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!