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: 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. :)