PBP 2015: A beating on the head

I departed Tintinéac outbound at about 2:40pm on Monday, on a beautiful, sunny afternoon. I stopped briefly at Quédillac, a non-control refreshment stop, about an hour and a half later. Loudéac, my first goal and my first sleep, lay several hours farther down the road.

I rode solo for much of this stretch. Half an hour or so past Quédillac, I turned onto a slightly bigger road, and was riding along at a good clip into a little bit of wind.

That's when it happened. I caught a brief glimpse of a bug flying toward my head; a split second later I heard the THWACK, felt the impact against my scalp, and, at the very same instant, felt a terrible, terrible pain!

This story occurs along the blue segment highlighted on the map.

I pulled over right away and ripped off my helmet. The attacker was gone, but had left me quite a present on the front right top of my head. I hadn't been stung since I was a kid, but the pain was surprisingly intense, much worse than any sting I could remember.

Was the stinger still in? Had it been a wasp? Seems like it's swelling a little already...am I allergic? How much might it swell? Owwww!

The Loudéac control with its first aid station was still hours away, and there I was in the middle of the countryside. Was this going to be a problem? Would it just go away? Ow! I decided that the thing to do was to just advance and see what happened.

Sometimes problems make new problems. Before taking off, I sent my family a brief text of my status:

Add nine hours for local time in France.

Thanks to autocorrect, "beesting," typo'd as a single word, had become "beating." Oops.

The little bugger (and the pain) had given me a fabulous adrenaline rush, and I found myself setting a noticeably faster pace! I was a little panicked. The pain from the sting continued to be intense, but at least it served to distract my attention from my sore knees and Achilles tendons.

When is this going to let up? Will it swell? Am I allergic? I don't even see other riders around right now...

Then it happened, barely ten minutes after the sting, as I rounded a corner and pumped the pedals into the little village of Saint-Méen-le-Grand:

I couldn't believe it: a pharmicie lay dead ahead, literally blocking my trajectory!

I didn't have to think twice. I leaned my bike outside, doffed my helmet, entered, and...

Bonjour Madame, quelque chose de bizarre vient de se passer: une abeille ou un guèpe m'a attaqué!

I pointed to my head, and the pharmacienne revealed that she could see quite clearly that the sting was reddened and swollen, and that the dart was no longer there.

She went to the shelf to grab hydrocortisone ointment, and we rendez-vous'd at the register. She gave me instructions, and then asked if I'd like her to apply it for me. OUI, s'il vous plaît, merci!

There was a little treatment room in back. She disinfected the area and applied the cream; I thanked her profusely and gave her one of my little wooden tokens.

What incredible luck: sting-to-treatment in about a quarter of an hour!

I got my phone out to text an update to my family. That's when I learned of the autocorrect gaffe:

Add nine hours for local time in France.

I soon began to feel relief; the ointment seemed to be working. I applied it several more times before the end of the day, and, by the next day, the beating...er, bee sting! was nearly forgotten.

So many different kinds of help, big and small, from so many people on this ride; truly fabulous. And, once again, the language thing: I really did find that having some facility with the language can really help out a bunch. I will keep studying to improve before 2019...and I will also try to learn to be more careful with autocorrect!

PBP 2015: American socks

I was happy to have made Brest on-schedule around the middle of the day Tuesday, a great psychological boost; I spent the afternoon and evening grinding my way back, through mounting discomforts, towards the relief of a shower and a bed at Loudéac.

The Paris-Brest-Paris parcours isn't really flat anywhere, but it generally doesn't have the rhythm of our northern California climbs and descents. The one exception I found was a decent chunk, lasting maybe an hour or so, on the Brest side of Loudéac: nice pitches, not severe, but enough to extract a steady effort, and long enough to settle in a bit; the only part of the terrain across some 760 miles to feel like home.

I got a nice second wind on this stretch, able to push a bit as my aches & pains seemed to ebb a little. Maybe it was the draw of the warm shower and bed, maybe it was the terrain that felt familiar to my legs, but I went with it, and I made a heartening pace that evening.

Sunset, Tuesday evening, on the return to Loudéac.

The sunset created a visually dramatic scene, and I made a rare stop expressly for a photograph. Soon after sunset proper, a gorgeous crescent moon appeared on the horizon, peeking below the clouds. Simply wonderful!

As I made my way, I reached down at one point, not really thinking, and scratched near my left heel. Ow! The surface of my skin near my Achilles tendon felt like it was on fire in response to the casual scratch through my wool sock. Ok, dude: don't do that again, keep pedaling, and figure it out later.

The blue segment highlighted on the map shows
Loudéac to Mortagne-au-Perche on the return.

I arrived at the control, bustling with riders and volunteers, around 10:30pm. The card stamping room was oddly empty of riders at the moment I walked in, so it was very calm. I chatted a bit with the volunteers, and even made my first-ever funny spontaneous joke in French! (Multiple people laughed at once, and I didn't even have to explain it, heh...)

I wanted to make a beeline for the hotel, and get that precious sleep, but I knew that the cafeteria food would be more palatable at that moment than what I had in my drop bag, especially if there were more of those mashed potatoes like the night before.

The cafeteria was crowded, but I got my plain mashed potatoes, no meat, no sauce. As the line slowly advanced, I began slowly taking small spoonfuls, so that I could go easy on the stomach, still recovering from the effects of coffee.

The whole language thing at PBP can be a real challenge, especially when combined with time controls, crowds, and lack of sleep. While there in line, a Japanese gentleman was doing his best to ask the cafeteria volunteers for shkon. He kept trying, as well as he could, to say the word: Shkon. Shkon. Then it hit me: I stuck my thumbs in my armpits, waved my elbows up & down, and I said "chicken?" He nodded, and I said "poulet!" to the volunteer.

Just moments later, advancing toward the register, another volunteer asked riders if they wanted any potage. I looked up from my potatoes with a simple "Non, merci." I realized that none of the other riders within earshot seemed to have understood her question. Wow...so much respect for these hundreds...thousands?...of volunteers; it must be a very, very tough job helping out at PBP.

I retrieved my drop bag, which I had re-deposited there the night before, rather than risk abandoning it in the hotel room if things went awry. Soon I was enjoying the comfort of my room at the Hôtel des Voyageurs...and had my opportunity to inspect my Ankle of Fire.

Well, it turned out to be the skin at the rear of both ankles. No swelling beneath the skin, but the surface was red for maybe a couple of inches along each Achilles tendon, and it would really, really burn when I touched it. But why?

I went over anything that might have been a cause...I had done laundry at a friend's place a few days before the ride, using local laundry detergent, but these socks for the ride were clean from home when I put them on. Could they have been rubbing? But it's one of my favorite pairs of socks, that I wear on & off the bike!

Ok, the clock's ticking, and I'm not asleep yet. Into the shower.

Out of the shower.

Heels still hurt. Ok...I have some Neosporin with pain relief, and some chamois skin cream. I mix the two, and apply it to the red areas, set my alarm for four hours, and fall instantly asleep.

The alarm goes off on-schedule, seemingly minutes later; heels still hurt.

I put my fresh, clean socks on...and the contact hurts my heels. The clock keeps ticking. I eat some food from my drop bag, and some pastries that I'd bought alongside my mashed potatoes, swallowed ~100mg of caffeine in tablet form rather than subject the stomach to more coffee, took my drop bag and my sore heels downstairs, and headed back to the control to drop off the bag and get going.

But what if the heels get worse? I should stop by first aid. Ugh, that's going to take forever! Dude: try taking your sorry a** 45 minutes down the road, and then decide you should have gone to first aid. That'll be real clever now, won't it? Drop off your bag, park your bike, go to first aid, and let people help you.

I felt a little better already!


There were four or five first aid volunteers, secouristes, staffing the station. I approached the person at reception, and explained that I had a small problem that I wanted to nip in the bud: the skin on my heels was irritated. Monsieur asked for my stamp booklet, as is routine, and directed me to an exam table.

There was another patient being helped nearby. Not quite sure what he was in for, but it almost seemed like he was sick. He was lying down on a pad on the floor, and folks were tending to him.

The secouriste assigned to me had me take off my shoes and socks. I pointed out the reddened areas -- they were quite obvious -- and described the pain. It's your shoes, isn't it?

I was so relieved to be able to carry out the conversation in French. I wonder if I would have skipped going to first aid if language had been more of a barrier?

My shoes only come up to here. I think it's my socks, if you can believe it!

She looked closely at my heels, and then looked me straight in the eye, and asked:

Are they American socks?

Wow. This was great! An explosion of associations in my head, all at once. Cultural relativism, allergies, globalization, New Zealand sheep, politics, humor...it was wonderful.

Even with all of that going on in my head, while our gaze was still locked, I responded with the most natural of answers:

Oui.

Madame nodded knowingly, and got right to work taking care of the problem.

As I waited briefly for her to retrieve supplies, another secouriste, who had been speaking decent English with the ill rando, asked one of her colleagues, in French, how to say température in English. This language thing is so hard sometimes, even when it should be easy! I was able to chime in with "temperature," pronounced in my best American, and she was grateful.

My helper soon returned with some ointment and bandages. She applied the soothing ointment to my skin, and did a nice, careful job of wrapping gauze bandages around each foot.

I put my shoes & socks on, and my heels were PERFECT: no pain! I was so glad I'd stopped to get myself squared away before leaving the resources of the control behind.

I gave Madame one of my little wooden nickels. This took her quite by surprise, and she thanked me with la bise (cheek kisses).

My skin didn't bother me one bit that whole long day. Many hours later, I arrived at my hotel in Moratagne-au-Perche for a brief sleep on my final night. I unwrapped my ankles to get in the shower. Not only was the skin red along the Achilles tendons, but more skin around my lower legs, under my leg warmers, was similarly red and irritated. Argh!

After 90 minutes of sleep, it was time to get out of Mortagne-au-Perche and wrap up the final 140km to Paris, with a fairly generous twelve hours or so left on the clock.

Unsurprisingly, the skin of my lower legs was still irritated, I didn't like the prospects of covering the irritated skin with clothes, I didn't have more of the ointment used the previous morning, and the gauze wasn't readily reusable.

I checked the weather: it was the warmest night of my ride, at around 60F. I could do without leg warmers. What about socks?

I packed up and left my hotel room, barefoot, with shoes & socks in hand. I met the réceptionniste downstairs, explained my situation, and asked if he had a pair of ciseaux that I could use to cut the tops off of my socks!

He paused for half a second, made a beeline for the kitchen, and came back with a hefty pair of scissors. I cut my fresh (and almost brand-new) socks so low that they barely peeked over the tops of my shoes, and thanked him profusely.

The hôtelier surprised me when he told me that he'd done PBP three times, but wasn't riding this year due to knee pain. He jotted down my frame number so that he could follow me on my return. I gave him one of my wooden nickel tokens, too, of course!

It was a bit after 2:30am when he stepped outside with me to show me the most direct way back to the course. He asked me when I was due in Dreux. I tried to explain that I had an easy sept heures or so to make the 77 kilometers. That language thing is tricky: he understood me to mean that I had to be in Dreux by 7am, and he suddenly became concerned that I was cutting it too close.

How to say it? La durée, c'est sept heures. No, that didn't do it, I guess that wasn't quite right either. Argh... I finally managed to say that I had to get to Dreux by about 9:30am. This language thing can be hard!

My bare legs didn't bother me on the rest of the way to Paris, but clothes were still uncomfortable. My lower legs also started to swell a bit post-ride, and my shoes bugged me, too, so I picked up some late-season clearance Birkenstocks and some low-cut socks at the Carrefour.

The irritation lasted for more than a week, even after returning home. I am curious about what caused it, but I would be glad to never see it again. However, if it should reoccur, I now have some nice pairs of low-cut French socks!

PBP 2015: Follow me

There goes my drop bag!

I made pretty good time getting to Loudéac on the way out, arriving just under my target of twenty-four hours. Psychologically, for me, this was huge: I felt that if I could get to Loudéac in one piece, then Brest was a mere hundred miles away or so...and a hundred miles is just a nice bike ride, right? And after you get to Brest, you're halfway done, with nothing left but to return.

Earlier that afternoon, I realized that I'd never bothered to look up the locations of my Loudéac and Mortagne-au-Perche hotels on maps. You idiot! Ok, so I'd paid a little more for the Loudéac hotel that was much closer to the control, plus I could ask Claus's drop bag folks where it was, so I figured things would work out ok.

This story occurs along the blue segment highlighted on the map.

After getting controlled and downing some lovely mashed potatoes, I swung by the drop bags. The gentleman looking after the bags found mine in short order, and I asked if he could point me in the direction of Hôtel les Voyageurs.

Instead of pointing me to the hotel, he called to his buddy nearby, gave him my bag, and asked him to show me the way. I appreciated the offer, but noted that I could simply attach the pannier drop bag to my bike's rack and ride myself to the hotel -- if I were to be pointed in the right direction.

They reiterated that they'd show me the way, and the second gentleman, with my bag, asked me to follow him.

Ok, go with it: these folks are helping me out, and I'll be sure to get to my hotel.

I followed him around the corner...to his cloth-sunroof Citroën 2CV! It was painted super-bright yellow, with green fenders, and some super-cool Brittany artwork including cows and Brittany flags.

OMG, sweet! Let's do this!!

He hopped into his deux chevaux with my bag, and we were off.

I could hardly believe the coolness factor: here I was, being escorted to my hotel by a screamin' yellow Citroën over cobblestones and past centuries-old buildings, right in the heart of town. I was absolutely lovin' it!!

We seemed to be taking quite a circuitous route to get to the hotel, given that it was supposed to be fairly near the control. (Check out the map above.) Monsieur was driving at a mellow pace in the narrow streets, however, so I just cruised along behind. I figured we'd end up somewhere, eventually, so I just went along for the ride!

Soon enough, we arrived at the hotel. The main reason for the roundabout navigation turned out to be one-way streets going in all the wrong directions for traveling directly from the control to the hotel. Monsieur went into the hotel ahead of me with my bag, and handed me off to the réceptionniste to get started with check-in.

I thanked my escort, complimented him on his sweet ride, and smiled inside -- I never could have dreamed that I'd take part in a personal parade around Loudéac!

PBP 2015: Liberté, égalité...and that other one.

The sun was finally brightening up the world on Wednesday morning after my pre-dawn departure from Loudéac on the return. At about 8:30am I pulled in to Quédillac -- not a control, but a services stop -- for some refreshment. I got some snacks from the helpful volunteers, topped off my bottles, and returned to my bike in the parking area.

As I briefly sorted some of my gear, I overheard the conversation of a small group of folks supporting a rider who had just departed. Eh? What's that? Onzième? Eleventh?!?  I realized that the rider who'd just rolled off from their group was somewhat elderly...I started doing the math...could it be?

This story occurs along the blue segment highlighted on the map.

I quickly got under way, with a short segment ahead to the next control at Tintinéac, easily less than two hours down the road.

After a bit of riding, I found myself alongside the gentleman who had departed Quédillac just before me. French flag on his frame badge. Bonjour monsieur...

Yes, indeed, it turns out that M. Daniel Maître was riding his eleventh PBP. His first was in 1975, and he's done it every running since. He was well on his way to tying the total number of completions...except that a friend of his, also on the course, was riding his twelfth.

I was making good progress on my return, but, with a long day ahead, and half a day to follow that, and with the mounting aches & pains, my spirits were not exactly at their zenith that morning. Chatting there with Daniel as we rode along, however, rapidly boosted my morale.

Astérix le Gaulois

We spoke only French; I do not know if he speaks English. Daniel asked me why I've learned French. I don't really have a stellar answer, only the truth: I studied in high school for four years, and then let it drop. Some years ago, I felt that it was a bad investment to not have built on that, so I began practicing...a little bit, all the time, for well over a decade now, with the goal of simply being able to chat with people.

Daniel asked if I had favorite French literature. More than a little embarrassed to be so poorly-read in French, I swallowed my pride and admitted my love for reading Astérix comics.  I like how, in their own way, they touch on so many elements of French history and culture.  Daniel recalled some of his favorite names of characters from the comics, most of which are plays on words.

Daniel revealed that he had ridden with the first American to ride the modern randonnée -- wait, no, he corrected himself: the first American to finish. Holy cow! I had to practically pinch myself: here I was, riding alongside someone who'd ridden with those brave souls who, decades ago, as foreigners, had gained entry to the event, made the journey to the start, and successfully completed -- without Internet, without PayPal, without ride report blogs to read, without rules published in English, without a PBP-specific travel agent, without GPS...

(After getting home, I re-read the PBP history docs on the RUSA site.  Sure enough, the first American riders to start the modern randonnée did so in 1971; the first four to complete did so in 1975, Daniel's first participation.)

He was surprised to learn that some seventy members of the San Francisco club came to France to take the start this time around.  I was happy to have one of our little club pins at hand in a jersey pocket, and I was pleased to give it to Daniel as a little memento.

At one point, Daniel explained to me one of his most beloved aspects of Paris-Brest-Paris: fraternité.

Marianne and the French national motto

He said that in France, one often hears discussion of liberté and égalité, but that fraternité is often forgotten; PBP, however, reminds us of that third principle of the French motto. So many riders, all experiencing together the trials and difficulties of the long event, finding solace in riding together and supporting one another. Simply riding alongside others relieves all of the inevitable aches and pains.

Indeed, I had forgotten all of mine as we rode along. Riding solo, the mind focuses on all of them; riding together, they faded away. While this was predominantly psychological, I also noted that Daniel set a pace that was deceptively steady and smooth, while making nice progress down the road.

In fact, while I very much enjoyed the camaraderie of riding together, a little part of me feared doing something really, really stupid -- like touching a wheel -- and making Daniel crash. It was a little irrational, but I was imagining being forbidden participation in future PBPs if I were to have anything at all to do with the abandon of someone completing his eleventh!

As we approached Tintinéac, he asked if we could take a picture together. Wow -- I had been trying to muster the courage to ask the same! When we pulled into the control, a friend of his, who was riding, snapped the picture at the top of this post; Daniel jotted down my e-mail address, and I received the photo and a nice message after returning home.

The PBP rider tracking site shows Daniel as having completed with a time of 88h47. Chapeau! Daniel figures that 2015 will be his last participation in PBP as a rider, due to night vision not being what it once was. Perhaps I will be fortunate enough to participate again in 2019, for but a second attempt; perhaps, if the stars align, I will meet Monsieur Maître once again.

PBP 2015: Locked in a barn

Yep! This barn.

After enjoying a big lunch and a bit of a break with Keith B. at Fougères in the 1pm hour on Wednesday on the return, I headed out on a gorgeous, sunny afternoon to continue on my way back to Paris.

This story occurs along the blue segment highlighted on the map.

Within about an hour of leaving Fougères, I started to get groggy.  Despite having had a luxurious four hours of shuteye in Loudéac in both directions, the combination of my full belly, the warm sun, the siesta time of day, and being down a bit on my regular caffeine meant only one thing:  this was ditchnap time.  I started scouting the shoulders of the road for a suitable spot.

Just after I'd begun my search, and as I was non, merci-ing offers of food and drink from a couple outside of their home, I caught a glimpse of a hand-made sign that said DORTOIR.  My groggy brain started to tell me "dormitory, huh....but I'm looking for a ditch."

Fortunately, logic kicked in a split second later, and after a careful U-turn I was asking, "Bonjour Monsieur! Est-ce qu'il y a des places dans le dortoir?"

He showed me inside his little barn, about the size of a one-car garage:  four little mattresses with pillows and blankies arranged on the hay -- ooh, one was even on a small cot! -- and all empty.  BAM!  I was sold.  He asked how long I wanted to sleep, and he agreed to wake me after half an hour.

I grabbed my phone & a water bottle, snuggled right into my luxurious mattressed cot, just opposite the big bags of rabbit bedding fresh from the supply store, and got cozy in my blankie.  Most. Wonderful. Feeling. Ever.

The setting was perfect:  dark enough in the barn to be cozy, yet luminous enough to see due to the daylight shining in through the big gaps between the wooden door and the stone walls.  Exterior sounds of randos getting coffee or chatting while riding by were audible enough to be comforting, like having family awake in the next room while napping at home, yet it was plenty quiet enough to not be disturbing.

I fell asleep instantly, and awoke naturally after twenty minutes of sleep:  a PERFECT nap.  I stood and briefly stretched, and I felt great.

Ok, long way to go to Paris, time to get a move on...but I couldn't open the door!  There was an internal bolt to lock it from my side, but that wasn't fastened...and there was no handle to turn; it wasn't that sort of door.

I was surprise to find myself thinking how funny it was to be locked in a barn while my time slowly, steadily ticked away.  The nap must have done some good, as I could appreciate the comic situation rather than freak out. :)  I didn't hear anyone outside of the barn, but I knocked and said "Coucou!" and Monsieur let me out a moment later. :)

I assured him that I had had a wonderful sieste, and thanked him profusely.

With a belly still full from lunch, and decent provisions on the bike, I was ready to roll.  He offered me coffee (non, merci), some water (non, merci), some cakes (non, merci), or some tea...OMG...tea...OUI, du thé s'il vous plaît! Merci!!

However, rather than grabbing a thermos from the table to fill a cup, he called across the street to his wife, by the house, to prepare some tea.

Crap crap crap, I gotta roll, and they're putting the kettle on?!?

No, no, no, Greg...no...let people help you, sit your ass down, and have a wonderful cup of tea from these gracious people.  You'll live, it won't stop you from getting to Paris, and it will probably be quite nice.

Madame came out quite soon with a nice hot cup of tea.  I'm not generally a big Lipton fan, but the tea was absolutely wonderful.  It felt so good.  We chatted a little, and Monsieur gave me a slip of paper with their mailing address, and another with their daughter's e-mail address.  This was the ninth time running that he'd come out to support PBP riders.  How cool is that?  I gave him either an SFR pin or one of my wooden nickels -- can't remember which -- and added some of my loose change to the pile on the table.

I think this is that rider!

While I enjoyed my tea, the couple tried their best to ask an English-speaking Elliptigo rider what country he was from.  "U.K."  They were clearly stumped.  "United Kindom," he tried; no good.  I chimed in with Royaume-Uni and the couple said "Ahhhh! Royaume-Uni" and smiled.  Social awkwardness resolved with four syllables.  Whew! :)



This little episode in the barn is one of many fond memories of my PBP.  I hope they receive my San Francisco postcard soon, and I hope to see these folks again some day, and maybe even sleep in their cozy barn once again. :)