The long road home

Londoner Chris Battenti has lived in West Cork for 24 years – but it seems that “the luck of the Irish” has yet to rub off on him. Here’s his tale of woe from PBP 2019: The long road

GOING INTO PBP 2019 I was fitter, better trained and prepared than I’d ever been for any event. But sometimes things just go wrong.

Kate Kelly, a formidable rider and fellow member of Audax Ireland, was my riding companion for the event. We travelled together, to save costs, from Bantry, West Cork, in my reliable and well-maintained 18 year old Skoda Fabia, bikes strapped to the back, catching the ferry from Rosslare to Cherbourg, then driving to Paris for the start.

Troubles started before we even set off. On a final test ride I heard a disturbing creak from my front wheel dynamo – the thing that controls all my lighting system and charges my GPS and phone. The hub had completely disintegrated. No time for repairs or replacement – I had no choice but to go old-school with batterypowered lights.

We arrived at the campsite late on Wednesday, found our pitches and put up our tents. The campsite was packed out, with everyone doing PBP. Every nationality was there and it was great catching up with old friends.

I started the ride at 6pm on the Sunday, feeling confident. The French were so friendly – they set up impromptu coffee stops at almost every village. Just when you were at a low ebb at 3am, you’d come across a roadside stall handing out free coffee and cake.

As an example of the hospitality on the route – I’d fallen asleep on a footpath in a small village and was gently woken by an elderly man telling me he had a spare bed I could use. I’m told this is a typical act of French generosity.

Then at 300k more disaster. My saddle broke. I made some makeshift repairs but it was like sitting on a hot razor blade with a permanent wedgie. The rest of the ride was the usual Audax affair, and I won’t bore you with the details, but basically it was non-stop hills, no proper sleep, freezing night temperatures, extreme fatigue coupled with almost falling asleep on the bike. At one point I had the idea that if I closed one eye at a time then I could get half a sleep – a very silly idea. A lot of the ride was a blur. It was tough, oh my god, so tough! PBP has the reputation of being

one of the hardest cycling events out there and now I know why.

I didn’t complete the ride. I got as far as 1,022km when Shermer’s Neck set in. I decided my health was more important, so I reluctantly withdrew with just under 200k remaining. Kate also had to pull out, just after the 1,000km mark.

It was sad but a great experience and I learnt a lot of things that I can carry forward to the next time – will there be a next time? I’m not sure; it was tough, very tough. I went to places I’d never been before, both physically and mentally, and to be honest it was scary.

I thought that was the end of our French adventure, but round the corner more bad luck awaited. We packed up our tents and set off for the ferry. An hour into the drive all the lights on the dashboard started blinking and we suddenly lost all electrics – on a motorway.

We managed to turn off, and ended up in an industrial estate where I killed the engine. It wouldn’t start again. After some frantic googling we found a breakdown firm and with very little French tried to tell them where we were. So we waited… and waited. Five hours later I rang again, only to have the phone put down on me.

More frantic googling. After several calls, one to the ferry postponing our sailing, and more hang ups, a company agreed to come out. So we waited and waited some more. After a further three hours a tow truck appeared. The driver, who didn’t speak English, put the car on the back of the truck, piled us in the back and promptly dropped us off at a local hotel and disappeared with my car into the night. What just happened I asked? The hotelier showed us to our rooms. He didn’t speak English either, and didn’t understand our pitiful attempts to communicate in his native language. He was excellent, however, in the art of shoulder-shrugging. Surely it couldn’t get any worse? The next morning we tried to locate the garage – on our bikes, and promptly got lost. We ran into a couple who actually spoke English. Great news! Sadly, they weren’t locals, and didn’t know where the garage might be. Then they introduced themselves. They were Jehovah’s Witnesses – and asked if we had a few moments to talk. I kid you not! We finally found the garage

Local support… a French family with a welcome roadside refresh

where there was more shouldershrugging. The car, we were told, needed a part, but being the weekend nothing could happen until Monday anyway.

We cycled reluctantly back to the hotel to find our bags packed and out in the reception. The place was fully booked, apparently. We were given a list of other hotels with plenty of shrugging, and the word “non” repeated many times.

More frantic calls, more hang ups, more googling, more Google Translate, lots of head-scratching and even more swearing! It was a hopeless situation. There didn’t seem to be any empathy at all. What happened to the friendliness and generously of PBP?

That’s when a couple overheard our plight – our saviours, Françoise and Jean Jacques who had excellent English and booked us a hotel and ordered a taxi. So with a parting glare at Monsieur Shrugalot we were off again, but this time we had a plan, no car, but a plan.

Françoise agreed to meet us at the garage on Monday and help with the language barrier. Lovely people, and faith in humanity restored.

But… Monday, car will be ready on Tuesday. Tuesday, car still not ready. Wednesday, another fault found. Car sent to a different garage. Thursday, another problem, another part required. Friday, car still not fixed. Facing another unplanned weekend in France, we decided to return to Ireland as foot passengers. I truly believe that, had it not been for our new friends, we’d still be in France.

The garage rang me about three months after I returned to Ireland to say the car was now ready and they wanted exactly €2,000. It transpired it wasn’t the alternator at all but some wires crossing causing a short. Needless to say the car is still there!

Perfect English…Françoise and Jean Jacques

POSTSCRIPT

I’ve heard nothing since then and I’ve resigned myself to the fact that the car is not worth collecting as the cost to go over and the ferry back, (assuming it’s fixed reliably enough to get back), is definitely worth more than the car!

So I bought another. Although I’ve never mentioned it in my online blog, I still have nightmares about it – there was one point I was sitting at the side of the road with my head in my hands – no car, no hotel, no money, more luggage than I could carry thinking how can this situation be so desperate. After all I wasn’t stranded in Beirut, I was only in France!