|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
|
 |
|||||||||
 |
||||||||||
This was my fourth PBP. The months up to the event, I was concerned about the larger crowds, and was developing strategies to cope. The days before the ride start, I added a worry for the soggy forecast, and packed extra gear. Both factors worked themselves out. Some vignettes:
• Stopping for water at 1am at the bakery at mile 45, full of good humor and the hope for drying conditions, the cheerful automaton bicyclist spinning atop their establishment as usual.
• Heading out in the rain at mile 90 from the Mortagne “revitaillement” (refreshment) stop into pouring rain in the dead of night thinking, “This could be a long ride. Oh, well.”
• Reporting to Gary Koenig’s wife Peggy Reed at Loudeac that so far it had been “draining, very draining” and then heading on to Carhaix in the fading evening light.
• Essaying the rictus of a smiling countenance through every one of the Maindru photo sites. (To my satisfaction, every shot showed relative good humor combined with quite glisteningly soggy conditions.)
• Stopping in the pouring rain for sausages wrapped in crêpes, as after all I was not missing any good riding weather.
• The spooky forest leading into Carhaix towards midnight, which on prior PBPs I’d only seen in daylight, branches casting crooked, winding, grabbing shadows.
• Doffing sunglasses near Brest as a symbolic gesture, and enjoying this hours-long reprieve from moisture.
• A farm family offering coffee from a tiny shelter outside Loudeac, and “un petit gateau?” (a small cake).
• A grandma wiping snack remnants off her grandson’s cheeks for a photo opportunity.
• Dripping wet, handing my brevet card sealed in its plastic envelope to the controlleurs at Tintineac, fearing I might soak the card if I extracted it myself.
• Conversing with a Last Chance veteran while wolfing down our post-midnight dinners.
• Sleeping (soundly!) under a stairwell resounding to many cleated feet.
• Being offered a free souvenir pen at a secret control.
• Passing smallish buttes in the nighttime approach to Dreux, buttes which no one else seems to have seen, but which for me suggested an Arizona landscape … and an arid climate?
• Sailing at first light through the damp, misty Rambouillet forest on the final miles, and on to a quiet, traffic-free, contemplative finish.
• Sharing a finish-line breakfast of croissants and shishkebab with riders I’d met at the Last Chance and on this very special PBP.