C’est magnifique

More than 500 British-based cyclists joined an international throng of thousands of riders in this summer’s 1,200km Paris-Brest-Paris event. The first tales of grim determination, tears, comradeship and triumph over the unrelenting course are filtering through. Here’s a taste of this year’s experiences from a few of those who took part…

IAN MCBRIDE

42 A total of 6,673 riders drew up at the starting line for the infamously gruelling Paris-Brest-Paris randonnee in August this year – the 19th version of the event. A kaleidescope of lyrca streamed through the farmland, forests and towns of northern France – 178 of them – in a rainbow phalanx of differing ages and abilities, delivering yet again a magnificent and passionate advertisement for long-distance cycling. This year’s event saw a few changes to the route to improve safety, and the ironing out of one or two killer inclines on the final stretch. More than 2,500 volunteers were involved in making sure that this year’s event was as spectacular as ever.

In this edition we capture the impressions of a number of British competitors, some of whom were tackling the celebrated Gallic trial of strength and endurance for the first time.

I MUST TELL YOU my most touching personal experience. It was in a village after Fougeres on the return leg. Deep, dark night, and I was solo…again. In a little village square a tabac stood open. There was nobody else in sight. I was having a bad time, so stopped. I ordered two espressos and a Red Bull. And made my weary way to the toilets. Returning to the bar, I discovered there was no Red Bull, so I downed the espressos in one. I really didn’t want to go back out. I struggled into damp gloves and reapplied chamois cream. This was a terrible low point for me. Then the little old French lady behind the bar came outside to where I was looking forlornly at my bike, thinking: “Oh God! There’s still such a long way to go…” She came really close to me, reached up and took my head gently, kissed both my cheeks, and, from inches away, stared into my eyes. She spoke softly, in English with a strong French accent: “You have much courage inside.” Then she nodded her head, and walked back inside. I was blown away. I climbed back on the machine, and rode out into the misty dark.

ONE OF MY FAVOURITE MOMENTS of the ride was on the return to Paris, coming in to the control point at Villaines-la-Juhel. It was at this point I understood why people return every four years for this event. Riding into the control makes you feel like a Tour-deFrance hero, with locals lining the street cheering, music playing and banners everywhere. No amount of sleep deprivation can stop you smiling when local children rush out offering high-fives. As a female rider, you get that little extra enthusiasm. One parent even pulled me over for a picture with her daughters. The downside to this was that with around 200kms still to ride, I felt I’d finished. My brevet card said otherwise, and I had a final night of pedalling with my fellow randonneurs, rolling into Rambouillet at 9.15am on Thursday morning and in desperate need of a shower and a sleep. So I completed my first Paris-Brest-Paris. I’m still recovering, and figuring out what to make of the experience – the things I loved, and the things that really tested me. I was delighted to complete the ride in 84 and a half hours. It was a tale of two halves, a struggle to Brest but a much more enjoyable return.

C’est magnifique!

RORY MCCARRON

PREPARATION FOR PBP was far from ideal in terms of cycling legs but perfect for family life. I finished the Flatlands 600 and we had our first child three days later. So, no cycling for nearly two months and only one month until PBP with many sleepless nights. To say I was apprehensive was an understatement. With a month to go my wife told me I should do it – “Just don’t kill yourself trying to be up the front. Treat it as a holiday, a break from parenting,” she said. So, I set myself a target of 60 hours, 2.5 days and a Eurostar back home on 75 hours. The registration was mind-blowing with so many people from all over the world, with many types of bikes, body compositions and age. Bumping into new and old friends or just people you knew from social media. It was a real celebration of cycling. I started at the back of wave C and was going well, working through the Bs and then all of a sudden I became violently ill at Fougeres getting my card stamped. The doctor wouldn’t let me leave so I laid down in the hall and texted my wife to say I was done and coming home. I woke a couple of hourse later feeling much better and thought I’d see how I’d go. Take it easy and just get to Brest. I rode for 800km on my own, but I was never alone. People were jumping on my wheel then disappearing again. The best part was all the people cheering on the side of the roads; families having picnics old folk outside their homes. Most of the towns were decorated for the event and lit up at night. I eventually bumped into a friend, Darren Franks, and we rode the last bit together. It was nice to finish with a friend and share the experience with someone. Somehow I managed to finish in 53 hours and 26 minutes despite having over five hours trying to sleep and 11 hours in total off the bike. So all in all I was very pleased with my time and sad to leave this magical place. But it’s a story I can tell my daughter in years to come. My only criticism was being passed a cup of water at the end and not a beer!

C’est magnifique! MY FIRST PBP A race into the twilight. Battle the headwind. Splinter into small groups. Layer up and spin through the dark hours. Up and down the rolling hills. Stamp. Wolf down another plate of pasta. Brace the cold graveyard shift. Small sharp climbs keep coming as energy ebbs and flows. Brest. Huzzah! Sleep (briefly) and repeat. The cold, mist, and fatigue bite. They bite hard. Plug away. More new faces, all weary, all friendly. Desperately try to spot small signs in the dark. Stop. Join a group. Many eyes are better than two. Villaines-la-Juhel for a snooze. The gift of a breathtaking sunrise, powering those tired legs up and down those rolling hills. Last control. What a relief. Depart only to get that deflated feeling. Typical. On the move again. Singing my nonsensical songs along tree-lined avenues to the chateau. Sprint for the line – where did that come from? Crikey. That’s it done. What an experience. A gift to be able to take part, lucky enough to complete. Chapeau to all PBP 2019. MAIN PICTURES IVO MIESEN

I KNEW I COULD RIDE A 600 600 without sleep so the plan was to ride to Brest using a selection of control-provided refreshments, on-the-bike snacks and drinks and the brilliant roadside impromptu cafes provided by locals. What a great memory of the whole ride that provided. Turned at Brest in 33 hours and decided to take a half hour’s snooze at Tinteniac at 52 hours and 860k. I started to realise I might get under 80 hours, so pushed on. After Villaines-la-Juhel I developed what appeared to be Shermer’s neck, made worse by wearing prescription vari-focal cycling glasses. That meant I couldn’t see the road ahead properly, and with the remaining 200 being into the fourth night, doubts started to set in. A combination of determination, following red lights and white lines and frequent stops to double check the distance. I finally crossed the the line in an unofficial 78 hours and 49 minutes. I was delighted…and relieved. It was mentally very challenging, physically demanding, much hillier than expected, colourful, very cold at night, and just an amazing and memorable first time experience.

FINALLY, AT THE THIRD TIME of asking, I managed to complete PBP. I have to thank Audax member Andrew Preston, whose successful completion of the Perth-Albany-Perth 1200 Australian brevet was featured in a recent edition of Arrivée, for his help in the early hours of the morning on the return to Dreux. Haunted by hallucinations after having only three hours sleep in total, he assured me that the dawn dew on the road wasn’t ice and the road was safe. Mine was the 20-inch wheel mini recumbent with Duck mascot, by the way!

ELEANOR JASKOWSKA

THE ROADS BETWEEN PARIS AND BREST are characterised by rolling terrain. My ride was also a series of emotional ups and downs. I quickly realised that I’d underestimated how difficult riding PBP fixed would be. Unable to keep up on the descents I couldn’t take advantage of the international wheel-sucking Olympics, possibly no bad thing but that headwind was tough! By the time I got to Brest I had 30 minutes in hand. I became more focussed on making better progress in the second 600km. Sometimes I’d fly up an incline and wonder why anyone ever wanted gears; other times I’d descend slowly with my legs cramping, and wishing for a freewheel. France isn’t flat, regardless of what Paul Rainbow might tell you. Support in the form of the orange jerseys of Audax Club Bristol was never far away. They towed me for as long as I could keep up. I thought that Mille Cymru had set the low bar for sleep on a ride but PBP required me to test new limits. Two big night shifts on the return leg were required to stay in the game. Where naps failed to refresh me some brilliant encounters on the road fuelled my resilience. I was surprised to finish in time, and even more surprised to learn after my ride that I was only the third woman to compete PBP on a fixed gear. Proof, if ever we needed it, that women are more sensible than men!

MY FIRST PBP – what an amazing experience. There were so many highlights. The sunrise, around 900km in, towards the end of a long overnight slog between Loudeac and Fougeres, was unforgettable. Another was the extraordinary support in the towns we passed through – I took photos, but it was impossible to do justice to these events. The reception at Villaines-la-Juhel in particular was most memorable - rolling over the hill and in to a town in full party mode. But all along the route, and at all times of the day and night, the degree of support was astonishing. My ride went well despite having a mad dash in the early hours of the last morning to hit the intermediate control time at Dreux after I overslept by a couple of hours at Mortagne. As a flatlander I found the climbing tough, but was able to enjoy the sights and sounds nevertheless. And I thought Rambouillet was a fantastic starting point – truly randonneur central at the weekend, with riders from all over the world and a large, friendly AUK presence. A brilliant, unique event. I feel privileged to have been able to take part.

Sam Crossley and Mark Goldstein at the Grand Depart

THE LARGEST EVER DPCC TEAM set out from our hotel, the Ibis in Rambouillet, with great expectations, and of course this year’s PBP lived up to its reputation as a truly epic event. The nine strong DPCC team consisted of: Adrian Wikeley, Claire Francis, Magnus Wills, Mark Goldstein, Ray Cox, Richard Ireland, Russell Kesley, Sam Crossley and Simon Bottomley. Strong head and cross winds, combined with the relentlessly hilly course from the start meant we had to work hard because the wind diminished the advantage of the big peloton waves. Add to this the fact that daytime temperatures rose to around 32C and dropped to 5C or less at night, and you can imagine how challenging it was. Sadly neither Sam nor Simon reached the arrivée, however our other seven riders successfully returned to Rambouillet on two wheels, within their respective time limits. A new Dulwich Paragon record was achieved by Magnus Wills with a stunning time of 54:35. So congratulations to Magnus, and roll on 2023 with a new sub-50 hour PBP record for DPCC.

C’est magnifique! MAIN PICTURES IVO MIESEN

Alan Silva still wearing his 16-year-old jersey in memory of Alexandre Luz

CHRIS DELF

THIS WAS MY THIRD PBP, but I was feeling that age was catching up with me, so my preparation was more rigorous than before. I was determined to enjoy this one, not endure it. The headwind on the section from Fougeres to Loudeac sapped the mental and physical strength of several riders, who abandoned even though they had time in hand. Leaving Carhaix in the middle of the night, the temperature in the wooded valleys near Huelgoat was in single figures, almost hypothermic when wearing summer cycling kit. Yet, climbing the Roc, the temperature inversion made it warmer on the hills than in the valleys. Return from Brest was fuelled by coffee, pastries and a huge dose of euphoria. I enjoyed the rolling hills and wide roads – and hitting 40 mph on the descent to Landernau. It was a beautiful day for cycling, but passed in a blur until we reached Tinteniac after midnight. Here, my companion and I opted to sleep for a few hours. We waited 30 minutes for a bed then got a single occupancy room each. Luxury! Two hours uninterrupted sleep, with no snoring. The next day was so hot that by the time we reached Mamers, I was almost dehydrated. There was a refreshment tent in the town square – an oasis. After 750 ml of water and a bowl of soup followed by three cans of Coke at three separate roadside stop I managed to recover by the time I reached Mortagne. There was a slow and hungry ride to the finish, in daylight at Rambouillet. It was my slowest time – 84 hours – but more importantly, I enjoyed PBP 2019.

I CAME TO ENGLAND FROM BRAZIL in 2005. We knew about PBP in Brazil. Indeed my friends and I created the first Club Audax Brasil, our target being to facilitate a Brazilian riding in and completing the event for the first time ever. We succeeded in that aim, but in 2005, while doing a 400km Audax, our dear friend Alexandre Luz was killed after being struck by a bus. It was such a devastating event that we decided to wind up the organisation and stop doing brevets. I moved to the UK to try to forget those sad memories. But I love cycling and Cambridge is a very bike-friendly city so I was soon doing 10 mile commutes. In 2017, after hearing about LEL and LEJOG, I decided to take up Audaxing again, try to overcome my fears and complete something that my friends and I had dreamed of many years ago. I really felt I had to honour my late friend’s memory. And so I did, even if our Club Audax Brasil jersey was dirty, ragged, with holes and broken zipper, plus 16 years of wear and tear. Rest in peace dear Alex. I knew you were there with me.

THE WONDERFUL THING about cycling is that there are endless ways to enjoy it. Just when you think that you might have explored every corner of the pedal-powered universe, a new dimension appears. Actually, two new dimensions appeared for me over the last year; Audax and recumbent riding. It turns out that the two go hand in hand. Every rider who tackles PBP will have their own idea of what they want from the experience. Unashamedly, I sought the full “holiday brochure” experience and it didn’t disappoint: starting as a minor act in the circus that was Group F; following the concatenation of red lights into the cold night, and back out of it again into the even colder sunrise; the chaos of the bulge contrasted with the eerie solitude of temporarily departing planet PBP to ride to my accommodation; the roadside support; the camaraderie. I even got interviewed at the top of the Roc when I stopped to borrow a pump. My PBP was an unforgettable experience shared with 6,500 other like-minded souls at this unique celebration of cycling. Any regrets? I finished with ten hours to spare!

PBP CONTROLS ARE NOT A refuge but a danger. The pace through them is set by the fastest supported riders. Any unsupported rider must be ruthlessly efficient to avoid being left behind. Shortly before the first control I began decanting items from my frame bag into the cargo pockets on my bib shorts. My brevet card was slipped into the left pocket, arm warmers pulled on. A gilet was stuffed into a jersey pocket. I moved to the front. We were funnelled into a closed street, an amphitheatre, lined with bike racks at street level and, above us, crowds of spectators watched the action. A terrified marshal stood in the middle of the road, signalling left and right as the peloton sped towards him. I racked my bike as the two riders ahead of me sprinted up the steps. I gave chase through the crowd towards the buildings. I handed my open brevet card to be stamped but there was confusion. Time slowed down as the pages were flipped, a stamp given and the time is carefully written. Every second felt like a minute. “Merci”, I said, as I pocketed the card and turned for the door. A cacophony reminded me that controls are one-way affairs and I regretted not filling my bottle on the way in as I’m ushered off in the wrong direction. I sprinted back across to the water taps and then down the steps to my waiting bike. The group had scattered. Was I at the front? The middle? The back? As I set off after the four riders in the distance I noticed the “paused time” on my computer read three minutes and 44 seconds.

IAN HENNESSEY

DAMON PEACOCK

Ian, left, with Drew at the finish

TO BREAK ONE’S ANKLE walking to the pub, rather than merrily from it, is especially irritating. To do so five weeks before Paris-BrestParis is more than annoying. I found a physio within hobbling distance of home, who turned out to have genius thumbs. A poke here and a manipulation there and I was right enough to ride over 400k for an Easter Arrow. The rest of the qualifiers went reasonably well. So I was, feeling confident, when I twisted (as I thought) my ankle. A nurse confirmed I’d broken it, and issued me with a big boot and crutches. Some days later the consultant at the fracture clinic decided it was so minor a fracture that I could walk on it, and maybe even do a little gentle cycling. Back to the Physio. With a couple of weeks to go, I could cycle 30k without an unbearable amount of pain, so I decided to travel to Rambouillet, and see how far I’d get. A gentle two-day ride across Normandy went without incident. How far I could get? Not much more than 400k in fact – to Loudeac. Back at Rambouillet, Richard Salisbury had also packed. He had donated a kidney to his son at the beginning of the year, which left not a huge amount of time for recovery. We had a beer together. Drew Buck was at the finish, he hadn’t managed to get round either, so I was in good company. There were tales of accidents and DNFs circulating, but Judith Swallow rode a steady pace and finished comfortably despite health issues of her own. Did I mention the new bike? It performed faultlessly – shame about the rider.

Kelly Murphy and Ian Hendry from ACB

IT’S 20 YEARS SINCE I first went to Paris Brest Paris. I finished in 1999, 2003, 2007 and 2011. This year I travelled by car to film at well-known points. At the start in Rambouillet a rider from Germany, in the colours of the VC167 club, said he felt that PBP was “Gesamtkunstwerk” - a total work of art. I realised we were a part of a loose association chronicling PBP 2019. It’s much too large a subject for any single group to record more than a fragment. Riders at PBP are the subject of intense scrutiny, with film crews, photographers and the general public displaying interest. The field surfs a wave of shouted encouragement and applause for over 1200km and up to 90 hours. Our role was to add that wave at key points. The lack of focus on individuals is very much the Audax ethos. This shifts the focus on to the entirety of PBP, which is why the idea of Gesamtkunstwerk resonated with me. At Loudeac, I’d filmed the arrival of the leading group of three riders, including Mark Baloh, who I’d met at LEL. There was no special treatment for them; they were told to shift their bikes when they parked them too close to the control, and they attracted little attention. There was no attempt to glamorise or glorify the leaders. It struck me as essentially democratic. I’ve now got to do something with more than 15 hours of video footage – or do I? I’ve already served a function in observing, and therefore encouraging completion. I shall have to see how the muse takes me.