15ème Paris - Brest - Paris

Four years since I first road Paris Brest Paris, I am returning to France with my friends. This is a very special event and not to be missed. However, I have long ago stored my reasons for those feelings deep inside my subconscious. Now, riding the 15th Paris Brest Paris, I recall them.

Nowhere have I found bicycling so pleasant, except here in France. This place differs so much from home that it may be difficult to fully appreciate this place without being here.

Unlike many of the roads back home, here the roads have no fog lines, no shoulders. Why? The best I can figure is that they would serve no purpose. In France, bicyclists may take the entire lane, without the slightest objection from motorists. Motorists seem content to travel at the pace of bicyclists, patiently waiting until it is clear to use the on-coming lane to pass.

On the roads in America, litter is our constant companion. I often see broken glass, trash, discarded appliances, automobile tires and all sorts of other junk. On these French roads, there are no shards of glass from broken bottles. In more than 760 miles, I saw not one piece of broken bottle glass, not a single one! How can this be?

Tuesday morning on our way to Villaines-la-Juhel, I am very happy to be riding with my friends Mark Thomas and Greg Zaborac. We road very well during our first night -- perhaps a little too strong. We are becoming hungry and I eagerly anticipate the pâtisserie where we purchased breakfast four years ago. On the way, my mind is playing a favorite tune from the jukebox in my brain -- Saint of Circumstance with its line “this must be heaven”. The tune will remain with me for the next several days.

My question
This place is very different from that of my home.

Another rider shares a similar observation. Thursday afternoon, one British rider advises his friends to enjoy the cheering French crowds today! Next week, back home, the crowds will jeer and throw things at us.

What is it about their culture that makes the French so different?

The crash
Tuesday afternoon, after an ice cream break, Mark leaves ahead of me. I am chasing to catch him. As I approach Dingé, I climb into the town at full throttle. I crest the top, maintaining my cadence and make the left turn. The spectators cheer. I am looking at my next turn when I realize centrifugal force pulled me into the curb. I see my front wheel hit and I instantly go down. The spectators hush. I slide along the ground, jump up, check that my wheels spin freely, see some blood on my right leg and fore arm, quickly climb onto my bicycle and I’m on my way, embarrassed. The spectators cheer.

On the train
Wednesday morning, I come upon an intersection where several riders waited for passing traffic. I ride through and pass several. I climb and then descend a hill. In the valley just before the next climb, a team of seven French riders begin to pass me. Four are ahead when the climb begins. I maintain a steady pace and find that mine is commensurate with theirs. After a while, I drop into the fifth position in their pace line, without an objection.

We continue for some time, up and over several hills, until one long climb. Here, a large truck passes us, but becomes trapped between a slower group of bicyclists ahead of him and on-coming bicyclists from the 80 hour group returning towards Loudéac. A white van joins him. I stay to the right avoiding the two trucks. The French team treats the situation differently. Instead, they cluster around the right side of the van, talking and laughing with the driver.

It seems to me that we’ll be here for a while. I become impatient. The shoulder is a meter-wide path of short cut grass. Unless there are any unseen obstacles, I could “cyclo-cross” up and around the truck. It is easy enough and feels great. There I am, spinning my way past the truck and some bicyclists until I find a safe spot to return to the road surface.

I continue climbing passing ones and twos of bicyclists, eventually getting up to the plateau. I’m riding a comfortable pace when I sense it. They’re back! One rider drops in behind me another passes to my left. I immediately drop in behind him and rejoin the French team. The pace is quick and feels terrific. Soon we catch and pass Bill Dussler (The only time that will ever happen!).

We continue for a while and then proceed down a hill. I look behind and discouver that the leader and I are alone. I ask, « Où est votre équipe ? » He turns, looking behind us and replies, « Merde ! » Then he says something else. My best guess is that he is scolding me for not noticing that their lights were not behind me. We slow, waiting for his team and exchange introductions. This is his first PBP, my second.

We continue a strong pace into Carhaix-Plouguer, picking up Greg Cox along the way. At the control, I thank them and they offer encouragement.

Technology
Yea, one can talk about technological improvements in bicycling equipment. However, it’s the application of electronic technology that amazes me. Five minutes earlier I had checked into the control at Carhaix-Plouguer. I’m in the next building waiting in the queue for breakfast. My telephone rings – I am receiving an SMS message from Anita congratulating me on reaching Carhaix-Plouguer. Anita was going to bed in Seattle and checked the Paris Brest Paris Internet site run by Club Audax Parisien. Results are posted in real time. I reply, telling her I’m enjoying the ride and that I crashed yesterday.

The crowds of madly cheering fans
Unless one is here, I doubt one can understand what it is like to ride Paris Brest. All along the route and during all hours, the local residents are out, watching and cheering the bicyclists. It is as if they have waited the last four years for the next Paris Brest to come through their village. This place is so amazing, the people are so amazing!

My favorite village must be Grâce Uzel. These people are wonderful. It’s Wednesday night nearing the end of a very long day. Earlier in the day I reached my low point of the ride while struggling back up Roc Trévezel in the late afternoon sun. I don’t enjoy the heat and prefer riding at night when it is cooler.

Any way, back to Grâce Uzel. . . We are on our way to Loudéac riding in the pitch black. I am feeling very strong in the cooler temperatures and speed ahead enjoying these country roads without street lamps. Off in the distance I hear noise. I cannot recognize or even guess at what it may be. I climb up into this village to be greeted by the entire village. They are playing amplified music. A gentleman has a microphone. I hear his encouragement and enjoy the applause of the people who know not me and me not them.

Helping hands
After 1,002 kilometers in 56 hours with seven hours of sleep I am ignorant to my clumsiness. We are in the town of Villaines-la-Juhel on our return. I go to the cafeteria in a school building to get Mark and me a meal. I have two plates and take them down the stairs into a large building laid out with long tables. Somehow (I cannot recall) I spill drinks and a plate. I place what remains on a table. A volunteer sees this. She comes to me and tells me she’ll go get another plate of food for me, asking “What did I have”. I follow her upstairs into the cafeteria. They will not let me pay for the second plate.

Comfort amongst friends
Mark, Greg and I are nearing the finish. I receive an SMS message from Anita on my telephone. She is there at the finish waiting for me. I’m excited. I reply, letting her know how much longer I’ll be. I finish and hit send. Then I realize that we are still in our pace line: Mark, me and Greg. I had completed this SMS transaction without breaking out of the pace line. After thousands of miles, I feel very comfortable on Mark’s wheel.

The answer
Upon first sight, I immediately recognize the answer to my longing question. It is so clear and unambiguous. There she is with her two-year old son. Wednesday evening on the return, between Maël-Carhaix and St. Martin-des-Prés, a mother along the side of the road is teaching her child to cheer bicyclists. It is so simple, so pure and so beautiful, tears come to my eyes.

The next day, I relive a similar experience near Charchigné. Again, a mother sits along the route with her very young son, enjoying the parade of bicyclists.

That evening as we depart Villaines-la-Juhel, a third mother sits with her young child. She holds his arm out to “high-five” passing bicyclists. I cannot resist. I slow, move towards my right and drop behind another bicyclist. My right arm extends and I lightly pinch the child’s hand between my thumb and fore fingers.

Yea, this place is heaven!