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.