Attracting more than 4,000 or so riders from a number of countries, it is a ride of over 1,200 kilometers (about 750 miles) that must be completed within 90 hours. You must reach designated checkpoints approximately 80 km. apart by certain deadlines as well, otherwise you are disqualified. It is not a race, and although there are some who do ride it as such (completing it in little more than 42 hours!), no professional racers are allowed. In many ways it resembles a cyclists' version of a runners marathon, with many doing it with the only goal being completion, or perhaps bettering their time from the last one.
I became interested in 1992 PBP after chancing upon an article about the 1991 ride. I've developed a passion for cycle touring over the years and have spent nearly every summer vacation over the past nine years touring, the last four abroad on a tandem. I've never been a particularly fast rider and do not have either the stamina or emotional makeup for racing, nor have I taken part in many organized cycling events or ever actively "trained". But I do know that really long distance cycling does something magical for me, and when I read about this seemingly insane ride that would involve riding at night to achieve as much as 440 km. (275 mi.) a day, something in me wanted to aim for the 1995 PBP, then some three years away. It seemed impossible -- the most I'd ever ridden was 240 kilometers in a day, and that was at the end of 9 weeks of touring when I was in my best shape, back in 1986 when I was 33. Could I actually ride far greater distances for four days at the age of 42? I decided I would just have to find out.
The New York City brevets had all started out in Manhattan, heading up though the suburbs and rural areas north of the City. They had anywhere from 8 to 20 riders, a number of them PBP veterans whose experience and advice was greatly helpful to me. Over the course of these rides I learned a great deal that prepared me for PBP.
One of the most vital aspects was understanding how to keep the body going over those distances. I'd ridden plenty of 100 mile rides, and by now knew that I can handle such a ride on little more than stored energy. But once I started crossing the 250 km. mark, I found out I couldn't fake it -- I had to get serious about keeping up the energy levels by figuring out how to continually resupply the calories and liquids to keep going. The second thing was the equipment -- what to carry, what clothing, what worked reliably, what didn't, especially lighting (more on all this at the end).
But perhaps the most important aspect was the realization that the most critical requirement was an unyielding determination. When your body is exhausted and your legs are saying "O.K., we've had more than enough" your mind has to be able to say "well, thank you for sharing that information, but we're just going on anyway." To me, that sort of sheer willpower is the only thing that kept me going during the longer brevets, when it was raining or hot and I was aware that there were hundreds of kilometers before me. A PBP veteran whom I became friends with during the brevets, Klaus Schreiber (a child psychiatrist in his 50s who disclaimed any professional understanding of adults) agreed with my thinking on this, noting that while the generally older age of the cyclists involved in this type of riding (randonneurs seemed to average around age 40) might be ascribed to a mass desire to prove to ourselves that we weren't totally over the hill, he felt that younger riders probably lacked the maturity (or perhaps better put, stubbornness) to stick with endurance events of this length.
After the 1994 brevet series, I decided at the last minute to try the Boston-Montreal-Boston ("BMB") ride, the U.S. equivalent of PBP that covers the same distance, albeit with perhaps only 130 riders. However, I arrived in Boston only a day or so after getting out of my sick bed from the flu, and after riding the first 40 miles from a 4 a.m. start in pouring rain, I knew right away once I starting hitting the first hills that I completely lacked the strength (much less the requisite willpower) to do that ride and dropped out -- apparently setting a record for the earliest dropout in the ten year history of BMB. That only made my determination to complete PBP that much stronger. Although I dropped out of BMB because of illness, I also knew I wanted to be stronger for PBP. Up to that point I was riding perhaps 5,000 km. (3,000 mi) a year, and I knew I needed to ride more the next season.
I started 1995 out of shape from a lot of inactivity that winter, plus extended recovery from a couple of broken ribs suffered in a late ski season accident. But I began commuting to my new job in the Bronx from Brooklyn nearly every day by bike, covering about 45 km. a day in crazy Manhattan traffic -- good for the muscles and reflexes, though probably not so good for the lungs. This was my primary training for PBP. It was training for my bike as well -- if it could hold up on NYC streets, it would hold up fine on PBP.
I put an inquiry out again on the internet looking for information on transportation from London to Paris. Within a day I had several responses, including one from Roger Mason of Cambridge, who said that the English Willesden Cycling Club was taking a vanload of cyclists down and had space for one more. Roger described himself as a 42 year old "born again" cyclist whose wife and daughter thought his newly rediscovered passion was crazy. As Margarita and my step-daughter thought this 42 year old was crazy as well for trying to do something like this, we seemed a perfect match, and when we later met I thought we even looked somewhat alike.
The Willesden club was a fun crew, a mix of PBP veterans and first time riders. Also along were three volunteers who would be our support crew: Diane, Janice and John (John's son was going to be riding too, but would meet us in Paris with his tandem tricycle!). They were quite welcoming, referring to me as "the fellow who surfed in on the internet," and offered to make me an honorary club member ("you can pop over for our Sunday rides"). We packed fourteen of us into a fairly small van, plus our luggage and bikes and tons of food like rice pudding, chocolate, etc. I felt like a kid being sent off to summer camp. We watched the sunset during the four hour channel crossing on the ferry to Dieppe, and this bunch of cyclists laid waste to the all-you-can-eat buffet dinner in the ship's restaurant, consuming prodigious amounts of dessert. Arriving in France at midnight, we drove out of town a ways and pulled over by the side of the road to sleep under the stars. As soon as we lay down it began to drizzle, and the whole group tried to make do under a tarp until it just got too ridiculous and we got back in the van and drove the rest of the way down to Paris, arriving at dawn Sunday at a campground in St. Quentin-en-Yvalines, the ultra-modern and seemingly soulless Parisian suburb where PBP would start.
That day, we all had to check in with the ride organizers (the "Audax Club Parisien") at the "Gymnase des Droits d'Homme" (Rights of Man Gym) where our bikes were inspected for adequate lighting and I picked up my route card and identification number tag. The tags were colored red, blue, or green according to whether one was in the 80, 84, or 90 hour groups. Most of the 4,000 plus riders would be in the 90 hour group starting at 10:00 p.m. on Monday, but the hot shots who were sure they could (or wanted to) finish within 80 hours would leave at 8:00 p.m., while a somewhat more cautious grouping, the "84 hour" group, would leave at 5 the next morning. There were some wild looking machines there, such as trikes, tandems, two triplets (3 person bikes), some recumbents, including two fully faired Lightning F-40s which look sort of like watermelon seeds and hold impressive speed records, and a tandem recumbent tricycle.
I spent much of the day hanging around the campground, which was an interesting scene as well, with cyclists from a variety of countries setting up camp. I went out to dinner that night with some of my cycling colleagues from the New York brevets I'd met up with, and we were joined by Lon Haldeman, a three time winner of the Race Across America (RAAM). I remarked to him that PBP (of which he was first in the men's tandem category in 1987) must seem like a grocery run to the corner store for him, but he assured me that it was quite a challenge, although his goal was to get a reasonable amount of sleep this time.
At around 7 that evening there was a colossal dinner for the thousands of cyclists. Yet coincidentally, I found myself sitting by a French cyclist named Jacques who I had sat with at dinner before the start of last year's Boston-Montreal-Boston.
Finally, it was time to go. I rode to the Gymnasium with Klaus and Miguel Vilaro, a neighbor of mine in Brooklyn, and we shuffled into this massive line of cyclists spread out across the field behind the gymnasium. I still thought I was crazy for attempting this ride, but sandwiched between Klaus and Miguel (a psychologist), I thought myself at least well prepared for that contingency!
As we approached the exit gate, it closed on us. Apparently, the 10:00 p.m. starters were such a large group that the organizers had decided to break it up into three groups, to reduce the chances of some major pileups (they marked our cards to indicate that we were actually starting at 10:30). We were in the last group. After about another ten minutes, we were ushered up to the starting line. Klaus, Miguel and I were ranged across the road right behind the ribbon, with a huge mass of bikes lined up behind us, headlights flashing. We felt like we were at the very head of a race, even though there were now several thousand riders who had already left ahead of us. Various ride officials and local politicians gave excited speeches, cameras flashed, and at last we were off, charging out between parallel columns of spectators cheering us on!
A pace car led us through the first ten kilometers or so, so we were somewhat limited in speed -- probably a good thing, given the crowd. Finally it pulled away on a turn and we were off into the darkness. By now the pace picked up to a good 30 to 35 km/h or so, with Klaus and I pulling away from the pack. Although I know that I usually need to keep a nice steady 25 km/h on these long rides, I've accepted the fact that I can't control my adrenaline-fueled desire to just crank it out for the first hour, so I may as well just let it happen. We soon found ourselves catching up with the end of the group that had left 15 minutes before us, and it seemed that within no time we were well enmeshed in an endless snaking line of red tail lights before us. Although the route was well marked with pink arrows by the side of the road, it would be hard to lose the route with this sort of crowd for the first day.
I don't think I can fully describe the heady excitement of finding myself finally on this ride, after all the preparation, anticipation, and just plain fear of pain and failure. I was probably a bit of a Pollyanna that first night, babbling like a fool about how much fun I was having.
Eventually we settled down to a reasonable pace, falling in with the occasional faster paceline. As we barreled through the various villages that night, clumps of spectators would cheer us on, even in the wee hours of the morning. Then we'd be back out on dark wooded roads or passing through empty cornfields under an endless starry sky. It was totally exhilarating.
Riding at night is something that had at first terrified me during the brevets, but once I became comfortable with it I began to really enjoy it. All four of this years' brevets I had ridden had started at 10 p.m., to help us get used to the start time of PBP and the all night riding. Although they all started in Manhattan and ground up through the Bronx and lower Westchester before reaching open country, by 1 a.m. I'd find myself with two or three companions gliding along on empty, silent roads under moonlight while all the world seemed asleep, with the occasional sound of an animal of some sort scurrying through the woods.
Here, of course, it was a bit different in scale. I remember stopping at one point along a climb out of some village and looking back along the road, where a long line of bobbing white lights could be seen climbing up after us. For some reason, it always seemed to remind me of one of those old movies such as "Frankenstein" with the villagers on the march with their burning torches!
I was carrying two headlights, as I'd learned (like most riders) that all systems will inevitable fail in the middle of the night. My plan had been to rely mostly on a small 2.5 watt Cateye headlight that used only 2 C cells and cast a decent enough beam when one was in a pack, while reserving my 15 Watt NiteRider headlight (which cooks through 5 D cells in about 3-4 hours) for when I was alone or at the head of a pack or on a fast downhill. Unfortunately, within the first hour the Cateye's switch broke, and no amount of jerry-rigging would get it back on. So now I had to rely only on the NiteRider, which was already falling apart after the contacts broke that morning, and for which I had only one set of cells. Much to my surprise, I was able to nurse the NiteRider through the entire first night on one set of cells, although it was hardly brighter than a birthday candle by dawn. This, of course was of great concern, since not only would inadequate lighting risk an accident, but I could also be given an hour penalty or even pulled out of the ride by PBP officials.
The ride seemed quite effortless that first night. I was riding at a much more relaxed cadence than usual (down around 60 rpm from my normal 80), pushing high gears at a much higher speed than I expected, I guess because of the slipstream effect of the huge pack. In the 140 kms. to the first checkpoint Klaus and I stopped only once, in a dark medieval-looking town at maybe one in the morning for a bathroom break and to refill on water, and I sat under a streetlamp and tried without success to repair my backup light.
We arrived at the first checkpoint, Mortagne au Perche at about 3:30 a.m. Actually, it was only an official checkpoint on the way back from Brest; on the way out it was a food stop only. Klaus didn't want to stop, but I was dying for a quick cup of coffee and a quick snack of something besides the Power Bars I'd been religiously consuming at a rate of one per hour. Plus I was still riding in shorts, and needed to put on tights for the early morning chill. We were back out of there in about 1/4 hour, picking up Dave Goldstein from New York with us.
Within a mile from there, Dave flatted, and we stopped to help him fix it in the dark, training our lights on the work. An hour later the birds began to sing, and soon the sky began to get grey and I caught the first of the four beautiful sunrises I would experience on this ride. During my all night brevet rides I had learned to really love those hours just before and after dawn, when the morning air was fresh, the roads empty, the birds singing, when it seemed we had the world to ourselves. After each all night ride, I always felt that the sunrise was one I'd really worked for and deserved!
Shortly after, we rolled into a village, and I spotted a patisserie which had just opened for business. The cyclists descended on it like a hoard of locusts, quickly cleaning it out. I bought a few pains au chocolat (chocolate croissants) and retired next door to a cafe to enjoy them with an expresso.
By about 7 a.m. or so we arrived at the checkpoint in Villaines la Juhel, the 220 km. mark. We were already 1/2 way for the "day" (we planned to ride 445 km. to Loudeac before stopping to sleep). At the checkpoints, one handed the officials a little booklet where they stamped in the arrival time, as well as a magnetic card which they swiped through a reader hooked into a computer network that tracked the arrival of each rider. With this system, one could instantly inquire about the location of any rider, or at least which two checkpoints they were between. Apparently, the public in France had access to this information as well through some sort of national data network known as Minitel. It was an impressive amount of organization, especially given that for some period of time the 4,000 riders were spread out from one end to the other of the entire 600 km. course. Occasionally motorcycle patrols would pass us, on the lookout for riders in distress, as well as to enforce the rules of the ride, including lighting and the ban against support vehicles on the course itself (they had to take different routes to the checkpoints).
The Willesden support van was at Villaines, however, with lots of pastries and other treats. David's girlfriend, Abbey, who was supporting him in the ride, was waiting as well, and offered me a peanut butter sandwich, which really hit the spot at that moment. Klaus stopped to repair a slow leak. I changed back to my shorts, refilled my allotment of Power Bars and Cytomax powered energy drink that I'd cached in the support van, and we hit the road.
The next segment, 80 km. to Fougeres, was one of the prettiest. The route followed many small back roads, winding through tiny villages and past comfortable looking farms, occasionally dropping into some early morning fog. By the time we reached Fougeres it was getting quite hot. The checkpoint was very crowded, and rather than eat there, we rode to the next small village and bought cheese and bread and juice, and Klaus and I found a shady spot under some trees along the road and picnicked. We promised each other not to nod off, but it was so relaxing lying on the grass watching the cyclists go by, and within a few minutes of finishing lunch we both were asleep, though thankfully we woke up within maybe 15 minutes. That brief nap really helped.
There was by now a slight tailwind, and although the country was fairly rolling, we had a nice ride for the 60 km. to Tinteniac, the next checkpoint. Although I usually find that Klaus kept a good pace for me -- indeed, I often have trouble keeping up with him -- I was starting to pull away from him a lot that afternoon. I tried to slow down and trade pulls with him, but I began to find that I had a good deal of power the longer I rode. He begged me to just go on ahead, but I was reluctant to leave him that day, as I had gained a lot of respect for his judgment as far as pacing ourselves.
After Tinteniac, we had just 80 km. to go to Loudeac. We were hungry, though, so we stopped at a supermarket and loaded up on food again (as well as D cells) and had lunch again. There was a pretty good long and steep climb to an interesting village named Becherel, with a great view at the top. By 6 p.m., I was getting sleepy, so we stopped for some cafe au lait at an outdoor cafe. Yes, I think it is possible to fall asleep while pedaling. As we rode along that afternoon, we still would encounter clumps of spectators along the way, even at isolated country crossroads, cheering us on! We were just starting to reach for the headlights when we reached Loudeac at 9 p.m. I was quite pleased with the pace. I'd covered more than the first third of the entire ride, some 445 km. in just 22 and 1/2 hours.
There were big crowds at Loudeac, and the showers were completely out of hot water. I was tired and sweaty, and I craved a wash, but no way was I up to a cold shower -- I know I would have gotten the chills in the cool night air. I noticed one of the Lightning F-40 fully faired recumbents laid up for repairs, as well as the triplet (apparently rear axle problems).
John, one of the support people from Willesden, was in a lawn chair waiting by the checkpoint for us to arrive, and directed me to the van. When I made my way there, they gave me dinner and pointed me over to a tent to sleep. First, though, I went to phone Margarita in London to let her know I was alive. She said she was contemplating coming down to Paris to see me come in at the finish. Then I had to get myself packed for tomorrow -- change into fresh clothes, put a second set in the pack, restock the food and Cytomax, etc. Doing this at the end of a ride like today's required a great deal of deliberate effort at concentration, but I knew I going to have an even harder time of it when I woke up in a few hours.
At 3 I left the van and went to meet Klaus, who had planned to meet me in front of the control. I waited until 3:15, but Klaus didn't show up, so I took off with David, who had. As we left, we passed a couple of riders already on their way back from Brest! I later learned that the first riders returning from Brest had come in around 10 p.m. (shortly after I had arrived from Paris) -- that is, 26 hours out from Paris! A few folks clustered around the entrance wished us "bon courage!" as we rode out of the control, and off we went.
It seemed like only a few short blocks before we were out of town and into the dark, returning to a line of red taillights as the night before, only now and then we caught the white headlights of cyclists returning from Brest. The group was a bit more spread out now, of course, and there seemed to be a fair amount of climbing, and although it didn't seem very tough, I was very surprised when I returned over this segment later in daylight to realize how much climbing I had done in the dark. I noticed this phenomenon throughout the ride, in fact; the night climbing never seemed very difficult, yet when I returned later over the same segments I was amazed to see what I had climbed in the dark. I think much of it was psychological -- that not being able to see the hill above me lessened the difficulty of the climb. Rather than dwell on a hill seeming to stretch ever upward before me, in the dark I'd just put it in a low gear and grind away.
David and I tried to stay together, but I tend to climb a bit faster than he, and it became increasingly more difficult to find each other among the indistinguishable red lights in the inky dark. After a half an hour, we decided to split up, and I joined a small group of three men and a woman that seemed to be passing just about everyone. We took turns pulling for about an hour, at the end of which I decided to pull into a village square to get some more food out of my bag. As I pulled over, I rode over a rather high curb cut knowing I was cutting it at much too acute an angle, and took a pretty good fall. I wasn't hurt, but my remaining headlight went out.
There were a couple of tables by the side of a closed cafe, with a few riders hanging around in various states (one was wrapped in an aluminum space blanket, asleep sitting up, and oblivious to the comings and goings around him in the gloom). It was a rather surreal scene. I now had to figure out the problem in my remaining light, or I was done for. Deducing that the impact had blown the bulb, I spent considerable time dismantling the rather complicated unit and replacing the ($24!) sealed beam. A French cyclist lent me a knife to dismantle some of the small screws, as I lacked the miniature screwdriver needed. Voila! It worked.
Forty minutes later I was back on the road, and it was already getting grey out. We began to hit incredibly dense patches of fog, so thick we could hardly see 10 feet ahead in the pre-dawn grey. At one particularly treacherous turn the PBP organization had dispatched someone with a lantern to warn riders.
At about 8 a.m. I arrived in Carhaix-Plouguer, with massive crowds at the checkpoint. I waited on an endless line for breakfast, and after 15 minutes gave up and started to look for a cafe. I ran into David, along with Klaus and Miguel, who apparently had shown up at the meeting point that morning in Loudeac only a moment after I'd left. So we went to an hotel-cafe across the street, which was likewise having its busiest morning in four years, and waited for perhaps another half hour until I was able to get one of the horribly overworked waitresses to begin making coffees and getting pastries for the four of us. As things turned out, I probably spent an hour and a half at Carhaix -- far too long.
We rode down a long hill out of Carhaix, and then turned off the main road into a lovely forest preserve (the return route would be on the main highway from Brest), winding through a long canyon, along rushing brooks and through beautiful villages, and finally climbing up the biggest hill, about 1,000 feet to the top of Roc Trevezel. (I later heard varying estimates of between 30,000 to 40,000 feet of climbing over the entire course!) Near the top, we rose up into the clouds -- literally, it was misting and foggy -- and the flora changed from trees to purple heather amid bare rocks. It was like being in northern Scotland; such a sudden extraordinary change. At the top was a secret (i.e., previously unannounced) control set up in some tents. The stop was well worth it -- for 5 francs they were selling big bowls of delicious hot pureed bean soup.
Somehow, I had imagined it would now be a nice, easy long downhill into Brest. We were going down to the sea, right? Wrong. The road dropped down, climbed back up again, then began an agonizing series of steep drops and climb most of the remaining way to Brest. By now, I was on the same route again as the returning riders; Haldeman passed me heading back on the tandem an hour outside of Brest. It began to drizzle, then a light rain. I put my jacket on, and caught up with three French riders who were putting the hammer down. We all were in pretty good moods, notwithstanding the rain, anticipating the psychological boost of arriving in Brest, and rode together for nearly an hour, before I pulled over at another patisserie for two or three more pains-au-chocolat!
The last few miles into Brest were just impossible. I crossed a long bridge, and thought I had arrived. Instead, there were a few more miles of heavy traffic and obnoxious climbs, including a nasty long hill full of diesel bus fumes which I crawled up in my granny gear (one of only four times I had to use it the whole trip). At the top of that long hill, I FINALLY pulled into the checkpoint at 1:30 p.m. The first person I ran into was Jeff Vogel, a New York rider who helps run Boston-Montreal-Boston and who had rescued me last year when I'd dropped out. Back in Paris Jeff had asked me whether I intended to break my record from last summer, to which I'd replied that I hoped to make it to 41 miles this year. So it was great to bump into him at Brest. He asked me how I was doing, and I joked that I'd had enough, that I was quitting and riding back to Paris!
Actually, though, I felt pretty beat. That ride from Carhaix to Brest had seemed to be the worst segment of the whole ride, and I was positively dreading climbing all those hills on the return.
I ate some food, and got ready to start the grand return, only to run into David, Klaus and Miguel as they arrived. Abbie and Doris (Miguel's support person) had set up shop by the side of the road, and were handing out peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cookies. So I hung out some more, grousing about how shot I felt. I was anxious to get on the road, but thought I'd wait for the others. I had missed riding with Klaus today, but I felt I needed to go at the pace that felt best for me, so although we left Brest together and now began following the yellow arrows back to Paris, I soon found myself again pulling away from my New York friends.
Lo and behold, I discovered we had a good stiff tailwind. Invigorated, I found the rolling hills to be a delight, rather than a grind. Much of the route back to Carhaix was very different from the route into Brest, and the terrain and wind were such that I could get enough speed going down to just about coast over the top of the next hill without having to get down into the low gears. Most of the time, I seemed to be up in the 35 - 40 km/h range! It was such a surprise. The ride back seemed to pass quite swiftly, I stopped only once for a quick expresso in a quiet bar (I was the only customer) and a refill of my camelback. As I reclimbed the Roc Trevezel, I again rose into the misty cloud. I stopped to put my jacket on again, only to have to take it off a mile later as I dropped back down into warm afternoon sun. A passing rider laughingly pantomimed my repeated robing/disrobing.
When I hit the main highway back to Carhaix, the wind was smack dab behind me, and I was really cruising. For a while I rode with a couple of Scots on a tandem, and we were frequently cracking 60 km/h on the downhills. Then I caught up with a very fast group of 5 French riders in matching outfits, who didn't seem too happy to have me along. I pulled them a few times, so I thought I could show them I was not intending to freeload, but they didn't want to integrate me into the fun, so I said the hell with it and settled down in the back. We pulled into Carhaix in less than 3 hours after I'd left Brest, some 80 km. I was ecstatic, given how much I had dreaded this part of the ride. I saw the support van on the way in, so I went up to the control to check in, than rode over to the van, where Lee handed me a quick snack of pita bread with chocolate spread, which which seemed the perfect treat at that moment.
That one segment had completely changed my disposition. It was now so easy, and now I was well on my way home; I knew the rest would be fine. I was ecstatic. I probably stopped for no more than ten minutes, and then pressed on for Loudeac, hoping to reach it before dark.
Passing through Carhaix, I saw a beautiful little square off to the side, and for a moment my normal cycle tourist instinct said "hey, that looks like a nice place to hang out for the rest of the day at an outdoor cafe and drink wine." Oops, back to work. I began climbing out of Carhaix, and the road became absolutely beautiful. I think that of all the ride, this part was the most magnificent. It was the combination of the great late afternoon light spilling into gorgeous little villages bursting with flowers, and painting the surrounding countryside lush shades of green and brown.
Plus, much to my surprise, by this time I was feeling stronger than ever. I just couldn't figure it out -- here I was, doing a 320 km. (200 mile) ride today, after a 445 km. (275 mile) ride yesterday and getting only a few hours sleep, and I was absolutely bombing along, passing just about everyone, and feeling like I could go all night again, if I needed to. To me it proved that I had figured out how to properly nourish and hydrate myself so that I could continue drawing energy, and that the longer I was riding, the stronger I was becoming. This was such a totally unexpected, though delightful, discovery, as I had assumed that by now I would be absolutely exhausted.
I caught up with a young U.S. women from Iowa, apparently a veteran of previous PBPs. We chatted a while, and then I moved up ahead. The countryside between Carhaix and Loudeac was quite rugged, with some great downhills and fantastic vistas. I was totally amazed that I had climbed these things in the predawn dark this morning. They hadn't seemed that long and steep!
About half an hour later, though still passing everyone, I saw some distance behind me a pack of about eight riders that were slowly gaining on me. I kept ahead of them for awhile, but finally they caught me. I saw why. Pacing the pack were two French men on what seemed to me to be a very short tandem -- the guy in back was practically hugging the captain. As the group passed, I noticed the Iowa woman at the back. She waved me in: "Join the choo-choo train!" I did, and it was one hell of a ride. I'd seen plenty of tandems on this ride and I do quite a bit of tandeming myself, but I'd never seen any tandem pull uphills like this one. Usually, you try to hang on behind tandems on the downhills and flats and drop them on the climbs, but not these guys. The stoker would get out of his seat and power that thing up, and the rest of us felt lucky to be along. The tandemists were accompanied by a rider who I think was the daughter of one of them, a thin, small woman in her early 20s, at most, who was one of the strongest cyclists I'd ever seen. Each of us tried to pull ahead and give them a break, but they were just too damn fast, so we just held on and enjoyed the rollercoaster ride.
As we rode on, the pack just kept getting bigger, sweeping up additional riders, until it was a massive convoy, whooshing through villages, hurtling down hills and ghosting up the other sides of valleys on accumulated momentum (we later learned that shortly after we got to Loudeac, a U.S. woman was badly injured in a crash on one of these downhills and was hospitalized). Everyone was enjoying themselves. It was a very cosmopolitan group, with a babble of conversation between French, U.S., Danish, Spanish, Dutch, and Italian riders, and as I am conversant in French and Spanish, I was having a great time. We picked up Karl, one of the "Willisden" English riders in my group, who was on his 5th PBP and is in his 70s. The sunset turned the sky bright red, and we stormed into Loudeac as the last of the evening light disappeared. All of us pulled up to the tandem riders to thank them for doing such a magnificent job, and headed for the control.
It was 9:00 p.m. I had left Brest at 3:00, and had covered the 160 km. (100 miles) back to Loudeac in only six hours, some four hours faster than it took me to get out there this morning. I was amazed not only by having ridden so much faster during the second half of the day, but by the fact that I had also ridden those 100 miles in just six hours, when I had never before ridden a 100 miles in much less than eight. That this personal best came at the end of a 200 mile day following a 275 mile day seemed even more incredible. Of course, I also learned at the control that the lead riders had already reached Paris at about 3:20 this afternoon, setting a new record.
I found my wonderful support crew again, and began to get set up for tomorrow. Alas, there were still no hot showers available, however. Could I stand going to sleep with nearly 800 km. of road grunge and sweat? Did I have much choice?
So instead, I played tourist and took a walk around town for an hour. After the bizarre modernity St. Quentin-en-Yvalines where PBP had started, it was a delight to stroll through a more "authentic" French town. I even went into a church where a choir was performing, sitting in the back in my (sweaty) cycling gear and for a few minutes mentally removing myself from the intensity of the ride. I called up my sister's house outside of London and spoke with my family. Margarita confirmed that she was definitely coming down to Paris to meet me at the finish, which absolutely delighted me. I still had two days to go, but I felt like I was already almost finished. I was nearly 2/3 done, and after this afternoon's ride, I knew that I could easily cover in the remaining two days what I had covered in the first.
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.
Given that, and the fact that my batteries were dead, I saw no reason to leave before light. Even with John, one of the Willesden support crew, snoring loudly away next to me, I'd had about eight hours of sleep. It was wonderful, but it was also too much. By the time I left Mortagne, I'd been off my bike for ten hours, and my body had apparently assumed I'd come to my senses and decided not to abuse it any further. As a result, I was felt stiff for the first time on the ride, very much so, and my Achilles tendons ached severely from the way I had pounded up those hills at high speeds and gears on that last 80 km. stretch from Villaines to Mortagne (or maybe the constant dosage of iboprofen I'd been religiously taking every four hours had worn off during my eight hours of unconsciousness). I'd never felt those tendons hurt before, and I was pretty worried about it, since I'd heard of people damaging them enough from overstress to require surgery.
When it finally was light enough not to need to bother with the headlights, I left with Roger. It was our first time riding together, and we had a delightful time that last day.
Today's ride looked like it would be a piece of cake -- a mere 140 km. (87 miles) to the end, and until 4:00 pm to do it (actually, until 4:40, since our group had left Paris 40 minutes late). Actually, the problem was not getting there in time, but rather, trying not to get there until almost 4:00. We decided we would see if we could kill enough time during the day to get there as close to the deadline as possible, perhaps being the last ones to make the deadline. "After all" Roger added "if we ever do this again, it'll be that much easier to beat our last records!"
However, the riding conditions were almost our downfall. We were riding frequently across flat, harvested fields with a raging tailwind that was pushing us up to remarkable velocities. "Wouldn't you know it" I said "there's never a decent headwind when you need one!" (I'd heard that the last PBP in 1991 had a terrible headwind all the way back, and I can just imagine how miserable it must have been on the last day crossing those open fields). We decided we'd stop for a long breakfast when we got to the next checkpoint.
I had thought that Roger had been having trouble earlier in the ride keeping on pace, but he certainly showed no sign of it that day, showing tremendous sprinting power when he had to. After an hour or so, my Achilles tendons had begun to loosen up (or perhaps the iboprofen was kicking back in).
The PBP riders seemed to now be few and far between. Fairly frequently we saw prone bodies of sleeping cyclists by the side of the road, and I wondered if some of them would wake up in time to make it to Paris (it certainly would be a total bummer to be this close to the end and blow it by oversleeping). In one quaint village we passed through, a woman had her front window open and was handing out bowls of cafe au lait to cyclists. I was beginning to feel a bit nostalgic already, as this rolling four day mass therapy group for the obsessively compulsive cyclist was nearing its end! We had a wonderful day of riding, laughing a lot and enjoying each other's conversation as we shared some of our lives, and relaxing with the knowledge that we had this ride in the bag. I think if I ever ride PBP again, I cannot possibly reach that pleasure of knowing for the first time that I will have succeeded.
We pulled into the last checkpoint before Paris, Nogent Le Roi. I chatted with Noel Simpson, the head of the English Audax (i.e., randonneur) association who looked like a small version of Santa Claus and who was the stoker of a remarkable contraption we'd run into again and again on the ride: the tandem recumbent tricycle.
Affectionately known as the "repugnant," this aircraft carrier-sized machine hovered just inches above the ground (I wondered how it crossed the many speed bumps on the route), had 72 forward speeds, and attracted a huge crowd wherever it went. It was the one of the more amazing cycling creations I'd ever seen. It was also, according to Noel, the slowest. "I guess you'll hold the tandem recumbent tricycle record on PBP, both for the fastest and slowest" I commented. Noel agreed: "That's because no one will ever be daft enough to try something like this again." He did look comfortable, though, reclining on the back with his hands behind his head, urging Pete, his captain (whom he referred to as his "manservant"), onward. Noel managed to totally baffle one of the women staffing the control at Nogent by offering her 20 francs when she stamped his route card. "But that's what they charged back at the last place" he said, completely poker faced.
Roger and I left the checkpoint and rode into the village looking for a nice place to hang out and have a long breakfast. Nogent is a charming little village clustered around a small stream, and apparently was the major habitation close to the King's hunting forest. There were beautiful old half-timbered houses leaning crazily over the street, many of which appeared to have been successfully renovated inside into professional offices. We wandered into the cathedral, a rather unusual quasi-oval shaped structure with massive flying buttresses and nice stained glass, before enjoying a leisurely cafe and pastries. People would come up to us on the street enquiring if we were lost, since the center of the village was quite a few blocks off the PBP route.
Leaving Nogent, we entered some cool green forests, and Roger remarked that it was around here that Louis the 16th had learned of the Bastille Day uprising.
Maybe ten miles from the end, I was passed by a small cluster of cyclists, including one who's number tag was "1." I sprinted to catch up with them, and discovered that the rider was none other than Scott Dickson, who had come in first during the previous two PBPs and, along with a group of eight other riders this time, had just set a new record this year: 43 hours and 20 minutes. Already back in Paris for two days, Scott was just out for an afternoon ride! I congratulated him on his new record, and we chatted for a while, but as he was going considerable faster than I wanted to I jokingly told him I'd have to let him go ahead because he was messing up my attempt to come in last. But at least I could claim that I'd ridden into Paris on PBP with one of the winners (albeit two days later!).
Another rider with Dickson told me some of the details of Dickson's ride. It seems that Dickson had been unable to break away from the lead pack, and when they reached Villaines, the group conferenced and decided to work together to set a new record, virtually sprinting the remaining 220 km. in some ridiculously short time. Apparently, the pack was so impressed by Dickson's pulling efforts that they mutually agreed to drop back slightly and let him cross the line first, although all of them were credited with the same time. Even more amazing, though, was the first woman rider in, Brigitte Kerhouet, who broke the old women's record by something like nine or ten hours when she came in at 44:14.
Meanwhile, Roger and I were having increasing concern that we would get to Paris far too soon, and started looking for a nice restaurant to kill off a few hours. Ultimately, we finally found a place maybe a mile or so from the end, as we left "old" France and reentered the creepy modernity of St. Quentin. It was a bit late for lunch, but the restaurant put something nice together for us, and we split a bottle of wine, then desert, then cognac. We managed to kill about two hours, and were definitely feeling no pain, although we began to wonder if we might blow the 90 hour deadline by passing out drunk under the table. It seemed utterly unreal that we were still part of some sort of massive timed athletic event going on outside!
So at about 3:35 we decided we really ought to leave. I stuck the empty wine bottle in the water bottle cage on my bike as a souvenir. We were definitely weaving a bit and barely managed to avoid ending our PBP by colliding with each other during the last mile. Only we discovered that our calculations were a bit off and we actually had several kilometers still to go, so we did almost blow the deadline! Finally we rode into the circle outside the gymnasium. Margarita ran up to me with some wild flowers she'd picked along the road and a very wonderful kiss. It indeed turned out that she and Ilsa, Klaus's wife, had only gotten there just minutes ago, so my timing had been just about perfect. I felt just fine, relaxed, and utterly content. Except that a number of French men kept coming up to me pointing at their watches and gesturing frantically for me to go in to the gym and get clocked in before 4:00. "Monsieur, attention, le temps! Allez! Vite!" (Yo, jerk, go check in, you're almost out of time!) "Pas de problem, j'ai encore onze minutes" (I've still eleven minutes, no hassle).
So I rode into the gym and turned in my route card, racking up a stunning time of 89 hours and 49 minutes. I had hoped to be the last, but even among the several hundred U.S. riders there was one guy who managed to outdo me and come in at exactly 90:00. But then, he was from southern Florida, and probably had more trouble on the hills!
Margarita and I walked to a hotel nearby, where I had one of the most wonderful and long-awaited showers of my life, washing off 1,200 kilometers of weariness and dirt. All in all, I felt pretty good, and a bunch of us went out to dinner that night, although some of us were having a bit of trouble keeping our heads from dropping into our plates of pasta as sleep deprivation and red wine began to interact. The next day, however, I woke up with golfball-size bags under my eyes, and at the end of the long ride back to London squeezed into the van with my legs folded under me my ankles swelled up to small balloons. I'm not sure what specifically caused this, though it seemed a pretty common malady among PBP riders, perhaps from the iboprofen or just plain overdoing it. All was well in a few days, however.
Looking back on it, especially that last day, it all seemed like great fun. I actually only rode for a little over 50 hours (my average riding speed was slightly over 24 km/h or 15 mph) which meant that I spent nearly half the ride off the bike, eating, sleeping, or playing tourist. Indeed, perhaps I set some sort of record for the most sleep -- a record I'll just have to break when I come back in 1999!
Foremost was eating. I hate Power Bars (concentrated food bars), but I've found that they do work for me, and the new banana ones are relatively easy to chew, and provide 250 low fat calories. I had brought two cases with me to France, and aimed to consume about one for every 25 km. (i.e., about once an hour while riding). This seemed to work quite well as the mainstay of my diet, although I did snack on fruit, pastries, and cheese, and had a light meal at the beginning and end of the day. The trick was to keep eating those damn bars, before I got hungry. I knew that once I reached that starved, hollow feeling, it might take me hours to really recover. By keeping the fires steadily stoked, I never really felt physically tired or exhausted (mentally was a different matter).
Drinking was a similar issue. I perspire (o.k., sweat) more than just about any human being I've ever encountered, so I know I really need to get a lot of liquid in. This year I started using the Camelback system during these rides, an insulated pouch you wear on your back that carries more than half a gallon of liquid, which you drink from by sucking on a small tube that hangs over your shoulder. The advantage, besides capacity, is that the fluid is very readily available and I've found it induces me to drink much more. Like eating, I've learned that its important to drink before I get thirsty, to keep filling myself up. Recovering from dehydration, like hunger, takes far too long. I add Cytomax, a powdered electrolyte replacement drink mix, right into the Camelback. It seems to help, although its taste is loathsome.
Preventing soreness and pain was another concern. I've learned some pretty good measures to take as far as the derriere department is concerned. Number one is cleanliness, since sitting in your own sweat all day and grinding it into your flesh is bound to create problems over 1200 km. Even though I was never able to bathe during the entire PBP, I carried a supply of alcohol baby wipes with me and cleaned potential problem areas assiduously. I also carried an extra pair of riding shorts with me so that I could change in the middle of each day to clean shorts, which, whether or not physically beneficial, made me feel a whole lot better for a few minutes at least. Lastly, Klaus had turned me on to a concoction known as "bag balm," a greasy ointment used by veterinarians to treat inflamed udders of milking cows. Apparently laced with a mixture of antiseptics and I don't know what else, it seemed to work much better than vaseline or talc. I slathered it on twice a day.
The other pain remedy was iboprofen. I took this about every four hours, usually just 250 mg. It does a good job of deadening pain and preventing swelling, since when it wore off the night after PBP I woke up with ballooned ankles and huge bags under my eyes. I've heard that if you overdo it (who am I to talk about overdoing something?) there can be some serious consequences, besides just water retention.
The only real pain I had to deal with was in my hands and wrists. Even though I had extensive padding on my bars and used padded gloves, by the end of the second day my hands were killing me. Oddly enough, I discovered that part of the problem was the gloves, which were soaked with sweat (I said I perspire a lot) and combined with the leather formed a potent skin irritant, so eventually I dispensed with them. There were times I really wished for aerobars, so I could ride on my elbows once in a while and take some of the pressure off, but they were banned for this year's PBP (I guess they fear you may fall asleep on them).
For storage, I used a trunk bag on a rear rack. While I usually like a front bag instead for easy access, its not easy to hang one in a way that doesn't interfere with the lights. My many tours have rendered me a bit paranoid about finding myself unprepared for any contingency, so in the bag I squeezed, among other things, enough food and drink mix to get through the day, a spare set of shorts, tights, Goretex jacket, two spare sew-up tires, sew-up repair kit (just making sure, O.K.?), rim tape, hex keys, socket wrenches, spoke wrench, cassette cracker, chain tool, crank puller, bottom bracket tool, Swiss army knife, electric tape, spare cables, spokes, cells, and bulbs, sunscreen, iboprofen, baby wipes, bag balm, passport, money and credit cars, route instructions, and my PBP route card. It sounds like a lot, but it really not that big a load. Honest!
For lights, I used two Vistalight LED units (one as a backup), in non-flash mode (flashing lights are barred) in the rear. In the front, I had the NiteRider 15 watt unit, powered by 5 D cells, with a small Cateye 2.5 watt unit (2 C cells). I had been warned by experienced riders to have at least one backup system, and I'm glad I did. I had intended to rely on the Cateye for most of my night riding, since it uses fewer batteries and uses them more slowly, with the NiteRider reserved for fast downhills or when I was alone or in the front of a pack. However, the Cateye failed after the first half hour so I had to rely on the NiteRider for most of the ride. The NiteRider had its own problems. In the brevets, I had seemed to be able to get 3.5 to 4 hours at most out of a set of 5 D cells. In France, the D cells seemed to cost twice as much as in the U.S., if not more, so this seemed a rather expensive proposition. In reality, I managed to nurse my set through the entire first night and got through the remaining nighttime riding on just one more set. The NiteRider uses a carrier for the 5 cells that was designed for caving or diving or something like that; its very weathertight, but also very difficult to empty and reload. Further, the wires and contacts have a way of breaking off. I've resoldered it after nearly every brevet, and on PBP I had to use electrical tape to hold the contacts in place. Not a great design, as yet. The best battery lights I saw were the Nicelights, which have reflector that make them incredibly bright, yet use only 4 AA cells. Lots of folks had generator sets as well, which of course do make you work a bit harder but at least free you from worrying about having enough replacement cells on hand.
In 1891, Pierre Giffard sensed that something had to be done to boost the sagging French moral. Unlike some more conservative journalists of the day who thought the bicycle was an oddity quickly to be disposed of, Giffard was a dyed-in-the-wool cyclist. This was easy in Giffard's day since Lycra hadn't been invented yet. What had been invented in 1885 was the "safety bicycle," the basic form of the bicycle we know today.
Although there were only a few thousand cyclists in all of France and only a handful of those were racing fanatics, Giffard realized the potential of the fledgling bicycle. He wanted a dramatic demonstration of its power, range, and versatility. He wanted to sell more newspapers and increase his circulation. Giffard hit upon the idea of a cycling event of enormous proportions. This was not going to be any mere race; this was going to be a test.
Giffard fanned the flames of interest with a series of hot-breathed articles. He had conceived of a test "not primarily of speed but brains, skill and endurance." He had hit upon the idea of a 750 mile (1200 km.) event going from Paris to Brest on the Atlantic Ocean and returning to Paris. Could a man with the aid of nothing more than his muscles accomplish such a feat? The medical establishment of the time didn't think so. Doctors universally condemned the idea as sheer lunacy. "The bicycle in such overdoses will kill the rider just as surely as an overdose of arsenic" one medical expert of the time wrote. So much for medical science.
Despite these dire predictions, people started lining up to enter. Giffard was taken aback at the tumultuous response he received. He changed the entry rules in mid-stream and charged the unheard of sum of 5 francs to enter. Nonetheless, 300 riders including 7 women signed up. Among the new rules Giffard came up with was the time limit of 10 days. Another rule said each rider had to use the same bicycle throughout. To avoid cheating, each bicycle was provided with a special seal. The sealing ceremony was an affair of great pomp and circumstance held in front of the Petit Journal building. Properly huffy officials affixed seals of worthiness to entrants' machines. Presaging the length of the race, the sealing ceremony lasted for two days! When the officials had finished, 280 machines had been "signed, sealed, and secured." Among the 280 were 10 tricycles, 2 tandems and 1 high wheeler. At the last moment, Giffard decided not to accept women. So much for equality.
At daybreak on Sunday, September 6, 1891, 206 riders left a cheering crowd in front of the Le Petit Journal. After three flats within the first mile, the French professional, Jules Dubois realized his pate de frois gras was cooked. The race was now between Charles Terront and Jacques Jiel-Laval.
There could not have been two more different riders than Terront and Jiel-Laval. Terront was hot-blooded and impetuous. Jiel-Laval, on the other hand, was coldly calculating, sticking methodically to an hour-by-hour schedule from which he would not deviate. In the end, the mad, impetuous Terront won the first PBP in 71 hours 22 minutes, even by today's standards a very respectable time. His closest finisher, the ice-water veined Jiel-Laval, finished 8 hours behind Terront.
Terront had battled fatigue with nothing more than strong French coffee. On route, he had crashed into a barrier. At one point, he broke a crank and had to pedal one-legged to the next checkpoint. Even with so severe a handicap, most of his teammates could not keep up with his frantic pace.
Terront's finish was as much a victory for the power of the human spirit as it was for technology. One of the hotly debated items prior to the race was which tires were better? Just two years earlier in 1889, the Michelin brothers had introduced their clincher tire and rims. The connoisseurs of the time gravitated to solid rubber tires. Terront was backed by the Michelin company. Jiel-Laval, being a connoisseur, rode solid rubber tires. Terront's airfilled victory sounded the death knell of solid rubber tires and put us on the road to pneumatic riding.
Giffard was beside himself with success. He filled the newspapers with exploits of this seminal event for months. He made the most he could of the 99 finishers of this first PBP. He wrote: "For the first time we saw a new mode of travel, a new road to adventure, a new vista of pleasure. These cyclists averaged 80 miles a day for 10 days, yet they arrived fresh and healthy. Even a skillful and gallant horseman could not do better. Aren't we on the threshold of a new and wonderful world?"
Part of that "new and wonderful world" was in part culinary. A baker on seeing the gallant lads cycling by his window on the first PBP was so inspired by what he saw, he created a pastry called the "Paris-Brest" in honor of the staunch riders attempting this most unique of rides. The calorie-laden confection is available today at any good French bakery, especially in Paris or Brest.
It was also to be a "wonderful world" of sporting events. Encouraged by the success and notoriety of PBP, another Frenchman started the modern Olympics. The Tour de France was started in 1903, again inspired by Paris-Brest-Paris. No other bicycle race held today is as old as PBP. Only Liege-Bastogne-Liege comes close and it is 13 years the younger.
Because of the arduous nature of PBP, it was initially held every 10 years. Racers would rather do 10 races of 75 miles a year than 1 race of 750 miles. As time went on, the number of entrants declined. Only a special kind of racer could afford the training and the risk. To stem the decline, officials instituted something new for the 1931 running of Paris-Brest-Paris. It was to be a PBP of firsts and lasts. The 1931 PBP was to be last PBP before the Second World War. It was to be the first PBP to be won by a non-European, Sir Hubert "Oppie" Opperman of Australia.
It was the last time PBP would be run as a professional bicycle road race. And it was the first time another class of rider would appear at PBP, the randonneur (literally, super-tourist). With the inclusion of the randonneur class came the time limit of 90 hours to complete PBP. Jules Tranchant won the randonneur class with a very impressive time of 68 hours 30 minutes.
There was no PBP in 1941 due to WWII, but in 1948 it
was revived. To get it back on schedule, it was held every
five years, then, every four. PBP was now an amateur event
put on by the Audax Club Parisian (Don't bother trying to
find "audax" in a French dictionary; you won't find it!
"Audax" comes directly from the Latin word meaning "bold" or
"daring."). Some things were held over from previous days:
the machine you start on is the machine you must finish on,
the 90 hour time limit, and the distance, 750 miles.
Qualifying rides known as brevets (literally "diplomas") were
instituted to bring in only the best. Riders were also
required to have fenders on their machines. The number of
eager riders continued to grow with each running of PBP as
well as the reputation of the ride internationally. With
time, Paris-Brest-Paris had truly become what Pierre Giffard
intended - not just a race, but a test.