Saturday, May 20, 2017

2017 SFR Fort Bragg 600k




Last weekend's SFR Fort Bragg ride was my fourth -- well, technically, fifth(*) -- 600k, and it's the first one, of the four, that I feel good about. It's also my first repeat of a 600k course.

Those other 600s:
  • I did Fort Bragg in 2009 as a Rando newbie, with only a couple of 2's, a poorly-ridden 3, and a flèche under my belt. That 2009 ride is one I should have abandoned before Cloverdale outbound due to double knee pain, but I made the PLC of continuing through and hurting myself more, completing the ride in 36+ hours, ever slowing my pace as I rode, with nary a couple of super-brief ditchnaps. I was kind of in a daze for the week that followed. Ugh. Ouch. Just...no.
  • I did the Davis Antelope Lake 6....showered & slept (90 minutes) *outbound* at Oroville (good move!) but cut sleep waaaay too short in Oroville on the return -- bad move, and a long story, for another day, involving cash under the table, a double-booked room, and showering with a cockroach.
  • I did the SLO Pinnacles Traveler in 2015, which was an AWESOME route....but I did it as "homework" for early PBP qualification in April of 2015, getting my series done before having to cut Claus that check for airfare....so I (intentionally) cut my sleep short to give myself a huge time buffer, which made for a crappy Sunday....plus I had nutrition issues to work through.
  • (*) I also did Orr Springs a couple of years back, and it's the ride accomplishment of which I'm most proud, but, to me, it's a different category of ride. For me, it required a very different approach, and was very much unlike the others.

This ride:

Ok, so I think I got it kind of right, finally! (And this after more than 20,000 RUSAmile kilometers....ugh, I'm a slow learner.) Here's how it went down...

~~~ Prep ~~~

I like to train, but started ramping up late for this season -- in January, rather than in the fall. This proved to be a bad move for me, as my form had been juuust behind the curve for Pierce Point & the SFR 3, which made them loads less fun than they might have been. It finally started to come on for the Hopland 4, which boosted my confidence approaching the 6.

The bummer, though, is that Hopland recovery -- I need a full week after a 4 before training again! -- practically dovetailed with the pre-6 taper, with not much opportunity for (gainful) training between the two. I really forced myself to take that recovery week, followed by a solid but not-too-heavy training week, and then forced myself to take it easy for that third week, just before the 6, to ensure that I would be fresh for Fort Bragg.

I've never felt so relaxed going into a 6. The form confidence helped. Having ridden the SFR events this year, as well as Sarah's Novato-Caz perm -- all sharing parts of the Fort Bragg route -- helped me to easily visualize much of the 6's course. I've also done a wee tiny bit of bike camping in the past year, and I have my sleeping gear figured out, so I felt good about the prospects of sleeping at the campground.

I carefully studied the official route sheet as issued Monday before the ride. Two small -- but HUGELY significant -- differences compared to the run I'd done in 2009:
  • The drop bag campground was moved significantly closer to Cloverdale, so you hit it sooner outbound and later inbound; mile 225 on the return makes for a pretty good spot for catching sleep on a 600k.
  • Cloverdale was no longer a timed control! The next timed control after the (relocated) campground was mile 294, Guerneville Safeway, closing at 13:32 Sunday. (<--remember this "fact" for later in the ride report!)
With the 2009 controls, if you wanted to sleep, you had to decide whether to sleep briefly at the former, distant campground, and rush 50+ miles to Cloverdale before it closed, OR ride much farther, into the wee hours, and get that Cloverdale receipt before checking in to a Cloverdale hotel, sans drop bag. Er, or sleep on a post office floor, or ditchnap, or something.

So, I planned my ride around this 13:32 Sunday closing time of the Guerneville control. Call it ~70miles from the campground to Guerneville. Ok, how about a very conservative 10mph, that's 7 hours...add a couple of extra hours for Murphy's Law (not Cole's, Megan -- Murphy's!), and you had a recipe for departing the campground between 4-5am. I was pretty confident I could make it to the campground by midnight, maybe sooner, which would add up to a decent bout of sleep. All I had to do was not linger at controls, and avoid foul luck.


~~~ From the start ~~~

On the rollout from Crissy Field, I made loose plans with Dan B. to depart the campground together around 4:15am, ride gently to that Guerneville 13:32 timed control, and generally take our sweet time on the return to SF.

Nice riding and chatting with folks out to Point Reyes Station, the first control. I made a bee-line for the park with restrooms & spigot to take care of that business before getting my receipt. I'd had primarily Perpetuem to that point, and was looking forward to some serious pastry action. Unfortunately, the Bovine Bakery line was out the door, so I popped into the supermarket....but I could see as soon as I stepped in that the line there was similar, or worse, with just one register...and I really did have a date with a pastry....

Don't overthink this, dude...back to Bovine! Stay on plan!!

The Fruit Slipper du jour was blueberry, and it was FANTASTIC.


(Dan went for savory.)


~~~ PRS->Petaluma ~~~

The plan was water in the bottles for the short stage to Petaluma, running on Fruit Slipper and supplementing with some fruit/nut bars from my bag, if the spirit moved me.

Much of the ride to Petaluma was with Dan, Carlin, and Brian. (No, not Bryan, nor Bryan, nor the other Brian, but Brian Johnston. Br*an is the new Eri*, so you'd better watch out, Larsen, Marshall, Hetzner, Walstad, et al.)

Carlin & I would watch Dan & Brian crawl away from us on the climbs, but we would get back on soon enough on the descents/flats. Petaluma arrived pretty quickly.

Petaluma is pretty dependably consistent. At Safeway, the self-checkout seemed like the Rando grab'n'go hot tip, but there were....issues...with the system:




~~~ PRS->Healdsburg ~~~

The human attendant appeased the machine, and I got back on the road with Brian, Carlin, Dan and my cheese sticks, for this Safeway(Petaluma)-to-Safeway(Healdsburg) leg. Heh. Safeway-to-Safeway. Sooo Rando.

Inbound to Healdsburg, we were joined by Juliayn, Aron, Steve, and...Tom, I think?


Bumping over the roundabout potholes right before the control, the mount for my (tethered) Fly6 camera / secondary taillight busted off, whoops!


It was fun seeing Potis & Joseph -- volunteers -- at the Healdsburg Safeway. Some folks were having a quick sit-down; some of us got receipts and pressed on. I scarfed half of my packaged potato salad (mustard flavor), shoved my donut intp the front of my jersey, jammed my full-sized Pringles can into my handlebar brevet bag, and tagged on to the group heading out.


~~~ Healdsburg->campground ~~~

I rode out again with Brian, Carlin, and Dan. I'd grabbed an additional bottle of water there at the Healdsburg Safeway, and stuck it in my jersey pocket...Cloverdale seemed too close to stop again, Booneville too far -- and, once in Boonville, the campground wouldn't be much farther down the road anyhow. I drink lots of water, and wanted to be covered.

Wind was developing as the theme of the day by this point, as I recall. Not atrocious, but steady, and not favorably-directed. Another theme for the afternoon was catching up & riding with Metin, his fixie pace putting him on a different rhythm.

As I recall, Dan and Brian were again climbing a bit more quickly as we made our way up & out of Cloverdale, but the four of us never got separated by too much through the hills.

Dan explained that there was a store in Yorkville, after the descent on 128, a good bit before Boonville. That could be a good water stop.

I was at the back on a flatter, windier bit after the bulk of the descent. Carlin was motoring out front, with a bit of a gap; I was feeling pretty good, so I came around and got on his wheel. I'm pretty sure that Carlin did more work than I did, but we fell into taking turns pushing the wind.

As we approached Yorkville, Carlin didn't need water; for me, my third bottle was perfect -- I'd be able to reach the campground comfortably hydrated, making for a Healdsburg -> campground leg without stops.

Well...without breaks, I should say, as I seemed to keep dropping things....!! Over a period of a couple of hours, this included...
  • the afore-mentioned taillight / camera
  • my glasses-cleaning cloth (string tether failed as I pulled my toothbrush out of my bag, grrr)
  • a bottle (rolled clear across 128! argh!)
  • Dan
  • my tertiary headlight, when I hit it with my knee
Carlin & I planned for a brief stop at the campground. I asked for patience / gave my warning that I'd have a bit of stuff to sort through from my bag, like some warmer clothes for the out & back that would take us into the night, and some bike food restocking...but I would try to be quick.

So many friendly faces volunteering! Thanks everyone!! And thanks, Potis, for taking the remainder of my Pringles tube and parking it there on the table for later. Mmmm, Pringles....

Carlin popped back up to the road to wait for me, and we headed out toward Fort Bragg together.



~~~ campground->Fort Bragg ~~~

Carlin and I got into a rhythm again, taking turns working. (Again, Carlin probably did more than his fair share. Thanks, Carlin!!)

Through the forest section, we hooked up a bit with, I think, Renato, for some quiet three-way teamwork:


At the mouth of the river, the road climbs up to the coastal cliffs. As we made our way up, an oncoming motorist, with bikes on a rack, cheered us on. IT WAS BRIAN!! (No, not Brian, nor Bryan, nor Bryan, nor Brian -- it was Brian!!) Yaaaay!! He was headed from a MTB ride to help staff the campground. Woot!

The stretch northbound along the coast was basically a lot of steady work in the wind. The skies were clear, and the coast was stunning as the sun steadily inched lower.


We wondered where the heck the front group was? How could we have missed their return as we headed outbound?

We hooked up with Bob on the last bit in. As we turned into the Fort Bragg Safeway parking lot, Bryan "BFK" Kilgore (aka "The Slowest Fastest") & The Front Bunch were departing the control! WHOA!!! I guess we were making good time, then?!? Wowzers. Ok!


I think I grabbed water, some more kiddie string cheese sticks, and another donut. (Why don't they have cake donuts at Safeway?) I put on some warmer layers in anticipation of cooling temperatures, and we -- Carlin, Bob & I -- were out of there pretty quickly. We also rode a bit with Michael, but he, like Metin, had a rhythm dictated by his fixed gear.

Night fell as we descended from the coastal cliffs, back down to the river and the forest. I believe it was Brian J. who joined us on this leg? We were four for quite a while there on 128. Getting close to the campground, I needed a quick nature break; Carlin sat up a bit to let me get back on, while the other two maintained pace. It was looking like we'd arrive at the campground by 10:30pm(!!), so Carlin & I eased up a bit to finish up the day's riding.


~~~ campground ~~~

My first order of business was to get as much of a "sponge bath" as I could. The bathrooms were pretty luxurious for a campsite, so this was pretty easy, all things considered. Well, this was first order of business alongside ingesting a couple of boxes of chocolate milk for protein+sugar recovery nutrition! Yum. The compression leggings felt really good, too. Nice!

Eric M. helped me find a suitable tent. Brian #5 whipped me up some quesadillas, which I inhaled...and I asked for more.

I was pretty soon ready to hit the sack, but remembered to grab some food for the night...I knew I was going to wake up hungry! I found my Pringles can, with the remainder of the Pringles, poured in Goldfish crackers, and popped a couple of cookies in there -- goaded along by Eric "Eric Knows Feasting" Marshall, who encouraged me to let the feast guide my hand as I loaded the can.

At ~11:30pm I set my alarm for 3:45am, which would give me a modest amount of time to try to get out of the campsite ca. 4:15am, hopefully with Dan, as we'd arranged, so that we could hit that 13:32 timed control at the Guerneville Safeway.

Curiously, though, in a moment of famished rousing some time later, as I reached for the can for some more mid-sleep cookie feasting, I heard Eric (Larsen) explaining to someone that Dan was going to get up at like 5 or 5:15?!? Hmmmm.....welp, best-laid plans, and all that! I drifted back to sleep.

I awoke at 3:30am and decided to start slowly getting ready ahead of my 3:45 alarm. I moved steadily, but pretty slowly...by the time I was out of the tent and getting some breakfast help from Brian #5, it was pushing 4:15, and Carlin was heading out. (No sign of Dan....nor anybody else getting up around this time??)

I encouraged Carlin to not wait for me, as I was going to be a little bit yet, needing to down breakfast and hit the restroom.


~~~ campground->Cloverdale ~~~

I headed east, solo, in the pre-dawn dark. Traffic was non-existent at first, and what did come was predominantly westbound.

Not much to say -- just lots of easy pedaling as the Anderson Valley woke up. I saw, barely, in the early light, a couple of bunnies dash into the bushes as I rode by, and birds provided the soundtrack as the sun rose. It was chilly, but I didn't feel as cold as I'd feared, given the forecast temps in the low 40s.

I was in Cloverdale soon enough, and my thoughts turned to pancakes. I wanted to not linger anywhere, so I began visualizing a MacDonald's on the main drag, and settling for some quick hotcakes à la Ronald.

Sure enough, there were the golden arches in a strip mall, right on the corner. Well, sort of -- I stopped on the corner, crossed the sidewalk, went through some bushes, across the drive-thru to the side door -- definitely designed for the automobile, not the human!

I seem to recall from when I worked at McDonald's that the side door was always locked to entry from the outside, but this one was open. Maybe policy changed? It was about 7:20am, and pretty quiet; I decided to enter gently with my bike.

The side dining area was populated with middle-aged men; my impression was that they might be Sunday-morning regulars? One of them, sitting alone, looked at me, and pronounced, in his BEST "Hey you kids, get off of my lawn!" voice, "Maaaan, you can't bring that bike in here."

Ugh....I wanted a serving of hotcakes, hold the conflict. I turned the tone dials toward "benevolently uninformed" and "horse whisperer," and let out a gentle "Why's that?"

"There's a lot of people in here!"

Errr...the restaurant was less than half full, no kids, nobody walking around, plenty of completely-empty tables.

As I was saying "I won't be long," a closer-by gentleman, sitting with his buddies, turned a bit to face me and did a worthy-of-a-twelve-year-old eye-roll, giving me, in an instant, the group's impression of the crotchety guy, and complete social license to ignore him.

Heh. I did.

I got to the empty counter (where were the lots of people?), and the cashier pretty quickly served up my tray with liner, napkins, fork in plastic wrapping, syrup container, butter container, other butter container, and receipt...but no hotcakes! She instantly realized the mistake, and grabbed an oversized (for three small hotcakes) tray with lid. We both chuckled.


I inhaled the McFood, and threw away my plate, lid, fork, fork wrapper, syrup container, butter container, other butter container, and liner in the landfill receptacle. (Thanks, Ronald!)

I kinda wanted to be out of there, so I popped back through the bushes and across the street to the gas station for a restroom visit, bottle fill-up, and purchase of a banana for the road. Aron Mason was there, setting out for the road as I arrived.


~~~ Cloverdale->Healdsburg ~~~

Mostly unremarkable solo riding for this stretch. Sunshine, mild temperatures, and tailwinds! I felt ok; although not particularly strong or energetic, I felt like I was making pretty good progress.

I knew that the one & only info control on the route sheet was coming up in Healdsburg. As you can see in my McD's picture above, my brevet card shows through the window of my card wallet, and I'd folded the card around so that the controls would show through. The route sheet was taking me to "Mill St; b/c Westside Rd," followed by the info control.

Peeking through the window of my brevet card wallet, it was easy to see that one & only info control: I was on the lookout for the Union 76 gas station, at Mill & Main.

I stopped on the sidewalk at the turn to Mill Street, about to head out of town into the vineyards. Where was the gas station? Was it on the other side of the roundabout construction? And where was Main Street?

I got out my phone. Google, show me the Union 76 in Healdsburg!

Ugh...no Union 76 in Healdsburg? Uh-oh.

Show me...the gas stations? No.

Ok, show me...Main Street?

No Main Street?!? (Get with it, Healdsburg!)

This wasn't going particularly well.

Hmmmm....route sheet seems to say that the info control is just beyond, where Mill turns to Westside? It's sometimes hard to see where a name change happens, but Healdsburg peters out pretty instantly in that direction, and there's no place for a Union 76 to hide. Maybe the brevet card had a boo-boo?

After a couple of minutes of looking at the route sheet, card, & phone maps, I pulled my brevet card out of its wallet.

It turned out that the card was riding high in the wallet, covering up the very top row of the card. I had been looking at the second row on that side of the card, which was showing me the one-and-only info control, the Union 76....aaaaand the first row of the card had ANOTHER info control! Whoops!!!

WHAT?!? The Union 76 was at mile 294, in Guerneville? And that 13:32 timed info control at the Guerneville Safeway, around which I'd planned my campground arrival, sleep, and campground departure, was an info control on the card?!?

I was sure I'd used the route sheet from the ride info e-mail...right? I pulled it up in my mail...Yep! Guerneville Safeway, 13:32.

Ugh. Had I missed a correction at the pre-ride announcements? I had actually tried to pay attention...

At least one thing became clear: everyone else had been intentionally sleeping in at the campground, as the next timed control wasn't Guerneville 13:32, but PRS open control, 18:04. Dang. :/

Welp....the flipside was that I would be home sooner, eh? Onward, to the first of two info controls, just a bit down the road.


~~~ Healdsburg->Guerneville ~~~

The ride to Guerneville was uneventful, until that part where I somehow, amazingly, didn't witness a rear-end collision, I didn't witness a head-on collision, I didn't get run over by a small pickup barreling at me the wrong way on a one-way street, and I didn't witness another head-on collision directly behind me, all in about four seconds:

https://youtu.be/9M7HDc0vnx4

I don't think that I have much to say about this....as in....speechless.

Anywho, I survived to ride into Guerneville, with my eyes open for the brevet card's Union 76 at "Mill & Main" at Mile 294, ever hopeful it would reveal itself, there on the leg described on the route sheet as "CA-116 / River Road," with no mention of Mill or Main......

Aha! So River Road changes name to Main Street in Guerneville! And there, just before the Safeway, there's a Mill Street crossing Main (aka River, aka CA-116).....aaaand a Union 76. Info control number two found!

I popped in to Safeway, for everything that it offers....I crossed paths there with Aron, a Br*an, and one other rider -- who was that? -- and rolled out solo when I was ready.


~~~ Guerneville->Tomales ~~~

Traffic began to pick up on this stretch, particularly after Occidental, and just pretty much got worse, on average, through Sir Francis Drake. I had hoped that Highway 1 after Valley Ford would be quiet, but it was not -- lots of passes at speed, many of the motorists choosing a generous gap...but some making poor decisions, like the motorist who chose to whiz by me, quite close, at speed, just as a motorcyclist was passing in the oncoming direction. Why? Just....why.....


I pulled into the bakery at Tomales, hoping they'd have some nice black tea to accompany pastries. They did:


Pesto Pizzette, and a lovely brownie. So good...and you shoulda seen all the pastries I passed up! Sigh.

It was early afternoon, and while I wasn't drowsy or (unusually) beat, I decided to lie down for ~ten minutes on the grass along the sidewalk in front of the church at the south edge of town to refresh myself before returning to the road for Point Reyes Station.

 ~~~ Tomales->PRS ~~~

You know that bit just south of Tomales? It's one of my favorite spots on the planet. It's like its own little world, this winding canyon that carries Keys Creek to Tomales Bay. The stout cliffs along the bank shared with the road are steeper, while the opposite side is bounded by gentler small hills.

You can't really see out of the canyon to the sides. The road follows the curves of the creek, so you can't ever see very far ahead or very far behind. Rather than making me feel trapped, I feels like I'm in a special, cozy, secret place, apart from the rest of the world.


Plus it's really pretty, right there were the continents are grinding together. There was a headwind there today, but isn't there usually? It was stiff, but it wasn't a surprise, and it was over with pretty quickly.

Pretty much sh*t traffic (in terms of quantity) all the way to the next bakery. Ugh. Who woulda guessed that there would be so many Happy Mothers' Days?

I was feeling fresh after my tea and my little lie-down, and picked up the pace just a wee bit. This may have been what brought on a bit of pain in my right knee. It wasn't killer, but it wasn't familiar. It only hurt when I pedaled. Heh. If I got off the bike for a couple of minutes, it would be totally fine when I got back on the bike, but would come back after a short bit.

Strangely, it seemed to be linked more to motion than to effort, at least partially. Standing was a bit better, if I didn't bend my leg much, so I stood a lot. I also found that picking "too big" of a gear, and mashing (I'm a spinner) was a bit more pleasant. This remained the state of affairs for the duration of the ride.

Fruit slippers were gone for the day at Bovine (shoot), but I got an alternate fruity thing and a pain au chocolat, so labeled, that the clerk called a chocolate cruhsawnt. That works, too. :)

Oh! I saw Brian J. there, too. Hmmmm...and Aron, yeah?


~~~ PRS->SammyPee ~~~

I crossed paths with Brian between PRS & Samuel P. Taylor. Traffic volume was again the theme, at least for me. Uhhhhgh.

Arriving at the park entrance I found that it was a good time for a natural break, so I made a pit stop. Sooo many picnickers at the park! Wow.

I'd had enough of the traffic, so I advanced on the park trail from there, rather than play on the road. That was lovely.


~~~ SammyPee->finish ~~~

My knee and I continued along Drake, negotiating the whole way. Approaching White's Hill, a non-Rando threesome came along. I sat behind, as it was nice to have someone set the pace, and it was nice to chat a bit.


The rest of the way in was pretty much par for the course -- again, with high volumes of people out, in every mode. A nice day!

I dropped down from the bridge to the bike path to Crissy Field -- soooo done with traffic -- and was received by the nice volunteers. And Pudu.


~~~ Aftermath ~~~

I've never felt this....good??...in the days following a 600k. I think I've got bike fit/clothing/discomfort challenges managed now well enough so that a 600k isn't so brutal, but I was on the cusp of sliding downhill at the end of this one. However, I now feel kind of good about the 600k distance.

Well, you never know how the next one will go, but it's nice how this one turned out. I'm a wee bit torn between having a fresh go at a longer-distance event this year, vs. taking the time out now to hit the lingering fit/comfort issues, and seek out one or two more 2017 600k's, and come back to the longer ones next year. Decisions, decisions!

There are ride stats here.

Thanks for reading. 'Til next time!!

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

PBP 2015: Everything else, vol. 3

After completing PBP 2015, my head was filled with a year's worth of stories and experiences that I'd accumulated in a little under ninety hours. In the days following, I jotted down little snippets & notes about the many people I'd met and the many things I'd seen.

I wrote up some of my most-cherished memories -- some of the longer stories -- in the weeks following the event. In the past year and a half, I've gone back several times to have a look at my cryptic (to anyone else!) little list of memories, and they've warmed my heart each time. Few of them, on their own, hold enough weight to make for a blog post; taken together, they are, to me, more than their sum.

This is the third set of those tiniest of anecdotes from those magical four days in Brittany in the summer of 2015.


WHACK!


Many families come out to the side of the road to see and cheer riders rolling through the villages that dot the Breton countryside. Often a child will extend a hand for a high five -- well, more of a horizontal five, rather than high up, since it's natural to allow some safety space for the bike.

This was really great, and fun for everyone. That said, I was a little torn about it: if it were to go wrong, things could go south in a hurry for everyone involved. There are lots of good reasons for abandoning PBP, I think, but colliding with a child while kind of goofing around is probably not one of the better ones.

I decided to go for those outstretched hands when it felt safest: slower speeds, quieter moments, lots of space on the road, and no other riders close by. I learned to ease up, coast, really relax my arm and hand, and let my arm drift backwards as we connected for a "horizontal five" clap.

One afternoon, one such perfect moment presented itself. Here's the setup:
BigSister ~ Parent1 ~ Parent2 ~ LittleSister
BigSister is aged maybe 14 or 15, LittleSister about 10; each has her right arm outstretched in the typical fashion as I approach.

I coast & slow, drifting curbward juuust barely enough, reaching out far with my relaxed, gloved right hand to bridge the gap to the kids'.

BigSister: tap! A routine, clean, gentle contact, and a little cheer.

Now, as you might imagine, it doesn't take much time to roll from one end of a four-person lineup to the other. What could change in just a couple of heartbeats?

To my surprise, at about ParentOneAndAHalf, LittleSister sprung into action: feet planted squarely, facial expression transformed suddenly into one of pure, focused, dogged determination, she twisted her whole body around, pulled her arm back with the wind-up, and swung her arm like a baseball bat, timed perfectly to nail my outstretched hand: WHACK!

Mischief managed, a veritable home run! My whole hand really stung! Hahah!! It was AWESOME!!

I'm still laughing about it as I write this.


Just a...moment?


I rolled out of my Mortagne-au-Perche hotel in the wee hours of Thursday morning. I'd cut my sleep a bit short to give myself a big buffer: I'd accumulated a real variety pack of aches & pains (the knees, the Achilles, the hands, the derrière) that conspired to slow me down, and I wanted to allow myself sub-minimum-rando pace so that I'd be sure to finish within the time limit.

I had a hard time warming up and finding my rhythm in those pre-dawn hours. There were many riders on the road at that point, a good number of whom had start group letters before mine. We all trudged along, nobody really speaking much at all. A couple of times I got off to walk, just for the physical relief.

When I could get my position just right, the assorted aches & pains wouldn't really bug me and I could put some more pressure on the pedals. Now, this was all very relative, given that this was the fourth day on the bike, but I was able to motor through the masses of fellow haggard riders when I felt less discomfort.

One of these riders jumped onto my wheel. It was fine. After a good long while motoring (relatively!) down that dark country road, I wanted him to take a turn. We didn't seem to have a language in common, but I sat up and motioned him through. He didn't come up. I tried again, and he said, quite clearly, "Moment!" 

All right, ok -- he needs a moment. No biggie.

He pulled up alongside me. I turned to face him...and he took my photograph, straight in my face, with a flash camera, in full darkness. Ouch!!

Let's just say that we didn't ride together after that. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯


What's hard?


One thing's for sure: PBP means a long time on the bike. While I was able to thoroughly enjoy myself through most of the physically demanding spells, every once in a while I'd get a bit down.

Yeah, it's hard. It may even be stupid to ride 1200k, eh? (Don't even go there.)

Sometimes you wonder if you'll be able to finish, just because it's hard and it's so long. Then, as you stare out blankly at the riders ahead of you, your brain suddenly registers what your eyes see:


At times like this, it becomes blatantly obvious how easy you've got it. So what if your ass is a little sore? You're pedaling with two legs, for chrissakes.

You tell yourself to suck it up, appreciate how easy you've got it, and you pedal your (sore) ass back to Paris, thankful that you can, and thankful that your ass will be fine in a week.


I made a joke!


I must have been feeling pretty good on the return to Loudéac. I was on schedule, more or less, a good 100 miles in to the return to Paris, and looking forward to another four hours of sleep in my hotel. Of course, control business comes first: get that card stamped!

There were plenty of riders making use of the services there at Loudéac Tuesday night, but, when I walked into the control room itself, I was the only rider there among ten or more booklet-stamping volunteers staffing the tables. It was the quietest control room I'd been in, that's for sure!

Now, I don't remember exactly where my conversation was going with the volunteers -- perhaps we were talking about the direction I was going, confirming that I was inbound? Was it the difficulty and fatigue? -- but I realized, in the flow of the conversation, that I could make a joke!

Now, this is a risky business: it seems like whenever I've tried to make a joke in French, I've had to explain what I meant. That generally doesn't make for a good joke.

Maybe it was the fatigue getting in the way of better judgment, but I went for it. I said, "Je fais Paris...presque!"

I was shooting for a little jeux de mots -- a little play on words. "Paris...presque" sounds close enough to "Paris-Brest." The word presque means almost, or, as I was hoping to elicit in this case, the sense of nearly: what I was trying to say was "I'm going to nearly make it to Paris, but not quite!" while having it sound just like "I'm doing Paris-Brest."

Three. Or. Four. People. Suddenly. LAUGHED!! Hahahaha!! I did it!!!

It was a nice little moment....but I've, uh, stuck with my day job for now.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

PBP 2015: Everything else, vol. 2

After completing PBP 2015, my head was filled with a year's worth of stories and experiences that I'd accumulated in a little under ninety hours. In the days following, I jotted down little snippets & notes about the many people I'd met and the many things I'd seen.

I wrote up some of my most-cherished memories -- some of the longer stories -- in the weeks following the event. In the past year and a half, I've gone back several times to have a look at my cryptic (to anyone else!) little list of memories, and they've warmed my heart each time. Few of them, on their own, hold enough weight to make for a blog post; taken together, they are, to me, more than their sum.

Here's the second set of those tiniest of anecdotes from those magical four days in Brittany in the summer of 2015.

A lifetime of PBP?


I set out from the event start in SQY at 8PM Sunday evening. An hour or two later we'd made it well into the countryside, and the route took us along a narrow road through a small village as darkness slowly fell. Centuries-old homes hugged the pre-automobile road, and many of the village's residents were on the street or at their windows, watching the spectacle and cheering on the riders.

A father sat on the sill of a large, low, open window at street level, with his toddler daughter on his lap, the two pointing, chatting, and waving at riders whizzing by. Certainly this was the child's first PBP; I found myself wondering if she'd remember this four years hence, when the event came by her home the next time.

Skip to Monday afternoon: a beautiful, sunny, summer day, rolling through the beautiful countryside, several hundred kilometers covered. I was well-fueled, aches and pains had not yet accumulated, and circadian rhythms had me alert and feeling good despite having ridden through the night before.

Outside a country home, a family sat behind a table at the roadside, with cheers and refreshments for riders. As I rolled by I was offered du café! and de l'eau!, but I declined with a non, merci! as I was all topped up from the previous control.

However, as my eyes returned to the road ahead, I thought I'd perceived some cake there on the table. Suddenly I needed cake! I made a smooth demi-tour to circle back to confirm what I thought I'd seen: j'ai vu du gâteau? The simple response of oui! had never been sweeter to my ears, and the family was happy to offer a piece of yummy cake.

Now, by this point I had caught on that some people offering goodies appreciated tips of loose change at their tables, while others sternly refused. When I asked one of the people at the table if I could leave a little change, he politely declined; he asked, rather, if I'd be willing to send a postcard from my home town to mémé (granny), an elderly woman sitting there with the family. I happily accepted his slip of paper with mémé's address, and promised to send a card.

As I continued down the road, I thought about mémé, perhaps in her 80s or 90s, and I wondered how many PBPs she might have witnessed through her lifetime. I thought, also, of the toddler I'd seen the night before: had mémé sat on her father's lap, watching PBP many decades ago? And how many PBPs might that little toddler eventually see as the years unfold? Would she be mémé one day, almost a century in the future, awaiting postcards from riders around the world?

I felt like time had collapsed a little bit, showing me the past and future, all at once, right here in the present. I began to feel like I was doing my teeny, tiny little part, as one of some 6,000 participants, to help keep alive this long tradition of PBP, so that many other riders might have this same opportunity long after I'm gone.

I dearly hope that mémé enjoyed her postcard.

Shhh-what??


Tuesday night, about 11PM. Loudéac control on the return. Tired.

Everyone's tired: riders, volunteers, everyone.

Hungry: riders are hungry. The cafeteria line's moving too slowly for the hunger, but the legs & asses are glad to be off the bike a bit, and they aren't inclined to move quickly anyhow. It's pretty quiet: nobody's got much energy, and who knows what language anybody speaks.

After receiving my beautiful purée (mashed potatoes), shuffling my body and ushering the tray along toward my turn at the register, mechanically scooping potatoes and inserting them into my mouth, a rider behind asked for his food: shhhhKON. The cafeteria volunteer stared back blankly.

ShhhhKON. Riders in line turned to look and stepped back a little bit. The rider from Japan looked as tired and hungry as the rest of us.

ShhhhKON. Suddenly, it clicked: I faced the rider, put my thumbs in my armpits, flapped my elbows up & down, and said...chicken? He nodded yes!

I faced the volunteer and relayed the message -- poulet -- and resumed shoveling my potatoes.

Making up for Steve Martin?


As a kid, I listened to Steve Martin's stand-up comedy LP records. I remember a little bit he did about French:



It's totally silly, but it highlights the difficulties, even if he's taken it to the absurd extreme. I've learned a good deal of those "different words" that the French have for everything, and I could see the differences that made in my interactions with folks supporting the ride:

At rider check-in, volunteers were stationed under flags to indicate language. When I got to the head of the line, I made my way to a British flag to collect my packet and receive instruction from the volunteer.

She started by asking if I was English-speaking. I confirmed that I was, but that we could speak in French if she preferred. I could see her entire body suddenly relax! She thanked me, explaining that she was simply getting fatigued from having to speak English. A tough job!

Flash forward to the post-ride, early Thursday afternoon. I was hobbling back from the ride finish to the hotel, and I ran into BFK. BFK had finished at the pointy end, the fastest American rider in 2015. He'd finished the whole ride before I'd shoveled my purée in Loudéac, but he was paying the price: he needed Ibuprofen! I knew where the pharmacy was, and I offered to interpret.

We entered the pharmacy chatting away -- in English, of course -- wrapping up our conversation before approaching the counter.

As we approached the pair of pharmaciennes at the counter, one turned to the other, gloomily said anglais, and asked her colleague who should take this one.

I switched up my language, and let them know that we could speak in French. They were both relieved, as they had been muddling through many conversations in "sign language" as they helped achy riders at the finish!

I really hope that there is no grain of truth to Steve Martin's telling of his visit to France, but it makes me wonder how frustrating it might get on a bad day if you're having to help many people, across language barriers. Big thanks to the volunteers and many others who supported this event!

A familiar face


Outbound at 220km, in the wee hours of the pre-dawn morning, I pulled in to Villaines-la-Juhel. This was the first stamp control, and my first access to my drop bag and a change of shorts. I needed some food, too. I'd seen some cafés on the way into town, open for the event, but decided to go straight for the control, take care of business, and maybe get some food from the cafeteria.

The control was pretty crowded. Finding a free bike parking space was a little tough, and there was a bit of walking to get to the check-in and cafeteria.

The cafeteria was mobbed, and I didn't know where to find my drop bag. I tried asking a volunteer where the bags might be, but she had no idea -- the drop bag service wasn't part of the official program.

I filled my bottles from the handy spigots, and walked out of the control.

Where's my bag? There was bike food in my bag, too. And how far back around the corner was that last café I'd seen?

I walked back the way I'd come, back past my bike, to look back around the corner, to see if I could spot the café I'd passed.

Ugh, no, it was some blocks away. It wasn't the end of the world, but I was tired, and little things were suddenly getting complicated. I returned towards the control.

"Hi, Greg." It was none other than RUSA#7, Bill Bryant! (Bill was watching for Lois's arrival, just inside the entrance to the control.) It was so nice to see a familiar face.

I asked Bill if he knew where I could find the drop bags. He pointed to the big Hertz rental truck parked next to us: "Isn't that it right there?" Yes...the same truck I'd stuck my bag in a day or two before, now parked right in front of me. Oof.

It was such a little thing, but Bill's helping hand was just the right nudge at just the right moment; it got me mentally back on track and on the road toward Brest. Thanks, Bill!



Wednesday, January 18, 2017

PBP 2015: Everything else, vol. 1

After completing PBP 2015, my head was filled with a year's worth of stories and experiences that I'd accumulated in a little under ninety hours. In the days following, I jotted down little snippets & notes about the many people I'd met and the many things I'd seen.

I wrote up some of my most-cherished memories -- some of the longer stories -- in the weeks following the event. In the past year and a half, I've gone back several times to have a look at my cryptic (to anyone else!) little list of memories, and they've warmed my heart each time. Few of them, on their own, hold enough weight to make for a blog post; taken together, they are, to me, more than their sum.

Here, then, are some of those tiniest of anecdotes from those magical four days in Brittany in the summer of 2015.

Bonjour...?


I was more than a little anxious taking the start of my first PBP, and my first 1200k at that. I tend to over-pack a little, so I left the start with enough food to easily cover the first 200km, and then some.

The first stop for official services was at an event center called Le Carré du Perche, in the town of Mortagne-au-Perche, at just under 90 miles into the route. I'd chosen the very last time slot of the 90-hour start group, so quite literally thousands of riders had taken to the road in groups of 250 every 15 minutes just ahead of me before I'd taken a single pedal stroke...and they seemed to have all settled in for a big party there in Mortagne-au-Perche at 2am.

All I really needed was water at that point, but I thought I'd check out the food offerings. Bike parking was pretty full, so I just set my bike down gently on the ground in a reasonable spot where others had done the same. Barbecues were raging outside, with long lines -- and I'm vegetarian. I made my way to the indoor cafeteria, which was also absolutely mobbed.

Ok, forget the food. How could I just get some water and be on my way?

Fortunately, volunteers were staffing this nice little beverage bar:


As I approached, I bonjour'd a volunteer of perhaps 10 or 12 years, who was more than happy to fill my bottles with water.

Now, this had been a concern of mine going into the event: sure, you say bonjour as a greeting in the morning and through the day, bonsoir as a greeting in the evening, and bonne nuit to say farewell at night. Sure, you can say salut at any time, but what's particularly suitable for 2am? I suppose 2am is night, but bonne nuit is for farewells, and it's so close to morning that good evening just seems wrong.

I decided there and then that I would ask an expert, so I presented my puzzler to the young gentleman fetching my water. He had no idea! Each option seemed a little wrong to him, too. We had a good little laugh, each goofily offering up bonjour, bonsoir, and bonne nuit repeatedly through our giggles, and I felt very relieved that I couldn't be wrong, if there was no right answer!

I offered him one of my thank-you tokens, which he proudly showed to his papa, we said some silly good-byes, and I was on my way.

It's all in your head


I think that for most riders setting a typical pace, there are often other riders around, whether ahead, behind, or going the other direction. Sometimes you ride in larger groups, or smaller groups, or even in pairs with a newly-made friend from some random spot on the globe. Some stretches of countryside are peaceful and quiet, with not a bystander to be seen, while other spots and times offer many roadside supporters cheering you on.

On my return, I'd had a big Wednesday afternoon pasta lunch at the control in the small city of Fougères. I took to the road with a full belly, an aching body, and a fatigued head.

I was about 65 hours into my ride, with another 200 miles 'til Paris: mostly done, but a looong way to go. As I rode out of town, solo, quietly grinding up a short, steep block, I passed a gentleman standing at the side of the road. As I crept by, he clapped softly and said to me, C'est que dans la tête.

Wow. He'd read me like a book, and he was right: at this point, making Paris or not was all in my head. Onward!

Road rage, à la française


As you start to make your way closer to the turnaround in Brest, you can almost taste it: you're about to reach a big milestone, the true halfway mark -- at least on the map, if not in your head.

As I made my way deeper into Brest, I found myself in a small line of half a dozen fellow tired riders, steadily grinding up an incline on a main road through a neighborhood in the middle of Tuesday afternoon. The street was not huge, with one lane of traffic serving each direction.

Each lane was too narrow for a motorist and a cyclist to share side-by-side, but, taken altogether, the entire road did offer enough width to fit a car in each direction, plus space for a cyclist -- if the cars scooted over, with the oncoming motorist hugging the curb and the overtaking car straddling the center line a bit to give room to the cyclist.

Sure enough, there was a fair amount of motor traffic on this little neighborhood thoroughfare. Motorists were slowly queuing behind the little line of cyclists creeping up the incline, and the motorist in front wasn't having it -- he wanted to be on his way.

What did he do? He started honking his horn, shaking his fist, and shouting out his window...at the oncoming motorists who weren't scooting over to allow him to straddle the center line, to safely pass the cyclists!

What a moment of clarity for me: this gentleman, despite the noise he was making, had seen the obvious solution whereby everyone could win, rather than yelling at cyclists to get off the road. I smiled inside. :)

May I please just crawl into a hole now?


A bit after dawn on Wednesday morning on the return, a rider came alongside, and I thought the polite thing to do would be to say hello.

At this point I'd become accustomed to looking at riders' number plates, which featured a flag of the rider's home country. In the morning light, I was sure I'd recognized the French tricolore, so I started out with a bonjour and began a conversation in French.

Partway through my sentence, I realized that I had somehow seen the colors completely wrong in the dawn light: they weren't the bleu-blanc-rouge of the French flag, but, rather, black-yellow-red. Oh! Those are the German flag colors!

I felt stupid, and switched to my very rudimentary German for some bumbling guten Morgen, as best I could.

The rider looked at me, and, in perfect English, said: "I'm Belgian. You can speak English."

I can laugh about it now, but, at that very moment, I just wanted to crawl into a hole.

French flag
Belgian flag










German flag