PBP 2015: Papers, please

Wednesday morning I was making my way solo between Tintinéac and Fougères. Weather was cool but pleasant, with a long day ahead and many miles to go, but spirits were ok even with the assorted aches and pains this far into the ride.

On a brief descent, I passed a small scene that seemed to be wrapping up on the opposite side of the road. I didn't see any cyclists, but there were some non-cyclists and a vehicle or two -- I don't vividly recall the specifics, but the impression was that, perhaps, a cyclist had gone down on the descending curve some time earlier, and that these folks were the remaining helpers packing up to depart.

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

I rode on, reminded to stay resolved to ride carefully and within myself.

A short distance down the road, back on flat farmland, I saw a car stopped ahead on the side of the road. Three people were standing behind the car: two ride officials and a cyclist.

Even from a bit of a distance, I could see that the cyclist was wearing CANADA kit. As I approached, I saw that the discussion was fairly animated. Once within earshot, it seemed that the cyclist was fairly agitated, and was nearly shouting -- in English -- as he spoke.

I wasn't too sure what was going on, but my initial impression was that, whatever it was, it was not going well.

I stopped at the group and asked the officials if they would like a little bit of translation help. OUI.

It turned out that the rider had fallen asleep while riding, and had crashed on the side of the road. (His nose looked a little red to me; had he bruised it in the fall?) The officials, charged with ensuring safety of riders, were concerned with his well-being. They extended an offer to let the rider sleep on the side of the road for half an hour, and they would gladly return to wake him to continue his ride. The rider, however, insisted that he wanted to continue immediately, and that he was fine.

He was frustrated that one of the officials had his stamp book. This seems to be the common formality with interactions with officials: a sort of "papers, please" transaction. In one sense, the goal of PBP could be reduced to the notion of shuttling your little booklet from control to control, collecting a full set of stamps and signatures. Without this booklet, you have no proof of passage in hand; without this booklet, you didn't ride. My sense is that by asking for your booklet, officials are in a position to manage a given situation.

The rider seemed to have reduced his present problem to no longer having possession of his booklet:  "She has my card!" Ok, I interpreted his concern: "Monsieur dit que vous avez son cahier." Not surprisingly, the official simply replied oui. "She knows she has your card."

An emergency vehicle pulled up -- perhaps a firefighters' ambulance...had I just passed this vehicle at the previous scene back up the road? -- and three pompiers or secouristes (I'm not familiar with the roles or uniforms in France) hopped out. We got them up to speed on the situation. They had concerns of any loss of consciousness from the fall. They were soon satisfied, and went on their way.

Madame asked me for my booklet. I recalled from the rules that time taken assisting with health and safety of riders can be credited. She asked what time it was:  dix heures trente-neuf.  My time there on the side of the road had been about four of five minutes; this is what was written in my booklet:

She took several photos of us and the scene, including my frame badge; supporting documentation of the event, no doubt. She returned my booklet to me, I said my goodbyes, and proceeded to escort my booklet to its next stamping in Fougères.

A month later, in mid-September, I was quite surprised to receive an e-mail from these officials, including souvenir photos! These included one of the photos from the scene (see the top image of this post), and some pastry images:

A surprise e-mail from France!

While the context of the roadside encounter hadn't been the most pleasant, it did make for one of the lasting memories of the event for me. I was happy to receive the photo, and, moreover, I appreciated the personal connection and the nice sentiment from the officials. It's a tough job, but the event's not possible without them; this follow-up e-mail (they had to have looked me up in the event registry!) was above and beyond any responsibility, and was yet another example of the loving warmth of so many people who give so much of their time -- and patience -- to support PBP.

Post script:

Later that afternoon, on the way back to Paris, dozens of riders were grinding up a bit of a hill, all spread out. One rider was ascending a bit faster than most others, but zig-zagging the full width of the road, shoulder to shoulder, riding completely on the wrong side of the road with every other turn. A moment after he had a close call with an oncoming car, these same officials drove up from behind and pulled this fellow over. Papers, please... I didn't know that rider's language, but I didn't even consider stopping for that one; I didn't think there'd be much to discuss. Wow, what a tough job...

Update:

The rider pictured above, Dick, responds in a comment below. Also, you can read Dick's ride report.

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: 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. :)