There and back again a ride to remember… or forget

It’s hardly surprising that for those who tackle the event, Paris-BrestParis leaves indelible memories, some mental and physical scars and many mixed emotions. Across the next 13 pages we highlight the stories of just a few who faced this beast of a ride in 2019.

A ride to remember… or forget There back agaın &

A ride to remember… or forget

❝My third day on the road featured the best of four PBP sunrises…❞ Picture: Malcome Willis

There back agaın &

Going west… A glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean in the background

Self-confessed MAMIL, Malcolm Wills decided to test his middle-aged body and mind against the daunting PBP in 2019, and conquered it, despite a brush with karma.

Here come the Men in… Lycra

PBP SEEMED IMPOSSIBLY

DAUNTING when the longest ride I’d ever done was the Dunwich Dynamo. Having reached the age of 56 in 2019, it felt like it was time to face the challenge.

Apparently, some happygo-lucky people simply turn up and ride, with little preparation. I’m not one of them. Eight months before the start, I prepared like crazy. With man and bike ready, I set off for Rambouillet – a 200km ride from Dieppe as a warm up.

It is fair to say that I was a member of the most common demographic at the pre-ride swarm of MAMILS (MiddleAged Men In Lycra). The preparation was over, and the adventure was about to begin. Brevet card stamped, then it was out through the park gates and on to the open roads, heading into the sunset.

Peloton “night trains” sped me to the first rest stop at Mortagne-au-Perche an hour quicker than planned. Soup and pasta, then onwards. More night trains. A rider complained that my rear light was too bright. While resting by a church I noticed several lights fail the bounce test over a rare pothole. Did I pick up some bad karma because I failed to warn other riders?

After getting my brevet card stamped at the Villaines control, I rode on as dawn arrived – then a crash! Entering Loupfougères, riding twoabreast while overtaking another rider, my companion came too close so I pulled across the centre line – except it wasn’t a line. The white paint had been replaced by a “traffic-calming” cobbled ridge.

Job half done… Crossing the gossamer-strung bridge in the early morning light

The bike disappeared from under me.

After the initial shock I was relieved to find only minor grazing to my right hip. An elderly man shouted: “Dangereux!” He explained that I was the second rider to crash here. He’d warned the council about the hazard, he said. Thanks a lot!

Roadside supporters were now waving Breton flags. The riding was dominated by the headwind, characterised in some accounts of PBP 2019 as “brutal” but no match for the worst of the Fenlands. At the Tinténiac control the entertainment included Breton dancing. I was tempted to join in, but my legs were not.

The stage to Loudeac included the first of my hotel stops, only 1km off the route but I got lost, riding an unnecessary 3km rather slowly. I set the alarm and slept deeply. The whole stop took 2 hours 40 minutes for one hour’s sleep. Not efficient.

I’d woken with a very sore wrist. This was a delayed effect of the crash, caused by lying still while sleeping. Resuming movement on the bike helped but it was still tender when I arrived at the Loudéac control. The medical centre dispensed an icepack and antiinflammatory gel which improved things.

I rode the hilly stage to Carhaix-Plouger in the middle of the second night. The Carhaix control was full of sleeping riders. I put my head on the table, setting the alarm for 15 minutes. Then, into the small hours, I joined a group of British riders on a winding section between towering wooded ridges. As the road ramped up, I felt an unexpected burst of energy and kicked away from the group for a magical stretch of night-climbing.

The elation dissipated with another 7km of climbing on a nasty dual carriageway, where the first lorries of the day were

appearing. Exhaustion was setting in, every pedal stroke wearier than the last. I’d been underway for 36 hours and had slept for just over one hour.

Brest meant turning round and cycling the same distance back. This could have been disheartening, but I found it motivating that the iconic signs I’d been following for 37 hours were now directing me to Paris.

The stage back to Carhaix was the hilliest of the route, but it felt easier than expected. I braved a 15-minute nap on a comfy grass verge, and was in and out of Loudéac in less than five minutes, pleased to have a three-hour buffer as I ventured into the third night.

Talking can be a good defence against tiredness and I was grateful to meet a Yorkshire rider. We chatted about the Paris-Brest pastry and the encouraging sign I’d seen yesterday; “Paris-Brest, C’est du Gateau” – it’s a piece of cake!

I spent an hour at the Fougères control, ostensibly

The dorm at Mortagne… which was the biggest I visited and deserted at 8pm

being sociable. The reality was, after 62 hours with only four hours sleep, I was putting off getting back on my bike. I left at 10am, my buffer diminished. I latched on to one of the few trains available. It was a struggle to maintain concentration for group riding but I arrived at Villaines-LaJuhel with my buffer restored.

Villaines is famous for embracing the PBP spirit and was living up to its reputation that sunny August afternoon. The main street was lined with spectators. With 200km to go, the ride felt doable again. It was mid-afternoon and 25 degrees warmer than it had been on the previous morning. An excellent pop-up at Mamers had dark chocolate and fresh orange segments. I ate a fair amount, rather messily.

But fatigue stalked me as I approached Mortagne. I was pleased, however, to arrive seven hours ahead of schedule. The next stage to Dreux was cold again. My front lights were low on power. The final control seemed to take forever to arrive.

The effect of 80 hours on the road was evident from the deterioration in my capacity to speak French and do basic calculations involving times and distances. However, I was clear I wanted to leave Dreux early enough to avoid crowds of other incompetently tired cyclists on the final stage. So I left at 5am and enjoyed two hours of near-solitude until daybreak.

Then I was cycling into the park and past the chateau for the final kilometre of the ride. It felt unreal. Some early risers peeped out of campervans as I completed the short climb to the Bergerie Nationale. A handful of people clapped me through the PBP arch and into the courtyard, where someone had decided it would be amusing to make exhausted cyclists do a circuit of rustic cobbles before crossing the timing mat.

A cheery man presented me with a satisfyingly heavy medal and a final stamp in the brevet card. I took selfies and composed a message of thanks to everyone and everything and posted it with my ride details online. My time was 83 hours and 35 minutes. I’d spent a quarter of this off the bike, including a fragmented seven hours of sleep. Incredibly, I arrived at Rambouillet three minutes before my planned time. ●

Flying the flag… The requisite official shot with me wearing my Audax Club Hackney shirt The long trek home… As the day faded I joined the stream of cyclists drifting away, like an army after a battle

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Energetic 33 year old rider Mark Kowalski had enough left in his tank to execute a BMX-style leap as he crossed the finish line in this summer’s Paris-BrestParis… but his abiding memory of the ride was the incredible international camaraderie of the road. Here’s his account of an outstanding experience

Crowds, courage and comradeship

Tent finished, yes ’tis… Mark and Daves in the finishers’ tent

MY TWO COMRADES and I camped at a site a few kilometres from the start of the event. It was the culmination of a year of preparation, during which time David Tobin, Dave Brown and I had become good friends. This friendship and camaraderie was built on the trials and adversity of the qualifiers, culminating in plenty of pre-ride banter and giddy excitement at the campsite on the eve of PBP.

The Sunday began with riders setting off in blocks: the 80 hours section setting off at 4pm, and the 90 hours from 6pm. I set off at 8.45pm, the second last group of the Sunday starts, with only the 84 hour group behind me starting at 4am. My friends, David and Dave, were in groups ahead of me.

I didn’t mind the evening start, having practised it before. As we gradually squeezed through the starting gate, I shot off down the smooth-topped lanes of Rambouillet National Forest, jumping from group to group until it seemed there were no groups ahead of me on the dark roads.

The group then dispersed around 70km but others formed, and I was able to ride with them. I made good time and was excited to see myself closing the gap with friends on the tracker app. The first 28 hours of continuous riding were a bit of a blur – mostly fast and exciting with the hardest stage being Tinteniac to Loudeac where we experienced the hottest temperatures of the day.

The controls and service stops of PBP are all run by volunteers, and the community spirit is on another level. Everyone comes out to cheer the riders or offer sustenance. It is clear this is a big event. Town squares are set up with elaborately themed decorations to inspire the riders. Front vestibules are opened with handwritten signs exclaiming: “Stop, Coffee, Cake!” Children dance around and scream with excitement as the next cyclist approaches.

Day two followed a frigidly cold sleep in a school gymnasium, and I think I got little shuteye, being kept awake by my shivering and the loud noises of those around me. I rose and opted for a shower to wake me. The semi-warm water certainly achieved this. I had a tasty breakfast of spaghetti, and while finishing up David Tobin walked in from outside. He was shattered and I told him he was probably better off trying to get some sleep on the cardboard-covered floor or on the tables of the much warmer canteen, which many others around and underneath us were already doing.

I bid David a good rest and

Feeling fresh… Bike check on day one

on my way out ran into Nick Wilkinson. We set out into the dark and Nick guided me up ‘La Roc’, the main climb of PBP and one we would return to after Brest. The morning was cold and foggy, but I found the climb fun; it was long but gentle. And with the two of us chatting away we easily leapfrogged everyone up along the way. Many riders seemed to be affected more by the mental challenge than the actual gradient. Nick is a strong rider – he’d previously

completed PBP on a Brompton, and is well known in the Audax community. I should not have been shocked, but was, to see that Nick was riding fixed gear.

Just before Brest we stopped along the Plougastel Bridge, which crosses the Élorn River. This is where everyone stops to take their traditional Brest photo. I later heard that there was a local man on the bridge in a hi-viz jacket solely there to help riders take their photos – another of the endless examples of locals coming out to show their support or lend a hand.

I left Nick at the Brest control and turned back. I was 112km down that morning and I wanted to do at least another 238km before considering a final 55km push from Tinteniac to Fougeres, if I had the energy. Given that I’d started quite late this would mean a late-night finish.

Along the way I saw more friends, and shared the 83km stage to Carhaix, putting the world to rights for the duration, with Tom Jackson. He was meeting his wife and daughter in Carhaix for lunch so I grabbed a baguette and pushed on, and 90km later at Loudeac I had one of my biggest meals yet, anticipating that the day was possibly not nearly over.

The sun was now setting and the ride out of Loudeac was stunning. The harvest was just beginning. Combines rolled through the fields. Then I saw the wind turbines. These giants had been absolutely mesmerising from afar and struck me with awe up close.

Now it was night, and I caught a ride on a train crewed by a hulking group of Austrians. They cranked up, down and around the winding lanes. It was all a bit manic with a group of amateur riders struggling to keep up and in line. I placed myself between the Austrians and the others and rode with them for a while before the Austrians abruptly

Filling station… The welcoming chefs at TintÈniac control. On the left is Ben Sherratt loading up on desserts

called it a night to go to their hotel.

I picked up the remainders and carried them to the Quédillac services where they too retired. Continuing on in the dark I asked a trio of shadowy figures whether they wanted to ride fast to Tinteneac. “No thanks, Mark”. I turned around in the darkness, perplexed. “Did you just say my name?” It was Ben Sherratt, who I’d only recently met on an earlier stage. Ben was a strong rider and formerly a mechanic at my old LBS, Brixton Cycles in London. He was with one of his best friends, Tymond, who had come out to ride a couple stages with him. Tymond had previously completed PBP in, I believe, sub-50 hours, but who had recently had a health scare so could not take part in the entire ride. We rode together to Tinteniac, and I got what I asked for – fast.

At around 12:30am we arrived at the control and had a wonderful meal at the restaurant. The temperature outside had dropped. It was the coldest night of the ride and, finally feeling the effects of exhaustion, I felt like curling up in a corner of the warm, quiet restaurant. Tymond had to stop here and I asked Ben what his plans were. He’d started at 5am on Monday, had not slept yet, and was 9 hours up on me. He looked up at me and coolly said: “Ride, ride, ride.” That was that. The decision was made. Another 55km more to Fougeres.

We shot off into the dark but soon I was in need of the toilet and Ben was feeling tired. Finding a public toilet in the next village, I suggested Ben get ten minutes rest while I struggled with my bib shorts. Afterwards, Ben suggested I get ten minutes too – to which I agreed but it didn’t work. I had heard of riders being able to knock themselves out for a few minutes and rise feeling new again, but I have yet to get the hang of it.

We floated along cold, misty roads, owls hooting above us. As we passed through the fog Ben said to me, in a matter of fact way: “I just cycled through a ghost.” He was hallucinating; he knew it though. “Don’t fall asleep”, I said. We continued, then, I noticed Ben was missing. I shouted to him. I could see his light in my rear-view mirror, meandering. “Sorry, I think I fell asleep,” he said. I proposed we ride fast 3km on, 3km off, to keep our brains awake. This worked for a while before the same thing happened again. So now I needed to ask Ben about everything I possibly could, and thankfully the conversation carried us, without any further close calls, into Fougeres. Here, I would try and get two or three hours sleep and Ben went to grab 30 minutes before continuing on. He would complete in 64 hours – gaining another two hours on me.

When I woke on day three, my eyes were bulging and all my limbs were stiff as sticks. The canteen was serving a lovely carbonara, which gave me the good stuff I needed.

There back agaın &

On my way out, as I jumped over riders up the old and straight Roman road out of town, listening to a playlist from my cross-Canada trip. I found myself getting quite emotional thinking of my friends at home and how far I had come. This had happened in Canada, when the going was so tough but when success was within my grasp. All the hard work coming together. In pain, but happy. A rare feeling – but one that makes you feel truly alive.

I continued to ride hard, solo, when an older Frenchman by the name of Frédéric Ricol, who was carrying two others on his wheel, caught up with me. He pointed to a church sounding its bells and said that the same church was ringing when we had both passed it on the way out. Apparently we had been riding together some 700km ago and he had remembered this. I remembered bells but not him, nor this place. “A sign,” he said. “I feel good and think I can finish sub-80, by tonight. My previous two attempts were 85 and 86 hours. How about you?” I gathered that maybe a 75 hour finish was possible, if I kept my controls short. It seemed that this could be one of those unspoken agreements that we should stick together. He offered me to ride his wheel.

But soon more had joined our group and it was in pieces. I went ahead of the front and gestured to Frédéric and a rider beside him to catch me up. But shortly after turning to begin a downhill section, I heard a crunch. They had crashed. All the other riders stopped. Spectating locals began scrambling from their perches. I put my bike down

❝As we passed through the fog Ben said to me, in a matter of fact way… I just cycled through a ghost ❞

Pitstop… with Nick Wilkinson at the top of la Roc’h Trevezel, the highest peak on the Paris-Brest-Paris route

and went back. The situation seemed manic; everyone was running back and forth. Frédéric was told not to move, an ambulance was being called. Gradually the cyclists began making their exits as the locals took over. I later found Frédéric on the tracking app, hoping when I left him he would get to his feet and be able to ride on to achieve his goal. As it turned out, he would not continue.

At 09:40 I received a text from my campmate, David. It read: “Pushed myself to both physical and mental exhaustion. Overslept in the canteen, tried to get back on track but nearly had an accident going the wrong way into the path of a lorry. I won’t make the next control cut-off. Catching train back to Paris.” This was greatly upsetting to hear. I’d seen David build up great strength over the qualifiers.

At the same time I saw that the other Dave had finished. Remarkable. He had started one hour before me on Sunday and had managed to put 300km between us in 56 hours. He wasted no time at the controls and survived on cat naps of 20-30 minutes.

I rode hard to Villaines-LaJuhel. The crowds here were over the top – quite literally as Villaines is perched on a hilltop, and you enter a narrow walled street to reach the control. You give a bit more effort in the pedals here and they give you a great big cheer.

With my Canuck jersey on, I stood out. I heard many shouts of “Regarde le Canadien!” Sticking to my Day Three policy of not stalling at controls, I jumped off my bike and began running to the control booth down the finishing road and up a set of stairs. Amazingly, these unused muscles did not resist at all and my body actually reacted positively to the short sprint.

The crowd seemed to lap this up and cheered me on. Stamped, watered and Pain au Chocolat’d, I stuffed my bottles into my jersey, and ran back to my bike. Mortagne-au-Perche was 85km away, just 197km to the finish. My imaginary goal of a midnight finish would be a long shot. I would need to find some fast groups. It wasn’t long before found a stronglooking trio repairing a puncture. As they caught up with me I noticed they had an odd-man-out and jumped on behind him.

After tearing down the countryside for 20 or 30km our group gradually took on more passengers, including a trike which dazzled me with its speed down hills and around corners. The growing size of our group and hodge-podge of characters eventually caused everybody to slow down and our “train” became something of a “party boat”. The bends and drops in the road caused the boat to rock and sway, shifting its passengers around. When the boat levelled, we would each have a new partner. A fun crossing to Mortagne-auPerche.

When we reached the control, tiredness combined with a couple of climbs caused the party boat to split apart, and not wanting to delay I resupplied, had a bit of a wash under a hose pipe, and got going again. My single set of kit was getting thoroughly crusted with salt, so I removed my cap and helmet to give at least one part of my body some fresh air.

There were a few big climbs on the way out but nothing serious and the hills soon gave way to flats. I saw a rider wearing cargo shorts and a green t-shirt over his bib shorts, who had been a passenger on the party boat – a Frenchman. It seemed we were going at similar speeds and we ended up riding side by side before beginning to take turns on the front. Our speed then attracted the attention of an Austrian rider,

whose hulking stature and red and white kit gave me no doubts that he had been a member of the Austrian group I had hitched a ride with between Loudeac and Quédillac. The three of us charged along and rotated in fair intervals without saying a word, respecting that each of us had a different top speed. As the sun set behind us, we chugged along black-topped roads which weaved over flats of golden wheat fields. We were making good time, knowing that the end was now comfortably in reach.

At the Dreux control, the Frenchman thanked me for the ride and we offered to have a quick refresh and then set off together for the final 45km. It was 21:50 and if the roads continued to be as flat and punchy as they had been, a midnight finish was feasible.

While I enjoyed my second Paris-Brest pastry of the ride, the Frenchman had a coke, and we formally introduced ourselves. Bruno told me how his little son would be waiting for him at the finish with his wife, and that he wanted to keep the pace up, but not go quite as fast as our previous trio. I was happy with this and we set off.

Meanwhile, messages of support were pouring in over my phone; my friends at home had been dot-watching me and were riled up at seeing me finish well ahead of the 90 hour cut-off.

While riding out of the city a white convertible containing two black men passed us. When we came to the next set of lights, where it had stopped, I noticed two PBP riders flanking it. It looked like some words had just been exchanged and Bruno began speaking in French to the two riders. The light turned green and as we rode ahead of these riders I asked Bruno what had been said. It appears that the riders had suggested to the occupants of the car that they must be drug dealers to be driving a car like that. Bruno was clearly aggravated, and had challenged these racist remarks. “It makes me sad,” he said to me. He said it was a growing problem in France. We continued on into the dark, subconsciously, or perhaps consciously, spinning our wheels faster, to put more distance between us and the country’s problem behind us.

Bruno’s previous request to go steady turned out to be wishful thinking, because once we hit the 10km mark he set off at a ferocious sprint. I surmised that it might have something to do with his little boy, who was clearly awake long after his bedtime.

We whipped passed other riders and barrelled down the final stretches through Rambouillet National Forest, rattled over the cobblestones before the National Sheepfold entryway up to the finish line, crossing over at 00:05. Bruno and I flew over the cable cover which held the timer chip equipment, taking it like a BMX jump – the crowd hooted.

We still needed to get our final stamp to prove the journey, but while parking my bike I heard my name being shouted. It was the Daves. I couldn’t believe it. They should have been back at the campground. They’d calculated I might be arriving at midnight based on my pace and decided to see the last of their own come in. A true sign of friendship. David, always prepared, had even thought to bring me a sweater and sweatpants to escape the impending shakes. Dave directed me to the control site to receive my stamp and medal. And we all sat down and shared stories over my finishing meal where I rewarded myself with a beer.

Bruno waved me over from across the canteen and introduced me to his very proud boy and wife. We congratulated each other and despite only knowing each other for about four hours, the sum total of the last three days rose out of us through our smiles and farewell embrace. It was as if we had done the whole thing together. And we had. Same as for David and Dave. Same as for everyone.

We went back to the camp and retired. The next day we met more returning friends and hosted a little party at our campsite. What a truly grand adventure. A rare and remarkable test of endurance where so many diverse stories arrive at the starting line, and similar experiences are shared before the finish.

Afterwards it didn’t take long before I was missing it. Sitting in a car feels like cheating. Sitting down for too long feels like time wasted. I wanted us all to race somewhere new. And then we began plotting. “Have you heard about Andy Corless’s 1400 Land’s End to John o’ Groats next year?”

Just desserts… Clockwisefrom left: Dean Bicknell, JoaquÌn “Dead” Gonzalez, David Tobin, Mark Kowalski and Dave Brown

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Nine members of Dulwich Paragon CC took on the PBP challenge in 2019. Andrew Wikeley pulls together some of their stories…

Never a dull moment for the nine riders of Dulwich

Adrian Wikeley & Richard Ireland at the Arrivée

THERE ARE BROADLY two types of Paris-Brest-Paris rider – those who are after their fastest time and those who seek a “full-value” experience, enjoying French hospitality and collecting their medals.

But riding 1,219km in 90 hours is never easy, and you have to dig deep to complete this ride. This was especially the case for Dulwich Paragon CC members who tackled the event in 2019. There was the relentlessly hilly course, strong head and crosswinds from the start and temperatures which veered between 32C degrees by day and 5C or less at night.

The 2019 PBP lived up to its reputation. It was a truly epic event. The nine strong Dulwich Paragon team consisted of Magnus Wills, Mark Goldstein, Ray Cox, Richard Ireland, Russell Kesley, Sam Crossley, Simon Bottomley, Claire Francis and Adrian Wikeley. Here are some of their views on the ride.

RAY COX:

“This is wacky races” was my dominant thought at the start. A tight bunch, hopping from wheel to wheel, trying to avoid crashes. We were moving fast, and the night was surprisingly cold. I was in a group which worked together, but the hills kept coming. The dozies struck early on Tuesday morning. I recall some unseen applauding in the dark at 2am – the general enthusiasm was amazing. This ride is undeniably easier in a group. Three hours sleep at Villaines and its back into the freezer at 5am on Wednesday. The last bit was flat and exposed but a sunny, fast run in to Rambouillet.

Lessons learnt: consider using aero bars, as I still had numbness in the hands three weeks afterwards. It can get seriously cold at night, even in France during August. You can go as fast as you can, or take advantage of the lovely hospitality and local colour, not both.

CLAIRE FRANCIS

“Hello, I’m Raja”, said a Delhi Randonneurs member at the bike check queue in the drizzle. Raja let out a bellowing laugh when I told him that we were lucky it was warm. This initial encounter would wonderfully sum up my PBP experience – meeting friendly people from all around the world, and seeing them suffer in the European climate. I suffered too, mainly from sleep deprivation and sore knees. I spent 18 months training and qualifying for PBP but nothing seems to prepare the first-time PBP participant for the grinding fatigue. Luckily for me at my two lowest points some friendly faces popped up and helped me get to the next control.

The high spots were amazing; teaming up and sprinting out of Brest with a Bulgarian guy who had gaffer-taped his bike together, getting help from some friends from Penge CC to get me into Fougeres before my control time closed, a town party at 1am and then talking through the night to keep awake on the last 200km. I had a lot of fun. I also slept in some weird places and forgot I was in France.

MARK GOLDSTEIN

My first PBP was a ride of extremes – starting with extreme preparations. There was a year of planning, a series of pre-qualifying events and vital family support. The PBP itself involved extreme distances, riding 612km straight through on days one, two and three with no sleep.

The endless sequences of plummeting descents immediately followed by grinding climbs, combined with extreme weather – on the night-time descent into Brest, I wore every winter layer to avoid the dreaded shakes, then 30 degrees of heat and cracked, sunburnt lips a day later.

The bike’s squealing and creaking at every other pedal revolution, loud enough to startle other riders, will live long in the memory. Mentally exhausted, I was daydreaming of the sleep stop still 10 hours away, before shivering under a space blanket in a freezing cold sports hall.

And extreme emotions – deliriously shouting: “Whose bloody stupid idea was this?”, and “I hate cycling”, out loud in the midday sun.

MAGNUS WILLS

The registration was chaotic with rain, French bureaucracy, but lots of friendly faces. The start was hectic with surges and sudden slow-downs. I discovered PBP was hillier than expected. With the help of some strong riders we arrived in Brest after 24hrs and 10 minutes.

On the second night a roadside soup stop and loss of concentration broke my resolve. I showered, changed and slept for 30 minutes at Quedillac, then set off into the cold pre-dawn fog with Lako my new Spanish friend who spoke no English. I got into a good group after Tinteniac who worked well till the end. I was very happy with my time of 54h 35mins.

PBP is a unique event and the only Audax event where you can share your passion for long distance cycling night and day with more than 6,000 other riders. It was, simultaneously, the absolute worst and absolute best thing that I’ve ever done on a bike. You should definitely try it sometime.

ADRIAN WIKELEY

“Remind me never to do this ride again” was my repeated statement during PBP. Four years ago, as a novice rider, I’d completed the event in 89:23, just 37 mins inside the 90 hour deadline, and I’d vowed never to return.

However I was back again in 2019. When I actually set off I felt a huge sense of relief, suddenly I was like a coiled spring let loose. But after dark

I WAS THOROUGHLY

enjoying the first 800k of PBP 2015 – before waking up in Loudeac with an inflamed Achilles. The final 400k was uncomfortable and slow. I finished in 78 hours. My overriding emotion was relief that it was over. I didn’t want to do it again, but I had unfinished business.

Fast forward to 2019… I was going to ride the event again. This time it would be out and back from Bath. The rain started two hours into the ride to Portsmouth on the Friday, and then again five minutes after leaving the ferry on Saturday morning.

Le Havre was quiet at 7am as I rode next to some tram lines through the docks. I the reality of this ride, with thousands of often very inexperienced and erratic riders on the road hit home, this was going to be tough and at my speed there were almost four days of cycling ahead.

The French volunteers and general public are so supportive that I found myself pulled along by the carnival atmosphere. My return from

Smiles… Sam Crossley, Mark Goldstein, Adrian Wikeley and Ray Cox in Rambouillet

Riding between the lines…

Martin Croxford’s plan to cycle from Bath to Paris before his PBP ride led to an unfortunate encounter with some slippery tram lines in Le Havre docks… adding the extra challenge of a painful groin strain at the big event itself

Brest was more leisurely, and

Martin in Villaines… more grimace than smile on this first time through

by day three I was really enjoying myself. I managed to get plenty of sleep, and was enjoying the company and the scenery.

The final stage from Dreux to the arrivée at Rambouillet seemed interminable, and when I finished I felt a strange anti-climax. It was over and I had to return to the real world. I will certainly be back for the 20th edition of PBP in 2023.

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remember thinking that I needed to be careful here. Then, before I knew it, I was on the ground, cursing my stupidity. The bike was fine, except for a bent derailleur hanger, rear wheel knocked out of position and brake hood twisted, all of which was quickly sorted. I had various cuts, and my inside right thigh ached a little, but I was soon off again, annoyed with myself. Why did I think I could ride across wet tramlines? But I seemed to have got away with it.

However my leg was getting worse. Riding up the modest incline of the Pont de Normandie over the Seine was painful, and stopping at a junction standing on the leg made me wince. I was able to keep riding but it was slow going. At a food stop at Pont Authou I had to use my hands to lift my leg over the cross bar, and it took ages to shuffle into the patisserie. Munching croissants and Ibuprofen huddled out of the rain under the shop’s awning I felt despondent.

Checking symptoms online suggested I had a groin strain, a fact confirmed by my GP when I returned home. Should I return to Le Havre and find a ferry home? Or try to continue and hope for improvement? I had booked two nights in a hotel near Rambouillet, and thought maybe it would improve before the start of PBP. I decided to carry on.

On the ride to Paris I had two punctures, but the rain stopped for the final 50k, and I found myself starting to enjoy the ride again although was relieved to arrive at the hotel in Maurepas, which was buzzing with international Audaxers. I remembered why I was doing this, and it was making me more determined to at least try to start the event.

The leg was no better but no worse as I left the hotel on Monday morning. Finally the waiting was over and we were off. I was amazed at how fast everyone was going, while I could only pootle along. I quickly found myself alone. However it wasn’t long before I caught up with some others. The headwind was taking its toll on everyone and I was able to catch relatively slow trains which suited my reduced pace.

It was tough going and I was taking far too long hobbling around off the bike at the controls. I was more comfortable on the bike than off. My aim had been to ride as far as I could, and ideally finish even if out of time. However, as the day progressed, and my leg continued to be manageable, I reset my ambition to completing within the 84-hour limit.

I was hovering around two hours in hand at the controls, which felt tight, however many of the riders I spoke with were already well out of time and suffering their own crises such that I began to feel relatively fortunate.

The second day was much like the first – mostly an ordeal. I had some interesting riding companions, including an Indonesian man who was wearing all of his clothing and was still cold despite the heat. A Japanese lady was great company until we caught up with a Japanese man. “He’s my husband, don’t talk to me” she hissed.

The turning point in the ride was descending Roc’h Trevezel towards Brest. Climbing up the other side having already been through Brest were groups of AC Bristol club mates. Their greetings gave me a massive boost. I arrived back at Loudeac with only seven minutes in hand, but was feeling good. My leg felt much improved.

I considered a final sleep stop on arriving at Villaines, leaving just over 200k for the final day, but still had less than two hours in hand and was now feeling stronger, so I pushed on. The roads were very busy with riders. Many were sleeping by the roadside.

On one long descent I suddenly felt sleep washing over me, so sat against the side of a cottage and slept for 30 minutes before waking cold and stiff. Mortagne was busy, but I was able to find some floor space in the dining area for an hour of sleep before setting off for the final 120k.

I felt terrific. With nearly three hours in hand there was time for a leisurely lunch at Dreux with other VC 167 riders before the final 45k. I was almost sorry to finish, I’d been enjoying it so much – but felt triumphant to have finished at all, and elated to be within the time limit of 81 hours. I rode to my hotel in Maurepas where I slept for twelve hours before waking up with my leg now solid.

It took a while to eat and get back on the bike for the 200k ride to Caen, but a tail wind and a couple of leisurely meal stops made it a really good day. Arriving at the ferry on Friday evening I was totally done.

Back home my GP prescribed rest and a fourweek course of NSAIDs to treat the groin strain, although it was four months before it was completely back to normal.

Overall PBP 2019 was hugely satisfying, a lot of it very enjoyable, and I suspect I’ll be back in 2023. I still have unfinished business with PBP.

Pop-up potential… Martin was more in the mood to use the roadside stalls in the return leg