Well, I'm back now from my trip to Europe for the 14th Paris-Brest-Paris bike ride, and I suppose that some will want to know a little bit about what it was like – at least for me. I started writing a chronological blow-by-blow account of the ride on the plane trip home but quickly grew bored with it. So here is a (hopefully) shorter description of the highlights.

First, a little background for those with only a vague understanding of this crazy bike ride I’ve been so obsessed with for the past two years. PBP is a Super Randonee – a ride for what the French call “cyclo touristes.” It’s a very old ride, having first been staged as a race in 1891. The distance is about 1200 KM or 750 miles. The race was held only once every ten years because its length made it impossible for the pros to train for it without sacrificing their participation in shorter, more lucrative races. By the second time the ride was held, in 1901, an amateur category had been added. Eventually, the pros gravitated to the newer Tour de France, which was designed to have stages that allowed them to rest. PBP became the province of the cyclo touristes and went to a five year and (since 1975) four-year schedule.

Interesting side note: the first American to finish PBP was pro-rider Charley Miller in 1901. I was 70 years before another American even entered, and the next American to successfully complete the ride was Craig Hoyt in 1975. Apparently, his bike broke and he borrowed a children’s bicycle to finish the last kilometers. Coincidentally, Dr. Hoyt is the opthomologist who helped me with the vision problems that could have made my own PBP attempt very miserable indeed.

This year's PBP had over 3700 riders from all over the world, all of whom had to complete a qualifiying series of “brevets” (French for qualifiers) of 200, 300, 400 and 600 kilometers in the previous year. Riders were given a choice of starting times, each of which had a different deadline for completing the ride as an official finisher. Riders who felt they could do the ride in 90 hours or less started at 10pm on Monday night. More optimistic riders (like me) who believed they could do it in 84 hours or less, started at 5 am on Tuesday morning, gaining at least one fitful night of sleep. The fastest riders (70 hours or less) started first, at 8 pm on Monday night.

The Route

PBP is held in what I and many others consider to be the best country in the world for cycle touring, and the route did not disappoint. It started in the modern Parisian suburb of St. Quentin en Yvelines, quickly proceeded into the French countryside and surprisingly soon into Bretagne, the Celtic-influenced peninsula. Bretagne was occupied by the English for many centuries (Hundred Years' War, Joan of Arc, etc), and many of the buildings look more like those in England than, say, the south of France. We rode past endless fields of corn (the French don’t eat it much, but their animals do) and sunflowers. Much of the route is quite hilly, but almost none of the hills would be considered serious. Our qualifying rides in Davis, CA, had presented such a succession of horrendous climbs that everything on PBP seemed pretty tame by comparison. Mostly, we rode from village to village, with the occasional city thrown in (Fougeres, Brest, Carhaix). Although there wasn’t time to stop and gawk, you could see everything from charming French farmhouses to medieval castles with moats and drawbridges.

The French

More important to the character of PBP than the landscape, however, is the people. The French love cycling, and almost every French person along the route (at least by the time I came trudging along) knew exactly why we were there. More often than not, they would offer a heartfelt “Bonne courage,” “Bravo!” or “Allez!” to speed us on our way. Often, they would sit by the side of the road in chairs to applaud the never-ending stream of riders (over the course of several days, remember). Children would extend their hands for a palm slap from passing riders (I, for one, could never resist. Isn’t that why we wear cycling gloves?). As the ride progressed, we would see more and more impromptu roadside stands offering water, coffee, hot chocolate, and “gateau” (the one time I stopped for gateau, it turned out to be fig newtons) – always for free. And this wasn’t just during the day; we would get this kind of encouragement through the night, which was often when we needed it most. I said “bon soir” almost as much as “bonjour.”

I talked to several French riders, usually at the controles (a combination official checkpoint/rest stop) where we would be having a quick meal. They were always very gracious about my bad French and interested in my impressions of PBP and France. When my friend Elaine and I stopped late one morning in a café so that I could get a quick Coke and some M&Ms to see me to the next controle, a small, rotund pastis-drinking man delighted in telling us how he had once ridden from Paris to Bordeaux in 20 hours and 15 minutes during his bicycle-racing days. I always pointed out that France was the greatest cycling country in the world (although we had the current champion, Lance Armstrong).

At the turnaround point, in Brest, I got a thrill when one of the locals brought around a reporter (for L’Ouest) and I got to give my first-ever newspaper interview in French. The hardest part was translating miles to kilometers (“How many km did you ride to prepare for this?”)

The Riding

The ride itself varied from totally enjoyable to gruesomely difficult. I was careful to pace myself physically, so I never felt as though my legs were in danger of giving out. I did, however, have a lot of trouble dealing with getting enough calories into my body, staying properly hydrated, and (most of all) the severe sleep deprivation. Of the three full days I spent riding, not one ended before the early hours of the morning, and the last one didn’t end until about 4 am (and I only got 1 hour of sleep on the concrete floor of the controle before getting up to finish). My longest sleep break was about four hours, and that was only because I didn’t hear my alarm go off and overslept by an hour.

In spite of the tiredness, I was often able to enjoy the beautiful countryside as well as the company of various friends with whom I found myself riding at one time or another. Elaine Astrue and Kim Freitas, with whom I did much of my brevet rides, were often around, and I also got to ride a bit with Susan Notorangelo (former women’s PBP record holder) and her husband Lon Haldeman (doing the ride on a single-speed bike, just to keep it interesting I suppose). Several times, I tagged along with a pace line and once on the last day I got behind a couple of fast tandems from Davis, CA. Often, though, I found myself riding alone. Usually, however, I could see other riders in the distance, helping to reassure myself that I was still on course.

When I would get sleepy, I would sing to myself or remind myself of the brave Australian I met on the second day who had fallen asleep on his bike, crashed, and injured his groin to the point where he could barely walk (yet could ride, as long as he didn’t stand on the pedals). He was determined to keep going (“44 hour plane ride just to get here, y’know”). I have no idea whether he was able to finish. [Update: He did! With a broken pelvis!] PBP had no shortage of guts, certainly. I also passed a paraplegic rider who was pedaling an arm-powered recumbant bike. He was apparently the first arm-powered rider ever to qualify, but he had to drop out before Brest.

My own lowest moment was undoubtedly on my last night of riding, when Mortagne au Perche seemed like it would never arrive, when I was so tired that I could barely keep the bike going in a straight line (good thing there aren’t many cars out on French country roads at 3 am, and when the special prism insert that Dr. Hoyt prescribed for me fell off of my glasses, forcing me ride with one eye shut or put up with bad double vision. Then, of course, I got that one hour of sleep on the concrete and a couple of chocolate eclairs and it was like I was a new man. Sleepiness wasn’t really a problem again.

I maintained a moderate (but steady) pace intended to get me back before the deadline, but not all PBP riders approach the event that way. We saw the leading riders returning from the 70-hour start long before we had even reached Loudeac, which is two-thirds of the way to Brest. The winning time is usually around 44 hours. We had such good conditions this year (light or favorable winds; only a little rain) that new records were set (for mixed and single-sex tandems, I think.) Personally, I can’t imagine what it must be like to go all-out for a distance like that, even with the personal support that all of these sub 50-hour riders had (a support vehicle was allowed to rendezvous with you at the controls, but wasn’t supposed to be on the actual course).

The End

By the end, I felt pretty good physically, although still tired from the lack of sleep. The course apparently was about 30km longer than it was supposed to be, so the organizers gave everyone an extra hour to finish. I finished an hour before the original deadline, so that gave me two hours to spare.

Looking Back

Now, several days later, I have mostly fond memories of the event -- especially the wonderful French people. My only physical reminder of the ride is some lingering numbness in my little toes. I expect to ride my bike to work today. I expect that I will consider doing PBP again in 2003, although I hope I’ll be able to apply some of the lessons that I learned this time around (faster speed = more sleep, better nutrition plan, better shoes). PBP is a bike ride, but for me it was much more – the chance to join with friends in attempting a challenge with rewards as great as the hardships.