This Inspired a Ritchey, or How I Nearly Quit Paris Brest Paris

Tarmac passed unceremoniously if not monotonously until the road finally crested and gave way to rolling pastoral countryside that was green, endless green, buzzing with ripe summer vibrance. It was right there, at the 550th kilometer of Paris-Brest-Paris, where I decided this is horrible. Barely a day before, I departed Rambouillet in a sea of some 7,500 other riders in a frenzied roll out akin to the start of any criterium I’d completed in the past. There seemed to be a constant stream of riders offering no shortage of wheels to surf as we sailed through little rural towns, past tractors turning up rich soil over lumpy hill after hill, hurling towards the last rays of the setting sun. I was ecstatic with schoolboy energy at the prospect of participating in my first PBP. Yet, just 22 eternally long hours later I was miserable, on the verge of tears and ready to quit.

Paris-Brest-Paris is the longest continuously run cycling event in the world that begins in the French capital (the start moved in 2019 to Rambouillet after St. Quentin-en-Yvelines hosted for seven editions), traverses west to the coastal city of Brest and back over the course of 1200 kilometers. Oh, and one only has 90 hours to complete this ride unassisted. For a select swath of cyclists, it’s considered the pinnacle of cycling events. First held in 1891 as a race, PBP was held only once a decade until 1951 when its frequency increased to every four years. This coincided with it evolving from a professional bike race to a brevet for randonneurs. A brevet differs from a race in that it’s not so much about a rider finishing first – though plenty vie for this accomplishment – but to complete their ride in less than the maximum time allowed for the course. There are checkpoints, or controls, a rider must visit along the route, obtaining a stamp on a control card as proof of accomplishment. To complete a brevet is all it takes for a rider to be considered a randonneur.

The thing about ultra endurance events and pushing the body beyond its normal operating range is things get exponentially more difficult the longer one goes without rest. By the time I reached Brest, I had maybe 45 minutes of sleep in the previous 25 hours. Over half that time I rode alone and without speaking to anyone. Little nagging pains grew to constant reminders with every pedal stroke. The mind becomes fragile where every mistake is a failure with inconceivable remedies. It was about 75km after the control in Saint-Nicolas-du-Pélem when my control card disappeared. There aren’t many places for a piece of paper to be placed on a bike, so I back tracked to the last place I saw it with no luck in locating it. The charade and pantomime that ensued to explain to the monolinguistic staff my situation and secure a replacement would have been comical in any other setting, however this was the first chip in the boyish enthusiasm’s facade I was now scrambling to maintain. By the time I dismounted my bike at the halfway point in Brest, dubious my replacement control card would be valid at the finish, emerging saddle sores made pedaling increasingly painful and I had all but convinced myself it was ok to give up – my friends and family would understand and forgive me even if I couldn’t.

The Rivendell Reader is how I first learned about PBP. One of the articles threw around French jargon and cities as if they were as common as grass blades on a soccer pitch. It was as alienating as it was alluring. Yet it seemed there was something romantic about riding through France in the summer. While not entirely sure what it was, I added completing PBP to my “one day” list, right under eating my body weight in burritos but just above owning a sports car. Cut to 20 years and a thousand burritos later, the world is shut down and locked in their houses terrified of a pandemic with no foreseeable end in sight. I found myself with a bottomless well of time to ride by myself. My rides grew from local 80-90km laps to increasing 120km, 150km, then 200km day long escapes from the world around me. Reminded of my list, I decided to take on the next Paris Brest Paris in 2023. Over the following two years I joined my local brevet club, San Francisco Randonneurs, and committed to the increasing length of qualifiers needed to enter PBP.

Once I found food, coffee and a soda at the control in Brest, my mood lightened. Slightly. I set lofty goals for my return, having stashed a puffy vest and jacket at the control in Loudeac some 200km away. There was no way I’d get back to them by the time they were needed. My heart sank again, and the train home entered my thoughts once more. As I entertained the justifications, I found a fellow SF Randonneur who clearly had a better journey out than me. I quickly hid my lack of ambition and accepted his invite to roll out together. Theo’s exuberance was intoxicating. While he bore his excitement on his sleeve by joyfully hollering Bonjour! Merci! to the clapping and waving spectators we rode by, my resentment of his energy took a back seat as I enjoyed the company. He subtly encouraged me along by noting the duration and pitch of the rollers guarding the outer edges of the city. We eventually caught a group maybe an hour after sundown and soon we were trading pulls at a decent clip. Then I woke up. I was riding the wheel in front of me when the fright of having dozed for – who knows how long – startled me awake. Was it a second? A minute? I traded another pull at the front before settling back into a wheel when I shook myself awake again. The whirl of bicycle chains coupled with the hum of high TPI on smooth tarmac was akin to ASMR novacaine lulling me to sleep. Slowly, I detached from the pack knowing full well any further progress would be twice as hard. I couldn’t risk falling asleep again, at least not while in the group with others.

The inaugural year of Paris Brest Paris was as close to a marketing win as one could get. In the late 1800’s, pneumatic tires were the latest technology to receive a thumb raised nose. Tire manufacturers Michelin and Dunlop set about to prove a point in sponsoring two riders to compete in this grueling race. With most of the professional field still on solid tires, the race from Paris to Brest and back was won in just over 71 hours by Michelin sponsored Charles Terront. In fact, PBP was deemed the true testing ground for both man and machine given its punishing nature. The last person to finish the first PBP took 7 days to complete the 1200 kilometer race. 

I made it to Carhaix-Plouger after midnight. The day prior I rode my fastest 200km, yet Brest to Carhaix marked my slowest 100km and possibly the most dismal. Another meal of mush from the control’s cafeteria and a dreamless sleep wasn’t encouraging enough to return to the saddle. It was 2am and outbound randonneurs flooded through in lapping waves. They were just 200km behind, but on the opposite end of the emotional scale from me. It was all I could muster to climb back on my bike at 3am, counting down the hours until sunrise and any promise of being warm again.

What they tell you about Paris Brest Paris is different than what you will experience. Sure, you’ll ride past people lining the streets of the little villages clapping and cheering as if you were the second coming of Jacques Anquetill. Yes, the smell of fresh baguettes in the morning is mesmerizing and you’ll probably eat more of them than you should. If you’re really lucky, you’ll get to witness the juxtaposition of modern 21st century life in medieval architecture without the slightest gasp of irony. But what you’ll likely truly experience won’t be that.

Maybe it was the change of clothes in Loudeac, or it was a reup of caffeine/carb slurry in my drop bag, possibly the sun’s eventual break through the morning fog did it, but my mood changed. I was only 400km from the finish and it seemed more attainable than ever before. My body hurt. Real hurt. The kind Tyler Hamilton must have felt gritting through a broken collar bone on the ascent of Mount Ventoux or when his golden retriever died. Blinded By the Light or some bastard version of it had been stuck in my head since Theo’s tail lights disappeared in the darkness the night before. It was in Loudeac where my original control card reemerged exactly where I put it but somehow missed the day before. Its discovery made me feel small and impotent. Despite everything, I owned it; all of it. The pain, the insanity, the helplessness was all part of the experience that was Paris Brest Paris. Somehow, I felt light and free.

The remaining 400km felt like a blur. I rode another lonesome 200km. I napped. Twice. Ate a whole pizza almost by accident. Smiling and nodding to control workers was the only communication I had with anyone until I found myself alone in the darkness between the controls of Villaines-la-Juhel and Mortagne-au-Perche when a group of four suddenly rode around me. “What are you waiting for, Fergus!” one of them shouted. I quickly recognized my friend Oli from Leuven and took a wheel. We pushed along wordlessly, mechanically trading pulls at the front to the next control. I desperately needed sleep and vowed to catch up with my group at the next control in Dreux. After another dreamless sleep, I rode into another sunrise and found the remnants of my group at the last control as promised.

Despite taking the same road back as the way out, nothing looked familiar on our return to Ramboulliet. The 66 hours since I departed felt like weeks prior. Maybe it was the finish worker’s frank grasp of English, but all the distance covered and pain endured was settled with a curt stamp on my control card and flat “good job.” I smiled, not sure how to respond. He could have been a doctor informing me of a cancer diagnosis with equal enthusiasm. Hopefully Charles Terront was greeted with a warmer reception. I thought back to kilometer 550 and the person who finally stopped pedaling to coast for a sorrowful kilometer or two downhill. I thought about how all they wanted was to be told it’s ok to give up, but at the end of it all was a person waiting to be told it was ok to do it all over again.