Whenever there are 4,000 people all trying to
do the same thing at the same time, there are inevitably lines. Such
was the case at the Gymnasium des Droits du l'Homme, the starting
point for PBP. You had to park your bike on a soccer field and walk
into the gymnasium, where your magnetic card was swiped through the
reader and your route book received its first stamp. This process was
actually amazingly fast. We were actually in PBP officially
as starters. From there we joined a typical French "line" for the
start, which basically meant a huddled mass yearning to be free and
ride their bikes into the night. There were about 3,000 people
milling about on the field. We started in waves about 15 minutes
apart; Tim (in the photo) and I left in the 10:45 PM wave.
There was a large crowd gathered around the inflatable arch over
the street that marked the star/finish line. More crowds lined the
streets as we rode out of St. Quentin-en-Yvelines, cheering on every
rider. It was an amazing rush to see and to hear. Every corner was
obvious from the people spread out along the road, so it was hard to
get lost. The night was clear and warm, even just a little too warm
in my wool jersey. The course twisted through the streets and groups
formed, broke up and reformed. Tim got into a group ahead of mine,
unbeknown to me, and I wasn't sure where he was.
Soon we were out of town into rural landscapes. At least I think we
were, because all I could see was a pool of light in front of my bike
and the taillights of the riders ahead of me. When the road went up, I
could see hundreds and hundreds of red lights stretching into the
distance. I eased into the rhythm of night riding, with it's
compression of time and space. It was easy to ride with groups of
people, guessing at their nationality from listening to conversations.
I was alternately surrounded by Danes, Germans, Belgians, Australians,
English, French and Americans. Each group had its own
characteristics. I was disinclined to conversation myself, as I find
riding at night to be a quiet and introspective experience.
We road through the Foret de Rambouillet, all but invisible
in the night. The road rose and fell, twisted and turned, but there
was little sense of any particular direction. It rarely felt like I
was climbing; I'd shift down to a low gear and spin up hills past
dozens of people, many of them out of the saddle a grunting their way
along. I could mainly tell that we were climbing by the silence that
fell on the others. I spun through the dark, feeling quite strong and
fit. It was very encouraging. The night cooled off a bit, which was
helpful. We alternated dark country riding with old towns with narrow
winding streets, with names like Jouars, Nogent-le-Roi,
Chateauneuf-en-Thymerais.
We had been warned to bring extra water as the 141 km/91 miles
between St. Quentin and the controle ravitaillement at Mortagne
au Perche would offer no opportunity to buy water. Accordingly I had
an extra water bottle in my pocket in addition to the two on the bike.
The initial warmth of the night had made me concerned about possibly
running out before Mortagne. I needn't have worried, as suddenly
there were French people by the side of the road with cases of bottled
water. In one town, the local bike shop was open and handing out
water and snacks. At crossroads, French people had driven out to
cheer the riders along and point them down the correct turns. It was
amazing! "Bon courage! Bonne route! Allez, allez!" filled the
air as we rode by. Whole families were out at 3:00 in the morning to
cheer on PBP. I had heard that this would be the case, but I had
expected only a few people, not hundreds. It was incredibly
energizing.
I got to Mortagne au Perche and the controle ravitaillement
about 4:30 AM. I got in line to get some food and Tim spotted me.
He'd been there maybe half an hour or so, was finished eating and
getting ready to head out. We chatted for a bit and then Tim hit the
road. I finished my meal and went outside to get my water bottles and
refill them. I got on the bike and rolled down the hill out of
Mortagne; with my damp clothing, it was very chilly and the downhill
was unpleasantly long in that condition. It wasn't as bad as on the
400K brevet, but I did contemplate putting on my arm and knee warmers.
Soon I was climbing again, however, and the coldness went away with
the exertion. Dawn was approaching, with the sky behind me lightening
ever so slightly. By La Hutte the sun was peeking over the horizon,
lighting up western France to my eyes for the first time. In Averton
I stopped at a patisserie and got a snack, then proceeded to the
first controle, Villaines-la-Juhel.
The road funneled into a narrow street with high stone
walls on either side. You parked your bike and climbed up stairs to
the controle, which was a simple one-room affair. Getting your
card swiped and book stamped took but a second, and the volunteers
were handing out key chains with the town's name and emblem on them.
Leaving the controle without getting any food, the line being
too long and slow and in any case having just eaten a fairly large
meal only a few hours earlier, I went in search of water and to answer
the call of nature. That accomplished, I walked back to my bike. The
press of people in the street was amazing, with town dignitaries and
citizens mingling with the riders under a huge green inflatable arch.
There I ran into Don (that's him in the photo), who was just
arriving. Heading out of the controle I was back into the
French countryside but now able to see it. It was truly rolling
country, with basically no flat road or terrain anywhere to be
seen. There's nothing like this around where I live, the area having
largely been scoured flat by glaciers in the last ice age. This part
of France was more like the driftless area in northwestern Iowa and
southern Wisconsin.
I caught up with a group of about 10 riders of differing
nationalities, mostly French, and rode with them for an hour or two.
Between Loupfougeres and Le Ribay, we passed the first set of official
photographers on a small rise. They were actually an obstacle in the
road and it was somewhat difficult to avoid running one of them over.
The group wasn't very cohesive and eventually I left some behind while
others rode away from me. I wasn't feeling quite as good in the sun as
I had felt at night and I was starting to get a little concerned that
my left knee pain was returning and my right Achilles pain as well. I
stopped and rubbed some arnica massage oil into them and took another
naprosyn. Rolling over the terrain, I noticed my rear wheel was
getting progressively less true and starting to make odd little
noises. I reached Fougeres (311 km/194 miles) about 2:00 PM,
officially checking in at 2:10 (or 14h10, as it is written in my route
book). There I found that there was a bike mechanic at the
controle and I gave him my bike to see if he could get the
wheel better. I walked from the controle to the restaurant, and
while standing in line I met up with Tim, who was on his way out of
the controle. He'd had about a nap, couldn't sleep very well,
and elected to push on.
After eating, I walked back over to the controle. My bike
was leaning against the back wall of the work area. I picked up the
back end and spun the wheel. The wheel was now no longer hitting the
brake blocks. Before I could check the spoke tension, a different
mechanic spotted me and took a look. In a jiffy he had the wheel out
of the bike, and my French was bad enough that I couldn't tell him
that the other mechanic had already worked on it. He indicated 5
minutes, so I walked around for a bit. It took him 30 minutes. I
finally got my bike back and rode out of the controle; I hadn't
gotten 500 meters before I found that my wheel was at the edge of
total collapse with a large number of spokes totally slack! I turned
around and went back to the controle. Yet another mechanic sized up
the wheel and had another go at it, taking drastic action with a
rubber mallet at one point. Yikes! However, they got the wheel true
enough to go through the brakes and the spoke tension seemed
acceptable. The clock was ticking, I'd lost over 2 hours at Fougeres
and I was getting desperate to get back on the road. Chalk up another
one to the legacy left to me by Northwest Airline's baggage
manglers.
From Fougeres it was a short hop of 55 km/34 miles to the next
controle at Tinteniac-
which should have taken just over 2 hours and had me there at about
4:30, instead of 6:54 which was my official check-in time. I can
barely remember the controle, other than that it was small,
efficient, and had a train schedule on the wall and a list of the
numbers of people who had abandoned there. I grabbed a bite to eat
and got back on the road, heading- as the saying goes- into the
sunset. As the sun went down, my knee and Achilles pain seemed to go
away. I felt more alert and stronger and enjoyed riding through the
dusk. Somewhere around Medreac, the road looped to the left around a
field. In the middle of the field stood a giant buffalo, 40 feet tall
if it was an inch, silhouetted against the evening sky. I was
astonished and had to blink and shake my head. I realized it was just
a tree, albeit suggestively shaped. For a moment I contemplated the
creativity of some French farmer who had decided to create a giant
topiary buffalo in his field. After a couple of minutes, the total
absurdity of the idea dawned on me and I burst out laughing at
myself. I had something from one of my water bottles and ate part of
the jambon et beurre sandwich I had in my pocket, just in case
dehydration and/or hunger were the culprits.
By this point the riders were very much spread out and I was
anxious about going off-course. It seemed like kilometers went by
without any course markings even at intersections, and I adopted a
policy of "if in doubt, go straight." It seemed to work. I began to
catch people again and continued to feel stronger and stronger.
Around Meneac a couple of families were making coffee for the riders.
I stopped out of curiosity but didn't stay long as I don't drink
coffee. A couple of Americans from California, Michael and Susan,
caught me and I jumped on their wheels. We set a rollicking pace into
Loudeac, which appeared to be approached from the most roundabout way
possible. It started to get rather frustrating, in fact, as we would
see the lights of the town to our left, then our right, then almost
behind us, etc. However, thanks to the pace setting of Michael and
Susan, we pulled in to the controle at Loudeac just before
midnight. I had covered the 86 km from Tinteniac to Loudeac in about 3
hours, averaging about 28 km/h (about 18 mph), and I was very pleased
about that and my confidence was much improved. I felt great and
thought I would be able to finish, if things kept on like they had
between Tinteniac and Loudeac.
I parked my bike and wandered around looking for the check-in
point, standing in line and finally getting my card stamped at 12:10
(0h10 in French time). The controle was chaotic, with at least
a thousand bikes and riders, and with services located in different
buildings around the parking lot. I found where to get my route book
stamped and accomplished that, then went in search of my drop bag.
That was actually easy. As I stood looking for the showers, trying to
see where the dortoir was, etc., Tim came up. He'd been there
about 3 hours and was getting ready to leave to ride to
Carhaix-Plouguer. Again he had found sleep somewhat elusive.
I went to take a shower only to find that the towels promised by
the organizers were not available, and that there was no hot water.
All this for only 2 Euros. I took a shower anyway, drying myself off
with my wool undershirt. Changed into fresh clothes, I felt much
better. From there I went to the dortoir to see about getting
some sleep, only to find the practical problem of having thousands of
people looking for somewhere to sleep but having only 300 beds to put
them in. People were being turned away, and one American was literally
stamping his feet in anger about the situation. I decided to try
calmly waiting, and after about 20 minutes I was shown to a
bed. Scheduling a 4:30 wakeup, I went to bed at 1:30 and was asleep in
minutes. I was mistakenly awakened by volunteers twice, but was gently
shaken into consciousness at 4:30 sharp. I felt rested and refreshed,
much to my amazement. I finished dressing and went out to find
breakfast. At 5:45 I was back on the road.
Contrary to yesterday, the night warmed up near dawn and I was soon
finding I was overdressed on the hills leading out of Loudeac. I
stopped to peel off a layer, and then resumed riding. The sky was
getting light to my right, and eventually I figured out that we were
going to Brest by first riding to the northeast out of Loudeac! It
turned out that the organizers wanted to make sure we didn't miss any
of the hills between Loudeac and Carhaix. I settled in with a small
group that included a pair of older French men (older than me, anyhow)
on a tandem. They were a superb team to watch, climbing smoothly and
almost as fast as the single bikes. I was happy to note that I was
again climbing well and that the pain in my left knee and right
Achilles was still absent. We rolled up and down the large hills
through Treve, St.-Martin-de-Pres, etc. As the sun came up, I saw that
the architecture and layout of the farms was different than I had seen
further east. This was Hinault country!
After about 55 km, I began to notice a different knee pain, this
time on the outside of both knees. Each pedal stroke became painful,
with pains shooting down my shins. I geared down and it didn't help.
I stood up to climb and it didn't help. I took naprosyn and it didn't
help. I rubbed in some arnica massage oil and it didn't help. I took
more naprosyn. I got off the bike and stretched and tried resting for
a while. That didn't help. With every kilometer the pain got worse. I
was riding up the hills at 4 mph, wincing with pain. The roads were
lovely but I really didn't see them. Riders passed me as they hurried
to Carhaix to make sure they made the cutoff time of 10:55 AM. I tried
to calculate how much time I had and whether I'd be able to make it. I
crawled through Saint Lubin and Mael-Carhaix, and crept into Carhaix
with an hour to spare, checking in at 9:59 AM. It had taken me three
and a quarter hours to rude the 77 km from Loudeac to Carhaix, between
the hills and the pain- an average of 23 km/h (15 mph). My confidence,
so high at Loudeac, had taken a big hit.
I went to the Croix Rouge to see if there was anything they
could do. A therapist massaged my legs with an anti-inflammatory
creme. I went to get something to eat and to give the creme some time
to work. Walking was painful and climbing stairs was worse. After
breakfast, I waited around some more and took another naprosyn. I ran
into Martin Fahje, on his way back from Brest, and asked his advice.
He suggested carrying on and also suggested getting more of the creme.
I went back to the Croix Rouge to find out the name so I could
go to a pharmacy, and discovered I could buy a tube right there.
E5.20 later I had a tube of my own in my pocket and I was on my way to
Brest.
From the controle, it was downhill out of Carhaix for quite
a ways. Carhaix was a bustling town and looked quite prosperous. Out
of town the road quickly became pastoral again, and I began to climb.
Slowly and painfully I rode up to Poullaquen, 11 km from Carhaix. At
the top of the hill I was barely able to go fast enough to remain
upright and I was angry. I had plenty of energy, plenty of fitness, I
felt rested and had everything I needed to complete PBP. Except
pain-free knees. By this time it was like someone was clawing my legs
with every pedal stroke. I sat down at the town sign to put on more
creme and rest a bit, hoping that would help. I took yet another
naprosyn, making a total of 950 mg in 6 hours- above the recommended
dose on the bottle and rather above the maximum dose in the PDR, at
the rate I was going. An elderly man came over to me and, finding I
didn't speak French, signed his concern that I was tired and that I
could have a nap at his house. He seemed so kind and I did my best to
say "mal des genous" and point at my knees, which wasn't going to be
fixed by a nap.
I knew I wasn't going to finish. I knew I wasn't going to even make
it to Brest before the controle closed. I got back on my bike
and rode across Poullaquen to look at the terrain; if it looked easier
than what I'd already been over, I figured I'd go to the halfway point
if I accomplished nothing else. From what I could see, the road was no
better ahead (in fact, I later found out, the highest climb on the
route is between Poullaquen and Brest). Bitterly I turned
around. Halfway across Poullaquen, I stopped. I couldn't quit! I
didn't come to France to fail! I had to go on. I turned around and
rode back to the edge of town and looked down the road. I knew it was
impossible but I didn't want to admit it. I tossed a coin, best out of
three, to try to help make up my mind. Abandonment won. I still stood
there, not wanting to believe I couldn't finish the ride. After
dithering like this for about 30 minutes, I surrendered and turned
back to Carhaix.
The ride back was excruciating both in terms of my knees and my
emotions. Tears of frustration escaped me, anger sizzled through me,
but as I climbed the hill back through Carhaix to the controle
I knew that I was making the right decision. There was no way to tough
it out and finish in time. It made me feel a little better, but then
the townspeople of Carhaix started applauding me as I rode through
town. That made me feel much, much worse. Noting my plodding pace, one
woman called out "Monsieur, etez-vous fatiguée?" All I
could do was nod and say "oui." It took me over two hours to
ride 22 km, half of which was downhill. At the controle, I cut
off my number plate and walked into the room where the officials
were. I handed them my route book, card, number plate and neck pouch
and said "terminée." They looked startled, and one of them
asked (in English) "are you tired?" I replied "no" and pointed to my
knees. "Knee pain." He looked puzzled so I tried "Mal des genous." He
asked how I planned to get back to Paris. I didn't know, having
formulated a vague plan of renting a car. He explained that this would
not be possible, and explained the train schedule to me. Offering me a
ride to the train station, he gave me some time to eat lunch and to
compose myself. As of 1:32 PM (13h32) my PBP was done.
I went to the bar set up outside the controle and had an
ice-cold, hoppy beer. It was delicious. Then I sat down in the shade
and watched people coming and going, hoping that I wouldn't see Tim on
his way back from Brest. As a group was saddling up to leave, I
started crying and couldn't stop for a while. But I was done with this
PBP and there as nothing I could do about it, and the tears dried
up. After that I felt better. I noticed a lovely Pierre Perrin
randoneuse leaning against the hedge, and as I was admiring it
the owner came up. He spoke excellent English and was very proud of
his bike. He showed off the details that distinguish the bikes made
especially for this type of riding, and then he was off back to Paris.
He left me feeling much less like an outcast. I consoled myself with
the thought that better riders than I had dropped out of PBP in the
past.
About 3:00 PM, the helpful volunteer gave me a ride to the train
station and explained my situation to the station master. I bought my
ticket on the TER regional train ("a very small train" my benefactor
kept saying) to Guingamp, a TGV ticket from Guingamp to Gare
Montparnasse in Paris, and an RER ticket from Montparnasse to
St. Quentin-en-Yvelines. While I was waiting, four other riders came
in who had also abandoned and were on their way back to St. Quentin.
Their situations were also difficult: an American woman who could not
sit on her saddle and rode from Loudeac to Carhaix standing and also
vomiting for two hours of that ride; an Englishman with a bad knee
like mine; another Englishman whose problems I don't recall; an
American whose neck had gone flaccid and who couldn't hold his head up
(I was to see a number of people with this problem, called Shermer
neck); and another American who was simply exhausted. So there were
five of us to keep company on the way back to Paris.
About 4:00 PM we loaded our bikes onto the "train." (Photo swiped from here)The TER from
Carhaix was indeed a small train, a combination engine and passenger
car about the size of an American school bus on train wheels. The
driver sat up front with a throttle, brake and manual transmission.
It was a delightful 45 minute ride to Guingamp, where we unloaded the
bikes and found our platform for the TGV to Paris. Normally the TGV
will not take bikes unless they are bagged in a "housse a velo" but
they put our bikes in a small storage compartment without demur. I
suppose they understood the situation. We found our seats- or so we
thought- and the train rolled out of Guingamp about 15 minutes after
we got there. We chatted for a while , but the group broke up when the
rightful owners of the seats came to claim them. One of the Englishmen
and I found different seats and chatted all the way to Paris about
various topics.
We arrived in Montparnasse about 9:00 or 9:15 PM, having had a
lovely trip. Someone came with a key so that we could get our bikes
out, and we went in search of the RER train to St. Quentin. Several of
my compatriots hopped onto one car with their bikes, and to avoid
crowding the good citizens of Paris the Englishman and I went to
another car. Someone walking down the voie said "there is a
special place for bikes, follow me." We walked with him to the very
front end of the train, where he showed us where to put our bikes and
ourselves. Then he popped through a small access door and got ready to
drive the train! We arrived in St. Quentin about 9:45 PM. Scattering
to our various hotels we bid each other goodnight. I walked back to
the Campanile, getting there about 10:00 PM and by 10:10 I was in my
room. A shower (cold, unfortunately- the French don't seem to keep the
water heaters on 24 hours a day) and I was in bed by 11:00, sound
asleep.
Thursday I awoke stiff and sore. I showered again and walked into
the Espace St. Quentin to the Paul's patisserie for some
breakfast. I treated myself to an Anglaise aux Abricots and
brioche aux raisins. Then I walked over to the Carrefour to buy
some deodorant, toothpaste and a toothbrush- mine still being in my
drop bag in Loudeac and not due back until Friday afternoon. I also
bought some yogurt, fruit and a brush. Appetite sated, grooming done,
teeth brushed (ooh, did I appreciate that!), I rested some more and
read for a while. Hunger prodded at me, and I went to the
creperie for lunch. I scouted out the Carrefour to see what I
might get to celebrate Tim's completion of PBP and then walked back to
the Hotel Campanile. There I ran into Martin's girlfriend, Sharon, and
her mother. I spent much of the afternoon chatting with them. Sharon
showed me where there was free Internet access to check on Martin and
Tim, so we were able to track their progress and estimate when they'd
arrive. I guessed Tim would get it about 6:00 AM on Friday morning. I
did some more reading and repaired some of the damage to my bike case
(two of the casters had actually fallen off and a third was nearly
off; fortunately the local Bricorama had exact replacements). For
supper I bought a salad, bread, cheese, raisin/almond mix, yogurt,
pears and apples.
I chatted with other people who'd abandoned and also with Sharon.
Many people found the hills too much. I thought the hills were fine in
terms of my fitness and preparation, but my knees didn't like them. I
wondered if the hard fast approach into Loudeac chasing Michael and
Susan was in part to blame, and that perhaps I should have ridden a
more sedate pace. It felt so good at the time! I think I developed
iliotibial band tendinitis in both knees, which will hopefully resolve
quickly (10 days later I can ride 35 miles slowly with very little
discomfort, but the knees still hurt if I'm in too big a gear when
climbing).
Sharon noted that some people had complained that Martin's
brevet series was too hilly. After riding in PBP, I'd have to
say that it would not be possible for the brevets to be too
hilly. There is no flat riding in PBP, it is relentlessly hilly
and you'd might as well get used to riding that kind of terrain. In
retrospect, I thought Martin did an excellent job in finding suitable
terrain in an area that is largely flat. I certainly felt prepared for
the event as a result of the Minnesota brevets. I think that
the routes could be even hillier, now that I've seen the terrain the
PBP uses, although that would be hard to do with Rochester as a
starting point. In my case, I think that better use of the 8 weeks
between the end of the brevets and PBP might have helped
prevent my knee problems. I did some 200 km/125 mile rides on the
weekends in addition to my usual 80 km/50 mile rides three times in
the middle of the week; I think that doing 200 km rides alternating
with 300 km rides on the weekends, or doing back-to-back 200 km rides
on the weekends would have been better preparation than I did. I think
my body might have better adapted to the stress of the exceptional
mileage one necessarily encounters on PBP.
Tim (one
of his official PBP photos) arrived at the hotel about 6:30 AM Friday
morning, tired but in fine spirits. Tim ate some of the food I had in
the room. We chatted for a bit about the experience and then I went
back to sleep and Tim went to bed for a good night's sleep for the
first time since we left Minneapolis. I woke up late, about 10:00 AM,
and went out to the Carrefour to buy some wine, a saucisse
champignon, an organic whole wheat baguette and a wedge of
Epouesse (fromage) for a celebratory picnic. Tim got a good few
hours sleep, and then we rode slowly over to the Gymnase Droits de
l'Homme where we met up with Don and another Minnesota rider. We
had a pique-nique, shopped for souvenirs, looked at bikes and
generally soaked up the atmosphere of the finish of PBP.
I'll have to let Tim speak for his own experiences.
In my case, what I remember about PBP is the support and camaraderie
between the riders and the approachability they had. All were willing
to share their experience about riding this event, and all respected
the determination and dedication it takes to prepare for and enter
such an event. They all understood what it means to abandon, and no
one made me feel any less for not having been able to finish. The
fantastic support of the French people, standing out in the middle of
nowhere at some crossroads, at 4:00 in the morning, just to cheer on
the randonneurs remains a heartwarming memory. I don't know if
they know just how much that means to the riders. They brought cases
of bottled water, food, coffee and an incredible generosity of
spirit. I remember the rider lost in St. Quentin, whom we found
looking for the train station on our way back from the finish. We
were going right by it, it was no more than 50 meters out of our way,
so we guided him to it. As we rode away he called after us, "I still
love the Americans." And I love the French.
Paris-Brest-Paris 2003
Minnesota finishers:
Robert Alwin 76:63
Charles Breer 65:49
Tim Bruns 78:58
Daniel Dunn 88:50
Martin Fahje 68:59
Thomas Gould 83:59
Kelly Krajnik 88:46
Foster Renwick 75:26
William Taylor
88:46
Minnesota non-finishers:
Harold Brull
Don McCall
Tim McNamara
Thomas Miller
Bob Tomkins
Let me know if I've missed you or gotten your time wrong!
Whenever there are 4,000 people all trying to
do the same thing at the same time, there are inevitably lines. Such
was the case at the Gymnasium des Droits du l'Homme, the starting
point for PBP. You had to park your bike on a soccer field and walk
into the gymnasium, where your magnetic card was swiped through the
reader and your route book received its first stamp. This process was
actually amazingly fast. We were actually in PBP officially
as starters. From there we joined a typical French "line" for the
start, which basically meant a huddled mass yearning to be free and
ride their bikes into the night. There were about 3,000 people
milling about on the field. We started in waves about 15 minutes
apart; Tim (in the photo) and I left in the 10:45 PM wave.
The road funneled into a narrow street with high stone
walls on either side. You parked your bike and climbed up stairs to
the controle, which was a simple one-room affair. Getting your
card swiped and book stamped took but a second, and the volunteers
were handing out key chains with the town's name and emblem on them.
Leaving the controle without getting any food, the line being
too long and slow and in any case having just eaten a fairly large
meal only a few hours earlier, I went in search of water and to answer
the call of nature. That accomplished, I walked back to my bike. The
press of people in the street was amazing, with town dignitaries and
citizens mingling with the riders under a huge green inflatable arch.
There I ran into Don (that's him in the photo), who was just
arriving. Heading out of the controle I was back into the
French countryside but now able to see it. It was truly rolling
country, with basically no flat road or terrain anywhere to be
seen. There's nothing like this around where I live, the area having
largely been scoured flat by glaciers in the last ice age. This part
of France was more like the driftless area in northwestern Iowa and
southern Wisconsin.
which should have taken just over 2 hours and had me there at about
4:30, instead of 6:54 which was my official check-in time. I can
barely remember the controle, other than that it was small,
efficient, and had a train schedule on the wall and a list of the
numbers of people who had abandoned there. I grabbed a bite to eat
and got back on the road, heading- as the saying goes- into the
sunset. As the sun went down, my knee and Achilles pain seemed to go
away. I felt more alert and stronger and enjoyed riding through the
dusk. Somewhere around Medreac, the road looped to the left around a
field. In the middle of the field stood a giant buffalo, 40 feet tall
if it was an inch, silhouetted against the evening sky. I was
astonished and had to blink and shake my head. I realized it was just
a tree, albeit suggestively shaped. For a moment I contemplated the
creativity of some French farmer who had decided to create a giant
topiary buffalo in his field. After a couple of minutes, the total
absurdity of the idea dawned on me and I burst out laughing at
myself. I had something from one of my water bottles and ate part of
the jambon et beurre sandwich I had in my pocket, just in case
dehydration and/or hunger were the culprits.
About 4:00 PM we loaded our bikes onto the "train." (Photo swiped from 
Tim (one
of his official PBP photos) arrived at the hotel about 6:30 AM Friday
morning, tired but in fine spirits. Tim ate some of the food I had in
the room. We chatted for a bit about the experience and then I went
back to sleep and Tim went to bed for a good night's sleep for the
first time since we left Minneapolis. I woke up late, about 10:00 AM,
and went out to the Carrefour to buy some wine, a saucisse
champignon, an organic whole wheat baguette and a wedge of
Epouesse (fromage) for a celebratory picnic. Tim got a good few
hours sleep, and then we rode slowly over to the Gymnase Droits de
l'Homme where we met up with Don and another Minnesota rider. We
had a pique-nique, shopped for souvenirs, looked at bikes and
generally soaked up the atmosphere of the finish of PBP.