I hadn't arranged to meet up with anyone, so I rode by myself for the first few hours. The riders were much more scattered than the previous nights, and I found myself truly alone and out of sight of other cyclists for long periods, for the first time having to keep a sharp eye out for the arrow markers. I had brought along my small headphone radio for the first time, and listened to Mozart while pedalling along in the dark. Finally it began to grow grey, and I caught my third sunrise of this ride.
Shortly after, I came to a secret control, where I read a newspaper article about the ride. The story had some interesting statistics, which, as I remember them, indicated something like 4,000 riders, with the largest foreign contingent being the 300 from the U.S., followed by the U.K., Netherlands, Spain, Italy, Scandinavia, Japan, Australia, and even two guys from Russia who'd cycled thousands of miles to get here, with apparently little or no money, and had arrived only the day before the start (I saw them camped beside the gymnasium before PBP, and later saw their bikes at Villaines, distinguishable by the Cyrillic lettering on the frames and unusual component brands).
After I left, I found a small patisserie and scarfed down a few pastries, and as the morning warmed, I pulled into a field and changed into my shorts. As I came out of the bushes, I ran into three of the Willesden riders, Tracey, Tim, and Ray. We ended up riding most of the day together, frequently taking turns pulling a vague semblance of a paceline. At one point we caught up with a couple of German cycle tourists who just happened to be on the route. I chatted with them for a while, they thought we were all quite mad. I guess they were right.
We rode for an hour, then stopped in a small village for coffee and a few more pastries at an outdoor cafe, watching the riders go by. Soon we were zooming down that wonderful hill from Becherel and into Tinteniac checkpoint. There I ran into one of the New York riders, Marion, sitting under a tree. When I'd last seen her the day before, she was going strong, but now she was out of the ride, dropping out on the way back from Brest with a knee injury, apparently from riding with a misaligned shoe cleat. She was totally bummed out -- "two years of training, and now I have to wait four years to try it again."
Joining up with my English companions again, we knocked off the next 60 km. segment to Fougeres checkpoint quickly, picking up a couple of extra riders on our paceline. Fougeres was very crowded, and we'd hoped to meet up with our support van, but no luck, so we rode into the town and found a small shop to buy some things for a picnic lunch. Our visit was a big event for the shopkeepers and other customers. Regular customers and the owner engaged in highly opinionated discussions about which Camembert was truly the best for us, which tomatoes were the ripest, and the shopkeeper insisted on giving us a pate (which I graciously accepted on behalf of my companions, since I'm a vegetarian). One elderly woman customer regaled me with a tale about her adventure when she cycled from Fougeres to Paris when she was young.
We picnicked in the village square, and probably spent far too much time, lying around for nearly an hour. But we figured we were already nearly halfway through the day's ride, and it felt nice to relax for a change.
Not too far up the road, we came to a place where a guy had his garage open and was serving free rice pudding, coffee, and snacks to PBP riders. I'd heard about him from Klaus, who said this spot was a bit of a tradition, and the place had postcards from PBP riders from all over from past years. As I rode along that afternoon, lots of kids were alongside the road holding out cups of water, sugar cubes, chocolate, or just their hands for a "gimme five" (sometimes I could reach down and slap 3 or four sets of kids' hands going by, a big thrill for them). They were great. I remember one family outside of a farmhouse atop one of the biggest climbs of the day, who gave me a refill of ice cold water. I'd stopped using Cytomax that afternoon because my mouth was beginning to taste very peculiar from all that stuff. Climbing up that hill, I'd run into Karl from New York, who said he was enjoying the PBP because it was his last one -- he'd already done it once or twice before, plus a few BMBs. "But what if you change your mind?" I asked. "Oh, I didn't think of that" he replied (I later learned that he did!).
One poor guy I ran into was having a hell of a time because his neck had collapsed. He was literally holding his head up with one hand as he rode. He'd let it go and slowly it would droop down; he'd lift it up again.
I got into Villaines checkpoint at about 5:30. I'd spent too much time mucking around that day, and I was a bit tired. So now I knew I was going to really have to hammer again if I wanted to get to Mortagne by nightfall. Yet I needed to rest a bit, and stretch. I ran into Marion again, who was slowly hitching her way back to Paris on various support vehicles. She could no longer even bend her knee. Ouch!
I left Villaines at 6:00 p.m., with 80 km. to go. Would I find that same end of the day power as I did yesterday? I was determined to try to get to Mortagne without having to rely on what was left of my lights.
This section turned out to be much more rolling than I'd remembered on the way out (again, I guess because it had been mostly dark), much of it high above open brown fields with great views. But I pushed very hard, and passed scores of riders, not once being passed by anyone the entire 80 km. I don't think I ever rode harder (and I paid for it the next day!). Towards the end, I linked up with a Dane and we took turns pulling each other for perhaps a half hour before he decided to drop back. A couple of ride officials were out on the road a few miles from Mortagne, to make sure everyone put on their reflective vests and lights. I did, although as I neared Mortagne as night fell my headlight was down to a faint dull red glimmer. But it was the last night riding I'd need to do.
The last mile or so into Mortagne had one nasty long climb. I noticed a thumping from my rear tire, and stopping, discovered that I had worn a large patch of tire right through to the tube (I was riding sew-ups), in just 1000 km. (I'd put new rubber on before the start of the ride). I let out most of the air so it wouldn't blow out, and tried to nurse it to the checkpoint by riding standing up with my weight over the front. As I got back on my bike and began climbing again, a guttural Spanish voice ahead of me in the dark cursed "hostia!" and I laughed and we talked our way up the rest of the hill. He was from Asturias, an area from where I'd brought some fond memories of a several wonderful cycling tours. There were a couple of Basque riders I'd met up with again and again over the course of the ride, with whom I shared similar stories as well.
Janice, one of our support crew, was waiting in the crowd by the control check-in, looking out for the Willesden riders. The three (now four, with Lee) member support crew was now on very long shifts, since we were all pretty spread out over the course. They were absolutely wonderful. I had not planned on riding with any support at all, so while they were apologetic about the meals, I was delighted by whatever they had to offer. Usually, it was just someone putting a plate of food before me at the end of the day and then pointing me to a sleeping bag, then getting me up in a few hours, putting a cup of coffee in my hand, then pointing me to my bike. But it felt like a luxury.
Janice explained in very slow, patient detail where the van was, and then said "Let me explain it again." I thought I had it, but I got lost and had to come back. I realized I was pretty out of it, and she knew it too. The third time she gave up and walked me over to the van.
I wanted to call Margarita to let her know that I now expected to get to Paris far earlier than I had imagined. However, I couldn't seem to find the piece of paper where I had jotted down all sorts of essential numbers, like my sister's phone and the access code for my long distance company from France. In fact, I couldn't find much of anything in my obviously befuddled mental state. None-the-less, I actually tried to dial the call from memory. Unfortunately, I had to punch in the 35 digit sequence rather quickly, without hesitation, otherwise the call couldn't go through, and I lacked the mental ability to think that quickly. I practiced it about ten times, thought I'd got it, and then would try the phone again and get stuck about halfway through. I couldn't stop laughing at myself -- it felt as though my brain had turned into molasses. It was all I could do to manage changing my tire for tomorrow.
I went off looking for (please, oh please!) a shower, only again to learn that there was no hot water. By this time, I was pretty much resigned that I'd go through the entire ride without ever having a chance to bathe, and assumed that everyone else probably smelled nearly the same, anyway.