing I did not want to do was let adrenaline get the best of me and go out of the gate too hot. After the flat, this went out the window too. Partly it was because my pride was hurt. Partly because I felt I had lost so much time. I was still feeling pretty upbeat, all things considered. It was evening, my favorite time to ride. I started jumping in behind each passing group, going faster and faster. Around sunset I got into a group of a dozen or so riders going suitably fast. These were my first tastes of riding in a peloton, and it was a blast.

I hung with this group until we passed through a village where a bar had set up shop out on the street. I stopped to go in and try to wash the brake and sealant grime from my hands. It wouldn't come off, and I would have that reminder of the flat for the rest of the ride.

Back outside the atmosphere was pretty chaotic. The sound of many languages, the sight of headlights and taillights coming and going, and sometimes getting tangled in doing so. I bought a big sandwich, and gave my tire a quick squeeze before hitting the road again. Maybe a bit soft? Nah, probably just paranoia. I jumped on and took off.

Back on the road, ham and butter baguette in hand, I was flying again. By picking up or being picked up by other riders, I eventually ended up in a group of half a dozen, going faster than practically everyone else on the road at that time. We seemed well matched but in particular, one rider with a distinctive bike and I were taking the most and longest pulls on the front. He at one point pulled up even with me and we had a brief exchange, I think he said his name was Lionel from Grenoble.

I've been told that there were headwinds that first night and next day, but I honestly don't remember them. I'd never before ridden that hard, that far. I was on the verge of cramping at times, which I did think may come back to bite me later. But I didn't care. It was exhilarating.

I wanted to stick with this group until the first stop at Mortagne-au-Perche. I looked forward to trading some attaboys with Lionel and the others, but somewhere short of town I lost them. It was dark and getting cold. There were riders stopping everywhere to put on more layers, sometimes even in the road. I think we lost our synch and got separated.

 

Mortagne was not a mandatory stop, but I needed a break so I pulled in. I also wanted to check my tire even though things seemed to be OK. As I maneuvered into the parking lot I had a suspicion that something was amiss. The steering seemed a bit soft and squirmy. Not good, but it was to dark to tell without a close look. Upon inspection I found bubbles of sealant around the valve stem.

A chill ran down my spine. I quickly ran through all the implications this symptom could have. I would ordinarily diagnose it to be Pretty Bad. But I held out hope. It could just be the expanding tube displacing sealant through the only hole in the rim, and pretty harmless. Or not. Probably not. I decided not to panic just yet, go have a snack, cool off and come back to it.

On returning to the bike, I found the front tire was now definitely soft. An attempt to get a suitable tube from the mechanic there was fruitless, but I was able to buy a tube for a vastly different size of tire. I reasoned (hoped) this would be better than nothing in an emergency.

I had been unforgivably stupid and lazy to not check my spare tubes, and I was frustrated with myself. But I knew that I would have time to kick myself later. What was needed now was focus and a complete determination to make one of these damn tubes hold air. It sounds stupid but in that moment my whole world was in those two inner tubes.

The tube that was in the tire had an extremely small hole somewhere, which I could not find. It was too noisy to hear and too dark to see. I still had the first tube and I could easily find the leak in it, but a patch would not stick, probably due to sealant residue. So I went back over the other tube again, taking a painful amount of time, but still could not find the leak. It was looking more and more like the end of the line for me. I spent a minute cursing my stupid bike, this stupid ride, my stupid self, pretty much everything in sight.

I collected myself for one last desperate attempt at patching the first tube. I cleaned the area thoroughly and applied another patch. This one, finally appeared to be holding, to my great relief. My pump was working again also, so I had to take back all the unkind things I had thought about the guy from San Francisco who had borrowed it back at the start.

Once again it was at least another 45 minutes lost. It was around midnight now. The sky was clear and the moon was bright. So I rode on, admiring the night sky and the moonlit countryside. Gradually I began enjoying myself again.

 

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After a few hours on the road riding solo, a German guy pulled up next to me me and asked if I was cold. I had not packed any warm gear, and I was riding with bare arms. It wasn't cold by Montana standards, and I wasn't cold. But I wasn't exactly warm either.

We got to talking and chatted away several hours to Villaines-la-Juhel, covering every topic under the sun. I learned that he's an optical engineer. Working often in Boston had honed his English to near perfection. He once almost won a race with an e-bike. We of course covered Politics. We spent a fair amount of time discussing German humor. After awhile I looked back and realized we had attracted a crowd. There were probably a dozen or more riders taking advantage of our slipstream, while we yammered away at the front.

At Villaines I got a couple pastries and an infamous coffee-in-a-bowl and had breakfast with my new friend. After fifteen minutes or so, a few of his companions had caught up and were ready to go. I wasn't quite ready, so we said goodbye and good luck. By the time I got going again, the sun was warming the Eastern horizon.

Lake of Rocks

The next day was spent in rest and relaxation. I wrapped my bars with new tape, and got my junk somewhat sorted. In the afternoon I took ride a into Dampierre to see it in the daylight. The chateau was particularly impressive, as I had ridden by it twice the previous night without noticing. I saw painted on the roads proof that the Tour de France had passed through about a month previous. In the evening I had a small meal and sat out on the porch of my hut with a beer or two, and watched the sun go down on this very pretty corner of the world.

The next day was check-in, where you submit your bike to a safety check, and get your number and control card. My appointment was not until the afternoon. It had started raining overnight, I delayed leaving the hut as long as I could, but ended up riding to the train in a light rain. It was a nice ride though, with everything so green, and fresh air from the rainstorm to fill the lungs.

Soggy line for the bike check

Registration pick-up in the barn

The start/finish was located at the Bergerie Nationale (National Sheepfold) in Rambouillet, and the rain turned it into a big muddy mess. I had brought rubber shoe covers, and they were trashed by the end of the day. I was glad to have my wool jersey. I tried to catch up with some of the other Montana Randonneurs but never could connect. There just wasn't much to write home about today. I retreated to my hut and turned in early. Tomorrow was the big day and I needed all the sleep I could get.

Chateau de Dampierre

Does This Train Stop in Saint-Remy?

Boarding the Metro back to Gare du Nord, I was again feeling pretty worn out. It had been a long day of walking, I hadn't eaten much, and still had a long way to go. I needed to get something to eat, retrieve my bike and bag, get the train to Saint-Remy, then, assemble the bike, and ride the four miles or so to the AirBnB with a giant bike bag on my back, all before I could rest for the day. And it was well past 7 already.

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The Five Guys Burgers in the Gare du Nord was a nice, greasy taste of home after my previous night's disappointing foray into French cuisine. As a bonus, you can get a beer at fast food places in France, and a beer and a burger was just the fortification I needed. I was not looking forward to lugging that bike around the station again.

USA! USA!

But I had planned this stage of the trip pretty well. I knew what train line I wanted to be on, so I bought my ticket and scouted the best route from the luggage lockers to the platform. I stopped at a little Carrefour market and picked up a few breakfast things for the next day, and went to collect my bags. The scouting paid off, and so with a little effort, I was standing on the platform, ready to board the next train to Saint-Remy-les-Chevreuse.

Without getting to technical, because Saint-Remy is the end of the line and fairly rural, not every train goes all the way out there. Most are serving the Paris-metropolitan area, and then coming back. So at first I wasn't worried that Saint-Remy wasn't coming up on the board.

After a while though, as many trains and ever more precious time passed, I grew concerned. Was I on the right platform? Yes, I think so. It's making the right stops, just not all of them, never going far enough down the line. I must have waited 45 minutes before I noticed a posting on the wall that finally solved the mystery. The line was closed past Orsay for maintenance. But there was a bus service that should take me from Orsay to Saint-Remy. Only 15 minutes to wait now, for the next train to Orsay.

By chance another randonneur showed up on the platform, a woman from Japan I believe, also traveling alone. So we tried at communication a little, but I don't think much aside from the basics survived translation. The trains were still busy with commuters at 9 at night, so we went to the end of the train where there is space for large luggage to stow our bikes. I found a seat facing the rear where I could watch my bike, among a garrulous group of women.

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The buses were waiting for us at Orsay, just as promised, and so with another obstacle overcome I arrived in Saint-Remy. My new Japanese friend had a ride waiting, which I was quite envious of. I set up shop under a street light, and got to work assembling my bike.

If you read the previous chapter on the bike, you might remember that I had made a few modifications to allow the bike to rinko, a system originally developed in Japan to 'fold' a full-size bike up for transport on trains. Now was the true test: had it survived the trip over?

Ready to roll at Saint-Remy

As the bike started to come together, things were looking up. I found one part, a fender stay, had been bent. Easy enough to straighten out. Just needed to put on the chain, pack up the bags and go. Finally, something going to plan!

Earlier, out of the corner of my eye I had noticed a man jog by. As I finished up with the bike, I noticed that he was now walking toward me. Uh-oh.

It wasn't so much that I was afraid of this stranger. There were still people around, in the station and buses coming and going every five minutes. It was mostly that last thing I wanted was another delay.

Turns out, I should have been afraid. He was a talkative fellow. He spoke good english and had many questions about the bike, where I was from, and how the bike disassembled, among other things. On one hand, I was anxious to get going, knowing that by this time my hosts must be wondering where I was, or gone to bed. But on the other hand, I can't resist a chance to talk bikes. Besides, he turned out to be an interesting guy and shared a lot of good local information, which was nice to know. Pierre was his name.

By the time I said au revoir to Pierre and got going it was after midnight. I spent awhile going down the various roads leading away from the station till I was sort of confident I was going in the right direction. One or two cars passed me as I rode, and one gave me a flash of the headlights. I figured that the bike bag was probably hanging down over my taillight. Nothing to do but try to hike it up and keep going.

I was quite relieved when the sign for the AirBnB appeared in my headlight. It wasn't far but had taken another hour on the bike to achieve my destination. As I pulled into the driveway, the anticipation of a warm bed and good night's sleep was all I was thinking of. The lights in the house were out. They had gone to bed. I couldn't blame them.

I leaned the bike and bag up against a shed. A little dog in the yard was not happy to see me, but wasn't making any noise either. But as I set to looking for my hut, the dog decided he'd seen enough and started barking. At first I didn't care. I even hoped it might wake the house and they might come out and show me the hut. After a few minutes though, I began to have doubts. Was I at the right place? There were a few other houses along the driveway. Uh-oh. Maybe I should retreat and take stock.

A little explanation might be in order. I had booked a little hut at a fishing 'resort' just outside of Dampierre-en-Yvelines. I had passed the gate to the office a little way back up the driveway. I knew that was the right place, but the gate was locked. I'd assumed the next closest house belonged to the owners. But did it really?

I schlepped my junk back to the gate, and assessed the situation. Stating the obvious, I had spent far too much time in Paris. I knew where I was, but not sure where my hut was on the property, and I didn't feel right lurking around at 2 am. In Montana, that would be a good way to get shot! But the night was warm and I did have an amply padded bike bag at my disposal. I decided it was time for the first ditch-nap* of my randonneuring career.

I actually was able to catch a few hours rest there by the gate, curled up on the bike bag with my backpack for a pillow. But after awhile, arms and legs were going asleep frequently, and I started shivering. It was still a good four hours before the gate would open. How to warm up? Jump on the bike of course! As long as things are totally out of hand, why not?

I rode up over a little hill just a little ways back toward Dampierre, and to a place called Maison-de-Fer, (Iron House) then on along the road, generally Westerly. There was a nearly full moon and I could see some animals out grazing in a field of stubble. What sort of European wildlife could they be? After a bit I rolled through a roundabout on the outskirts of Les-Essarts-le-Roi. This was a handy find, because Les-Essarts was where I needed to ride to, to get the train to Rambouillet, which is where PBP will start. Cool.

I pulled off outside a Peugeot dealership, and called up their complimentary wifi. I sent off a few emails and pictures while watching a little herd of hedgehogs grazing the landscaping. Cool.

Back on the road to Dampierre, I round a corner. There's stubble on my left and tall corn on my right. Suddenly, I'm startled when a big pig standing on the side of the road squeals and darts off into the tall corn! That must be what I saw in the field earlier. Cool!

At this point, I am thoroughly enjoying this early morning ride. I get back to Dampierre but I still have a few hours to kill. So I continue riding, take a left and head toward Versailles. There is a little light showing now on the Eastern horizon. It's a fairly hilly road, climbing in steps. I can hear a highway but I never see it. As I get near the city, traffic is picking up a little. I finally figure that it's time to backtrack to Dampierre. But when I get there, I've underestimated the time it would take, and I still have a bit to wait. So I climb back up the hill where I started, and bide my time at place overlooking a small field. I'm just in time to listen to the dawn chorus of birds, and hear what I assume are the wild boar calling across the forest that covers the hill. Way cool.

Do you know how in the movies, when the good guys are sneaking up on the bad guys' hideout, and they imitate bird calls to signal each other? And sitting there, you think to yourself that nobody would fall for that, because no bird sounds like that? Well, the birds in France sound like that.

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To wrap up this tale, I showed up at the gate just as the first fishermen were arriving. Of course the hosts were totally gracious about the situation, told me I should have knocked and got them up. Which is what I should have done. But instead I drifted off to sleep after another 24-hour day in France, dreaming about an experience I wouldn't have traded for the world.

*In randonneuring, there is a time-honored tradition of taking a sleep break on the side of the road whenever and wherever you're feeling too sleepy to go on. At PBP, cyclists taking a ditch-nap is a very common sight, especially as the ride wears on. In the USA, someone is likely to call 911 if they see you ditch-napping, so it's more rarely practiced stateside.