PBP Randonneur 2011, Part 5: Carhaix to Tinténiac

August 23, 2011: Carhaix to Loudéac

There are fewer than 30 bikes at the control as most of the horde have left towards Loudéac. I am in an undesirable position: behind the bulk of the riders. It does leave a lot of space to park one's bike, however: I lean mine against the white tent. The ground is still soggy and I make my way to the control to get my card signed. I leave Carhaix fairly quickly, fully aware that any time wasted here would cut into sleep and the terrain between Loudéac and Brest isn't exactly the "bank more time" kind. Oh, I do remember some of those hills. The terrain returns to rolling just as we leave the control but turns to mostly flat as we near Maël-Carhaix.

Dusk falls around us and I am within sight of several riders as we make our way through the first of the hills that guard Carhaix from the east. The road is pitch black and heavily chipsealed here and there. My palm starts to get quite tender in places but nothing to get alarmed about. Riders are everywhere as the sound of rolling tyres and chirping insects are the only sounds that disturb the still-warm night air. We climb one roller after the other as the string of lights rises and falls giving those behind a fair idea of what lays ahead. We ride past a sleepy Saint-Nicolas-du-Pelem again with the control abuzz with activity. And just like this morning, the number of riders on the road picks up.

A few miles before Corlay, I meet an old friend again. Mike Huber who started a good 9 hours after me has finally caught up and though he is far better rider than I am decides to hang with me for the next few dozen kilometers. Very very kind of him. I ask him to go on as I usually do and he replies in the way he usually does: "We'll see how it goes, Narayan". We chat about the ride and our experiences so far. I expect a secret control at Corlay but none materializes and the only person to cheer for us is a teenager who is sitting on his balcony of his house. The terrain switches character again after Corlay, the hills starting to hit with a vengeance. The pavement also is one of the roughest of the entire route. I am making slow and unspectacular progress but the thought of this interfering with my sleep never hits me. The required speed has dropped and I must be accumulating hours by the bushel, right? Delusion is a wonderful thing indeed.

A little past Corlay Mike bids goodbye. As we hit another one of those short steep pitches he launches out of the saddle and dances away from me. We have to climb a few steep ones before we get to Merléac and my speed hits rock bottom. At last, Merléac with its narrow streets and dominating church steeple arrives. The massive food tent in front of the patisserie is still there and is still staffed with people, although not the ones who saved my ride two days ago. There are a few riders sleeping inside the food tent and some are eating, looking ahead into emptiness with that trademark stare so easily discernible in randonneurs the world over. If Merléac is here then Uzel is not that far away. This thought helps me refocus. I arrive at the now familiar turn on the road to head uphill to the Uzel.

The course of course turns off to the right, but I keep straight on, figuring that I will find the little light display that indicates the pathway to the Gite. The one I couldn't find yesterday. Riders behind me yell adroit! letting me know that I missed a turn but I wave them off. A few hundred yards down the road I start looking for the lights that Rick told me would be hanging from the trees but I cannot find anything. I get to the top of the climb and am now in Uzel, but I have no clue how to get to the Gite. Not freaking again! Figuring it is downhill from here, I take the first left and then another left again, and am near a closed off gate with no Gite in sight. I need help and I need it now. I text Barbara to ask her if she can come and pick me up. I ride down a couple of alley ways and they all lead to dead ends. This is frustrating!

It is now past 11p and I don't think I can find this by myself. Lights flicker near one of the houses and I knock on the door. I am desperate. A young couple answer the door but have no idea where Rue de Dolo is. I try using my cellphone's map to show them where it is, but they have no clue. As I stupidly ride by a couple of times, I see them cover up the window and draw the blinds to prevent even more crazy people from disturbing their TV watching. I walk up a little more and find another house with what looks like a party in full progress. A half-a-dozen young people are enjoying themselves with Pizza and booze. I tell them my predicament and one guy immediately whips out his iPhone and starts looking. He spots the street and says he knows where it is. Meanwhile, Barbara sends me directions to the Gite. The guy with the iPhone and his lady friend walk with me up the hill and then point me downhill towards what looks like an inky foggy abyss. I thank them for their help and plunge down the narrow foggy road, all the while thinking this better be to the freaking Gite. I arrive at the now familiar Gite, thank goodness.

I've wasted at least an hour looking for the Gite. It is not as much as I wasted last time around but at this stage in the game it is a serious waste of time. Too bad French Gites don't come with neon signage! Barbara, Nancy and Jan quickly swing into action. The Gite is completely quiet as Vincent, Mark and Joe are now napping peacefully, having reached the Gite a few hours before I did. I ask about our riders and hear the depressing news that Jan Acuff has abandoned. I am all business, and head upstairs to take a shower after retrieving my drop bag. I have some Sustained Energy left and switch to a new pair of shorts and carry another spare in my bag to change in Mortagne-au-Perche tomorrow. I shower, trying to make as little noise as possible. I change into my bike clothes and come down to tell Barbara to wake me up in 20 minutes. It's all the time I can afford. Oddly, I have trouble falling asleep, something completely new. I am nervous and my heart rate will not go down, but after a few minutes I fall asleep. Barbara gently wakes me up a moment later.

As I pack up my drop bag, I have a decision to make: I gamble and leave all my rain gear behind. I am going to try and save as much weight as I can. I have plenty of Nuun (unused since Brest) and Sustained Energy. A switch to well-worn gloves and socks makes me feel vastly better. Jan makes me a fantastic Omelette with onions, mushrooms, and green peppers. Nancy makes me coffee and I drink two cups of it, with a pain au chocolat as accompaniment. These are the first cups of caffeinated coffee in over a year. I kicked coffee for this day! I attempt to make up for a lack of talent and training with reading and effort and this is a little tip that I picked up reading somebody's ride report. Mark, Joe, Vinnie, Hugh Kimball and Vickie Tyer are all up and getting ready to leave. Vickie and Hugh leave before me.

I leave the gite around 2.20a (and have forgotten to charge my phone and brush my teeth!). Andrew walks me down the forest-like path and gingerly past the ditch on a small bridge and onto the road. I now see the lights that they have dangled on branches to help us identify the forest path. I have no freaking idea how I missed these in the dark. I must have been on the wrong darned road entirely! I ask Andrew to wait a few minutes (in case I don't get back on course), and head downhill. A half-a-mile later I see the familiar intersection and see riders en route to Loudéac. Relieved, I join them and am immediately struck by how benign the terrain looks and how slow I am still. It is neither cold nor warm and most importantly not raining. I am wearing most of my clothing and my half-fingered gloves work fine. I am with a small group of riders and at one point we get really worried because we haven't seen a marker in a while. We stop and chat about it and elect to press on until we finally hit a T-junction and find a course-marker. I reach down to take a swig of water and I come up empty. Dang it! I had left my souvenir PBP bottle back at the Gite! There was no time to go back though, and one can be certain that they'll sell water bottles at Loudéac.

The coffee is clearly doing its magic. I feel awake and well. My name rings out in the night air and it is Mark and Joe. I briefly harbour fantasies of hanging with them (when will I learn?) but the increasing gap between our wheels quickly puts paid to such silly fantasies. As you may recall, we climbed and descended quiet a few large ridges out of Loudéac and my worry is that I will be slow up these ridges and hence struggle to make the Loudéac control. In a spectacular stroke of good luck there is somehow more down than up, but when there is up it is steep. The pavement goes for a toss shortly before Loudéac and I remember one particularly evil descent where finding a nice pothole free line became a challenge with all the riders around me. I get to Loudéac around 3.30a. The control close is at 3.56a.

August 23, 2011: Loudéac to Tinténiac

Mentally, I am rather smashed. I am in a stupor, doing things very slowly and acting like I've just woke up. There is no place to park my bike; a lot of riders sleep at Loudéac and every single spot is taken. I eventually lean it against a rather large open trash can and am taking off my gloves when I spot Joe Platzner. Joe and Mark are on their way out having just enjoyed a nice breakfast. Who needs warm food when you have chemical cocktails!? The fools! Joe has picked me up with his wit and energy on more than one brevet and I always look forward to interacting with him on brevets when I get the chance of it, but I never expected what came next.

Joe is all energy even at this early hour. He comes up to me and says "Narayan! What are you doing right now?". I am now paying attention. "I don't know Joe, I just got here", I say in a weak voice. Joe looks concerned. "You should either be eating, sleeping, or riding. What are you doing right now?" he asks, and I am suddenly aware that I am lethargic. "It's business time!", he declares finally. It's my first ever pep talk on a brevet! I am awake now and I am desperate to follow the course of action set out by Joe. I quickly head to the controle and get my card signed. I mix up more food and in a matter of mere minutes I am out of Loudéac: thanks, Joe. I didn't have much chance of sleep or real food, but as I am riding out of Loudéac I yearn for some hot food. I will have something warm at Tinténiac if I have some time on the clock.

Arguably, the three biggest factors affecting ones chances of finishing PBP are mind, body, and bike. In my estimation, the mind is one of the most probable things to go, whether it is a lack of sleep, lack of clear thinking, or lack of desire to finish. The mind plays wicked games on a long ride because it knows that respite requires inaction, not action: all you have to do is stop pedalling. And that is so easy: take a longer nap, linger a little longer at a controle, etc etc. The body is the next most probable thing to fail, as subjecting it to heretofore not experienced stresses might cause it to just break: Shermer's neck, saddle sores or a bum knee being prime examples. The least probable of all is a mechanical failure. The bike is the only factor that you can make close to bulletproof as possible. And try, I did.

In the weeks before the ride, I started working on the bike with Andy Speier. A new rear derailleur, new crank, new tyres, new chain rings, new bottom bracket, new shifters and new cables all went on, the first massive operation on my bike in almost 3 years. A new front rim was built and installed, thanks to the immeasurable kindness of Joe Platzner, who nonchalantly built my wheel in his living room while chatting about PBP. I did one 200k with this new setup: the hilly Woodinville - Granite Falls, and everything worked out perfectly. I pronounced the bike bulletproof for Paris - Brest. Delusion is an amazing thing.

A dozen or so miles outside of Loudéac my front shifter starts behaving oddly. I have to really struggle to get it into the big ring. It makes a big racket in the big ring, and I have to ride in the middle of my rear gears to have it stop whining. Switching to the small ring isn't an issue, thank goodness. A half-dozen or so miles later the front shifter completely breaks after a hill, the lever freely moving through its full range of motion with no response from the derailleur whatsoever. I am not that mechanically inclined and though I stop to examine what could be wrong, I am in no mental state to figure it out. The cable is not broken but the front derailleur is misbehaving. I curse myself for being so stupid: I should have learnt to change cables and carried some spares.

This isn't quite the disaster I tell myself, trying to stay positive. I can still motor along on the granny and maintain more than 15 kph!  I wouldn't bank any time, but we have the secret control at Quedillac coming up, and there will probably be some mechanical help there. I am forced to stay in the small ring and I can't generate enough momentum on the downhills to allow me to climb rollers effectively. I am not sleepy yet and whenever I start thinking about sleep I try and dismiss that desire very quickly. We ride through field after field of corn and I can already spy dawn to my right. I have this image stuck in my head of red lights dancing through a narrow strip of blacktop flanked on either side by corn fields. It was pretty dark when I got to Loudéac but it is nearing daylight now, our last full day on the road.

I am desperate to stay awake now: I start singing songs and do not stop even when riders go by. I am beyond all shame and figure I'd give any passing riders a nice sample of my singing abilities albeit in a language that nobody can comprehend. Dawn breaks, lifts my mood, and, in what is immeasurable relief to my fellow riders, I stop singing. We go through the beautiful town of Saint-Meen-sur-le-Grand and once again I don't stop to take a photo. I don't smell the Lavender this time. The church is lit up beautifully as we sail through the center of town. No sign of wind or foul weather. I arrive at Quedillac and make sure this isn't a control in this direction: it isn't. The next thing I do is ask for a mechanic. A secret control on the way out, it has been reduced to just a revittallaiment control and does not have a mechanic. I have trouble with the French word but a very helpful volunteer repeats the word a couple of times to help me say it right. (RAH vitta lai mon). Far from being mad at me for butchering his language this man wants to help me learn it. Incredible. My mind shifts to learning and my brain temporarily forgets to obsess over the worries of the moment.

The volunteer further expresses his regrets and says "Tinténiac?". I thank him, refill my water bottles and leave. Gary Baker and another Canadian Randonneur (whose name completely escapes me now) are just setting out after a nap. Gary looks fresh. I am a little disappointed at not being able to fix my problem, but meeting Gary is welcome respite from living in my own head. He takes a photo of me as we make our way up a small incline. I manage a very weak smile which belies my mental state. Gary and his friend soon vanish. I will have to make Tinténiac at whatever pace I can muster. My computer is dead and I have no way of knowing if my pace is acceptable.

We ride through one picturesque town after another, Bécherel being one of the more memorable ones. It lies atop a climb - surprise! - and delivers a beautiful view as one enters town on a very narrow street. Traffic is picking up now but courteous as our small group of riders make its way through the sleepy town. Bécherel is also famous for having 15 book stores for a town of about 750 residents and is home to several festivals that celebrate the written word. I think of my wife - who is in England - as I ride through fantasizing about the two of us spending a day filled with coffee, pastries and casual browsing of all the bookstores in town. There are a small group of townsfolk waiting around the town square as we sweep left and carry on towards Tinténiac. There is a long curvy climb and a nasty set of rollers in the final few kilometers before the controle and traffic is now on the heavy side as we are on a main thoroughfare to Tinténiac.

I get to Tinténiac with about an hour and 40 minutes in the bank.

PBP Randonneur 2011, Part 4: Carhaix to Brest to Carhaix

August 23, 2011: Carhaix to Brest

Carhaix in the early morning light

The rains have devastated the grounds where the bike parking is, and just like Loudéac yesterday, there isn't a place to park. There is a tent outside the control buildings and riders are busy milling about. I park my bike against the white tent and head in to get my control card signed. The volunteers are efficient as always and with no delay, I am taken care of.

Since I have been riding in the rain, I am craving something hot. The Sustained Energy simply will not do anymore. I follow directions to the cafeteria and enter a big hallway where every table is occupied with riders in every conceivable state. I pick up three rolls of bread and a bowl of hot soup. There is also fresh fruit, pudding, cheese and coffee. There is another vegetarian randonneur there (I swear he was wearing something akin to a skirt), and we both share tips on what to get. It is easy to get vegetarian things. I stand in line and pay but the amount quoted is miniscule compared to what I have on my plate. My disbelief is addressed by a smiling volunteer who tells me that the bread is free. Of course, he says this in French, and it takes me a good 20 seconds to understand what he is saying. He then uses English. This is simply amazing! Free food! I share a table with a few other riders whose nationalities I now forget. The hot soup warms me. I soften the bread by dipping it in the soup. The bread is tasty and the soup is the best I've ever had. I leave the control in about 25 minutes. That's all it has taken.

As I leave the controle, I remember that I haven't stopped at any of the patisseries and decide now is the time to get some baked goodies. I see one that has just opened, lean my bike against the trash can, and enter. Locals are flying in and out, getting their pastries and their coffee. They greet me with a cheery "Bonjour" as I stand in line with them. I order a pain au chocolat (chocolate croissant) and as the woman at the counter is ringing me up, I see a jar of macaroons, and thinking they must be free samples, reach into and grab one. The woman is shocked and then it strikes me that maybe, perhaps, this jar is not filled with samples! I apologize and pay the 1E. The woman smiles and sends me on my way. The croissant is warm and oozing with chocolate. I sit down on the concrete and eat it right outside the store. A delectable waste of time. It is now fully bright out.

The road surface is not smooth here, and I do notice the chipseal. Mark Thomas and Joe Platzner pass me with a cheery "Narayan!" on another one of those rare flat stretches and my spirits lift instantly. It feels great to be even within the same area code as those two. They are riding much faster than I am and lose them after a few hundred yards of conversation.

We climb for what seems like forever up a very gentle incline. Something exciting must be imminent because the crowd thickens and dozens of parked cars lining the roadway. My first thought is that it is yet another secret control, but it turns out to be a major road that gets us over the Roc Trevezel. The crowds are here to cheer every single rider beginning the ascent up the mountain. The climb itself isn't steep and I cannot remember a single stretch where the grade is higher than 6%. The pavement is chipseal and there is a certain reddish hue to the stones. Traffic is heavy, far heavier than the last several hundred kilometers, a thick misty rain dominates proceedings. There isn't a shoulder to speak of and there is a very small gravel patch abutting the road.

I feel reasonable as I start the climb but lack the power to muscle over this hill. I settle into a comfortable rhythm in my lowest gear and riders pass me in droves. Truck traffic is fairly heavy and riders are riding three abreast which doesn't do much to enhance the safety of those who are riding in the opposite direction. This is the one section on PBP that I didn't feel quite safe. Trucks are crossing over to the other side of the roadway while passing riders, and the fog makes it downright dangerous. Riders seem unmindful of the conditions and that comes as a surprise to me. I am still wearing my jacket now and I really want to turn on my taillights, so I stop to take my jacket off. An ornery British "gentleman" on his bike yells at me to get off the road and then continues on up the road, but I resist the temptation to yell something back. The incident does rankle me. I wonder what he would say if there was a truck parked on the side of the road?!! I turn on my taillights and then continue the long slog up the mountain. The crowd thickens near the top and then we are treated to the start of a wonderful descent. I am so focussed on riding that I forget to take a picture of the summit. Not that it would have done much good with all the fog.

The descent is fabulous. A headwind greets us but who cares when you are going downhill ? It is cold however, and I stop and don my jacket again. I look back to see nothing but a fog covered expanse. The red chipseal remains and the fog slowly retreats the further downhill we go. Riders are streaming by in the other direction. On one of the rollers before Sizun, I see a smiling Karen Smith and Michel Richard climbing up. I am rolling down the mountain so I do not stop and chat with them. They took the train to Brest and are riding 200k in three successive days to get back to Paris. Truly civilized! Seeing them energizes me for the drop into Sizun. I see Ray McFall riding by himself and climbing like a feather. He is hours ahead of me! We call out to each other as our momentum takes us both on our separate ways.

Menu at a Sizun bar

Sizun Church, outbound

Sizun - like Loudéac - is a town that I've been eager to visit ever since I saw a photo of Jon Muellner and several of our SIR friends lounging there. There is a wonderful church steeple made of grey stone and the town itself seems to be buzzing with riders. There are several cafés, a market and some bars. I decide to stop here to get another croissant and maybe some water. I find a small bar (which offers a "Menu Randonneur"), eat another pain au chocolat, take some photographs, and just take the time to watch riders go by. I probably spent about a half-hour here. I forget to fill my water bottles, but I've long since gotten over worrying about where I'll get my next refill. The abundance of French citizens offering us goodies has a way of putting that worry out of your head!

A dozen miles out of Sizun I finally run out of water and find a small roadside stand manned by a French family. A woman, her husband, her child and an elderly French gent are handing out juice, cookies, nuts and water to cyclists and though it is on the other side of the road, I cross over and pull out my water bottles. This is one thing I see a lot of and never tire seeing: a wealth of goodies spread out on a table for you to feast on completely free of charge. The woman offers me Orange juice and cookies which I gratefully accept. It surely isn't that far to Brest but I have no idea how far (my computer is fried, remember?). We make small talk about where I am from and how I feel, but my lasting memory of this little interlude happens when I prepare to leave. The older gent of the family offers to take a photograph of me and as he returns my phone the younger woman grips my jersey, looks me in the eye and says something in French, which I fail to to understand. Recognizing this, she says "You will return to Paris, right?", in this voice of total seriousness. I say "Yes" and I realize that there are people along the route who really care that you finish the ride. Either that, or she was trying to tell me I am pointed in the wrong direction. :). Ride to the finish no matter what happens, is my take away.

Ride back to Paris, she says.

We resume climbing again and there seems to be a headwind any direction we turn and finally at the top of yet another rise, I see a freeway running to my right and a beautiful bay with the fabled bridge ahead of me. I stop to take a photograph and am joined by a Brit who remarks that this is the grandest sight in the world. I can only nod in agreement. It may not be to most other people, but to a randonneur this represents one of the most iconic spots in all of the world.

First View of the Plougastel bridge

We aren't quite yet at the bridge though, and as the road plummets, we are placed onto a bridge which parallels the main bridge now used by automobile traffic, leaving the old bridge to pedestrians and bicycles.

My bike on the Plougastel Bridge

Proof of being on Plougastel bridge, courtesy of a Japanese rider

I stop near the near end of the bridge and drink in the view. Yachts bobbing in Brest harbour, walkers ambling along a dirt path directly under our feet, dark clouds dominating the skies, the city of Brest perched on the far side and the new bridge to our right. It is a wonderful sight. A Japanese rider and I trade photographs of each other, cementing already strong Indo-Japanese relations.

Much to my surprise, Mark Thomas catches me on the bridge. He is riding a little ahead of Joe and the others. (This is the one documented instance where Joe Platzner was more than 5 feet away from Mark during the ride). We are all Facebookin'. Mark takes a photo of me. We both agree that being here is the greatest thing ever. Mark says "You're killing it!", it being the ride. Mark has always instilled a certain confidence in me and I think for the first time that maybe I have this thing in the bag. I leave before Mark and begin the ride over the bridge to the far side. I kick myself for not taking a photo of Mark at the bridge. The route puts us in a trafficky part of town and there is one crossing that I navigate with aplomb. Riding along the water, I see parts of the port of Brest and we wind our way around the harbour, and eventually see some of the walls of what looks like a fort.

We climb up to old Brest on a rather busy road, but traffic is very polite. We make a right turn and are faced with the Brest Controle! More than half-way! The time is 13:42.

August 23, 2011: Brest to Carhaix

My first order of business is to get my control card signed, which I do, and then find out that the food and restrooms are in the building across the street. I retrieve my bike and head over to the other side and spot Joe and Mark pulling into the control. They aren't going to eat here and want to head out fast, so I probably won't see them until Carhaix. For some reason I take my time in Brest, looking for water, heading to the restroom and then mixing up food. The cohesion I displayed in the past few controls is nowhere to be found. I leave after a good 25 minutes at the control when I should have left after about 10. Well, I lingered in Brest, at least.

My friend Didier from work tells me that there is a French song that goes "C'est le meilleur moment du voyage, le retour". Roughly translated, it means "It's the best time of the journey, the way back". Apt. We are halfway. Holy Crap!

The colour of the Fleches that we have to chase also changes. Our target is now to spot Orange coloured arrows. Volunteers send us towards "Paris" instead of asking which way we want to go. We are routed on a different route out of town and tackle a staccato sequence of long and somewhat steeper than usual hills. My pace drops precipitously on these hills and as usual a procession of riders passes me while I rarely - if ever - pass anyone. Here is a photo of me just outside of Landerneau: the weather beaten bricks are that of a rail bridge, crossing over the Route de Brest. A rider goes by and compliments me on my mudflap. It's one half of a water bottle. "Classic" he says, and rides on.

Just a little outside of Landerneau

A few miles before Sizun, Duane Wright comes climbing up a hill. Asking him about how he is doing produces a very surprising answer: "Not very well", which is a first coming from Duane. He never gives in to feelings of despair or disappointment on a brevet. He has raced against the clock and won too many times. He must have done the free start I think initially, but I do remember seeing him near the start and so I reckon he left with us. Things will look up: Duane is never to be counted out. He must have been sidelined with a mechanical, I think, and plod on. 

I arrive in lovely Sizun around 4 pm or so, having decided before I started the ride that it would be one of the few towns where I would linger. I am craving real food at this point and I see a sign for the patisserie off the side of the road. I walk in and find two young ladies who welcome me pleasantly. They've run out of Pain au Chocolat and all everything they have looks foreign to me. I ask for a recommendation and it is clear that my French is now dead and their English is non-existent. They enlist the help of another woman from the Kitchen but she doesn't know what to give me either. Every time I have needed help on this ride, I've received it, and this time is no exception. An older gentleman who speaks decent English arrives and helps me out of my predicament. He describes my choices and I settle on a puffy looking Pastry which he assures me is good and tasty and is a Bretagne specialty: it is a Kuign Amann. I thank them all profusely for their help and chat about the ride and where I am from for a few minutes.

A Bretagne Specialty: Kuign Amann

I pay for the pastry and am heading back to my bike when I spot Jeff Tilden parking his bike. It is great to meet Jeff. I have yet to find Jeff in a bad mood. He is in great spirits and we share our stories of the road so far. Jeff invites me to eat with him and though I cannot spare that much time, I walk in with him and order a Pain au Chocolat, which Jeff insists on paying for. We sit down and chat about the ride so far while Jeff sips his coffee. I finish my pastries and leave figuring I couldn't hang with Jeff on the bike if I tried anyway.

A few miles out of Sizun, I see Divya coming up another hill and yell out some encouragement. She has a look of steel in her eyes as she crests a small rise. I try to make a quick calculation of how much time she has to get to Brest but my brain refuses to cooperate. After Sizun the Roc'h Trevezel looms again but this time Mother Nature is atoning for her earlier tantrums. We now have a  spirited tailwind back up to the top of the Roc'h and the misty rain that plagued us earlier this morning has burned off leaving us to finally see what had been hidden a few hours earlier. One has a beautiful view for miles on end on both sides as we climb up to the radio towers which serve as the high point and pedalling to the top is effortless. There is a healthy crowd of spectators near the top and I begin the descent down the other side.

I am whipping my neck this way and that trying to see as much of this area as I can when I spot Vikram on the other side of the road. He is clearly in distress and the look of pain on his face tells me the news can't be good. I pull over to his side and find out that his knee is killing him. I try and talk to him about stretching his IT Band, but he has tried mostly everything already. He has decided to abandon and is trying to find the best way to get back to Paris. Vikram is quite calm; he is sure that his ride is over but also wants to come back and do this again. I promise to find somebody to help him and after about 10 minutes continue down the mountain. Hardly half a kilometer later I spot somebody cheering us and pull over and explain Vikram's plight. I do not know the French word for knee but I point to mine and mention that there is a someone up the road who needs a ride back to Loudéac. They promise to help as Carhaix isn't that far away from here.

Near the base of the descent from the Roc'h I spot another Indian rider walking his bike on my side of the road. I pull over and find out that his rear derailleur is dead and he cannot shift to the lower gears. (I forgot his name :( ). I tell him that he could go back to Carhaix and have his bike fixed and continue but our rider looks like he has made up his mind to abandon and nothing will make him change his mind. I chat with him for a few minutes and then leave. Having your bike have ride-ending problems is terrible, but it could happen to anyone at any moment. I find a couple sitting in a car and I try to tell them that there is a rider up the road walking his bike who needs help. They drive off immediately and I am hopeful that the rider will get the help he needs.

The descent  from the Roc'h is now over and we head to Carhaix on a different route than the one that took us to Brest. I am a little disappointed as I pass by the turn to Huelgoat. We stay on the main highway and instead of some long, mostly flat stretches, we get a few kilometer-long rollers and the road takes on a very busy-highway character. But, it does make the distance to Carhaix a few kilometers shorter, I guess. Eventually I spy Carhaix in the distance, unmistakable in its hilltop perch. When I headed out of Carhaix on Tuesday morning, I remember the long downhill stretch out of the control and thinking this wasn't going to be fun climbing back on the return, but in reality it isn't that bad. It is now nearing dusk and I am gently climbing up a hill that isn't too steep. There is a valley to my left as the road curves left and then right as we approach the control. I arrive at Carhaix a touch after 8p.

PBP Randonneur 2011, Part 3: Loudéac to Carhaix

August 23, 2011: Loudéac to Carhaix

The path to the control building is challenging in Loudéac. First, there's a right turn to make along with 4 other riders, then a very tricky metal impediment to cross, then a very bumpy and curvy run lined with spectators wanting to high-five you, leads you to the massive bike parking lot which is filled with riders, their bicycles, and their support groups. Never before have I cycled 450+ kilometers on the trot and I am still feeling pretty good, that low point near Gorron completely forgotten. Loudéac is a town of almost mythical standing in my head and the sight of the controle induces part wonderment and part disbelief. I am having a pretty good ride so far and things are working out better than I thought they would. In my fantasies about the ride, I was hoping that I'd get here in 24 hours. But, I am close. I have made it in 24 hours and 40 minutes: not bad for a perpetual slowpoke like me.

There simply isn't a spot to park one's bike! I hunt for about 5 minutes and then take one vacated by a departing rider. I see the building that Gregg Bleakney shot a beautiful photo of in 2007. It is now close to dusk and after making quick work of the control (signature, water), I am back on the road, the number of riders now spectacularly thin, as almost everybody seems to have stopped at Loudéac. I've got to go a dozen kilometers - to Uzel - before I get to rest my head and hopefully before the dark skies open themselves and display their soaking powers. It is dark skies ahead and naturally, we are riding towards the blackness. The path out of town is busy and has a few large roundabouts that we have to navigate and soon we are back in the country side. Traffic though thick, is unfailingly polite.

The view west out of Loudéac doesn't look daunting but I can see nothing but one verdant ridge after another ahead of us. I know what's coming and how tough the terrain is going to be, though I have never laid eyes on it. Everything is beautiful, farms on either side, the dark skies above and the occasional house to keep things interesting. We come upon a flattish stretch of tree-lined road that threads itself through some farms and I find myself riding with Bill again. I hang with him for a little while until he politely asks me if I want to stop and put some reflective clothing on. We stop, Bill and I, and I dress up for the short night ride ahead, while Bill eats something and generally potters around the bike. Riders stream past us. I think Bill is headed for St Nicolas du Pelem or Carhaix, but I may be mistaken.

We set off and resume chatting: the conversation relaxes me by taking my mind off of the task at hand, but the details of our conversation escape me now. I lose Bill; it would have been very nice to share a few hundred miles with him. I judge myself by the quality of the riders I am with and as companions go, Bill is a good one. Too bad I am not good enough to hang with him. A few miles of short climbs later, it is now dark. I am now completely alone. After the constant companionship of the past few hundred miles, this solitude unnerves me. I am also a bit nervous about finding the gîte in the dark; I have after all never laid eyes on it, and I have to now hunt it down in the dark.

The rain is famous for falling on the just and unjust alike, but if I had the management of such affairs I would rain softly and sweetly on the just, but if I caught a sample of the unjust out doors I would drown him.

   -- quoted in My Father Mark Twain, Clara Clemens

I love this quote: if Mark Twain is right and Karma is indeed something to be reckoned with, I have done more than a few egregious things in this life and possibly others. A few miles after I part company with Bill, the rain starts. We are now completely among farmlands with one hill after another, constantly gaining elevation and not losing much of it. I can't quite accurately describe the terrain chiefly because I only rode this stretch in the dark (both directions). There are dark clouds right above the ridges that we are riding over. The thunder rumbles softly at first, seemingly miles away and not threatening in any way. But then the lightning display starts and lights up the whole countryside in sometimes-brief-sometimes-long bursts. The rain worsens but figuring I've only a few K to go, I only put on my rain jacket though I have all the rain gear I need in my Carradice. I remember discussions with Andy Speier and Mark Thomas about the weather forecast and am now glad that I chose to carry everything, even if that meant lugging it all the way here.

I climb each ridge and the wetter I get. The route west out of Loudéac is nothing like the 600k I did back in June. The hills aren't quite as steep but their frequency is attention-grabbing. I count the number of seconds between the lightning and the thunder boom and the number keeps dropping: closer and closer it gets. For about a half-hour, I count several strikes that were within a mile (less than 5 seconds). Most of it was 2 seconds or less. The rain hits the road and produces small crowns as it bounces into the air, each water droplet the size of a gummy bear. I very briefly contemplate pulling over but resist the urge as there is nothing to hide under. My focus is to get to the gîte and pulling over for cover would delay getting to a warm bed.

Even in these conditions there are riders around. A few like me are on the road, a few are hiding under trees and some others under the awnings of barns. They watch in sympathy as we ride by, perhaps hopeful that they can wait out the storm. After a few miles of this horrendous weather I am completely drenched. There's fewer riders now on the road (like somebody had swept the area clean). Water runs off my hair and into my face, the salty taste almost welcome. A few riders are already on their way back, a good 300 kilometers ahead of me at this point. I look down at my computer to see how many more kilometers I have before the turn to the gîte and my computer is blank. The rain has killed it. This is when my ride starts going wrong...

We make a giant right turn and come up to a T-junction and there is a sign that says Uzel is to the right. As expected the road now makes a left turn and I am in the company of a few riders and ride past the Uzel sign thinking the gîte would be on the main road. I start looking right for the lights that Rick told me would point me to the gîte, but there is nothing there. I make a U-turn when I hit another road and circle back looking for the lights but nothing there. I have several choices here: calling the gîte, pulling out the paper map or figuring out instructions using my phone. But what do I do ? I continue riding. Westward. Away from the gîte. I have no idea why I did this when I clearly know that the gîte is in Uzel. I can only blame it on the accumulated tiredness.

We've climbed a lot to get to Uzel, but the route turns seriously hilly west of Uzel. It is never flat and the rain shows no signs of abating. Traffic is non-existent as we make our way through one village after another with hardly any spectators to cheer us on. You know conditions are bad when there are no spectators at PBP! I ride on in the rain for kilometers on end, completely wet, all the while wishing for the comfort of a hot shower and a warm bed. We start climbing towards Merléac, another hilltop town. I can see city lights and what looks like a tent, ahead. There are people hiding away from the rain, and to the right of the white semi-circular tent, are a bunch of shops, all closed. There are quite a few people here and this gives me hope that I'll somehow find my way to the gîte.

They are selling food here and there are some riders huddled over in small makeshift beds. A woman and a man walk up to me and ask me if I want something to eat. I tell them that I have a gîte in Uzel (Oozell is how I pronounce it) and alarmingly, they have no clue where that is. I repeat that I have a gîte and that I need to get there to sleep, and I tell them the name of the street. Nothing clicks. I curse my luck and after about 10 minutes of looking hither and thither, I continue further west away from Merléac. The road heads seriously downhill and I pedal for a half-hour more. The rain is still going, with the hills making it interesting.

The first shivers start as I find myself well away from the lights of Merléac. Even though I am working hard on the hills, it is increasingly growing colder. I look for shelter and find none. The area is filled with farms and I am climbing again, the interminable rollers being the one constant. I start shivering seriously a few miles later and the bouts hit me when I least expect it. I have made the mistake of craving comfort, a hot shower, hot food and a warm bed. It is very hard - mentally - to let go of that which you were looking forward to for the better part of the day. I know I won't get what I crave and that tells me that I am not going to survive this ride. When I come to this realization I am almost relieved; relieved that I won't have to pedal 750 odd kilometers.

I pull over and stop for the first time to check if my pit zips are closed. They are. I remount and my spirit is now crushed. I simply have no desire to go another foot. I stop and hang my head for a few seconds, a tree offering me some respite from the relentless rain. When I contemplate moments like these, I always think that money spent, the training, the travel worries, the disappointment of 2007 would all rise up and snap me into the present, but no, all I can think of is getting some comfort. When the brain fixates on creature comforts, it's curtains.

Before I can put my plan of quitting into action, two motorcycles pull over next to me, and ask me if I am ok. They are part of the official roving motor pool responsible for rule enforcement and rider care. Escorting me to the side of the road, they ask me if I need any help. Their English is pretty rusty and my French is terrible, but my sorry figure probably left them in no doubt that I was in trouble. I tell them about my gîte and about how I could not find it and now I am all wet and shivering. We briefly talk about where my gîte is, and I tell them, incorrectly again, that it is in Oozell. They do not know where that is either. I am pretty sure they thought I was making the name of a town up in my mental state. I struggle to open my Carradice bag looking for the piece of paper documenting the route to the gîte that Rick and Barbara gave me on Saturday.

As I hold my phone and try to look for Uzel on Google Maps, I am hit by another bout of shivering, this one the worst of them all. It goes on long enough for one of the motorcyclists witness; he parks his motorbike and walks over to take my bike away from me. I now know my ride is over. He's seen me shiver and now he's taking my bike away, I think, powerless to fight that move. He hands the phone to the other motorcyclist, and then holds me up. That little piece of paper probably saved my ride. As the other motorcyclist looks at the piece of paper, he sees the name of the town. I swear I remember this like it happened 15 minutes ago, he says "Oh, Oo-Zellllle". It turns out that I was pronouncing the name of the town wrong. They confer amongst themselves and then come back to me, and propose that we head back to Merléac.

Now that I know my ride is over, I am unmindful of the time being wasted, or of riding back along the course. I start pedalling, but the man who took my bike away asks me to hold onto him and starts pulling me ahead, but I am so tired that my front wheel is at risk of hitting his rear wheel sending me crashing down. I try for a few dozen meters but I quickly give up. We head back to Merléac, the steep hill before the town awash with water heading downhill. We arrive back at the tent, and I am escorted to a table and made to sit. Somebody holds my bike while the townsfolk and the motorcyclists confer among themselves. I catch a few winks of sleep, with my head on the table.

I am woken up and escorted to a car. Two men place my bike in the back and drive me back along the course. We are back in Uzel in no time and we are going gîte hopping. I fall asleep in the back of the car and I awake to voices in front of a building. A woman comes out and talks to the drivers and they figure out that we are the wrong gîte. However, the woman is a great help and points out the exact location of the gîte where I need to be. Another person who I shall never meet who saved my ride! In a couple of minutes we are at another building and this time it is the right one. I am greeted outside by Barbara and Jan, and I couldn't be happier that I am finally back on track.

My bike is taken out of the car, but there is one final thing to be done: the motorcyclists ask for and make a note in my brevet card, but hand it back to me. The significance of this would dawn on me later. I however, take this as confirmation that my ride is over. After all, I was given a ride back to the gîte. As I wait I shake hands and thank the drivers and get their addresses. The motorcyclists get ready to leave and I thank them profusely. I am handed off from one set of caretakers to another.

The families of three of SIR riders riding PBP (Mark Roberts, Mark Roehrig, Rick Blacker) had graciously offered to transport our drop bags and help us with things at the gîte, but I forget who came out to greet me in the pouring rain. I am led into the comfort of a room and a towel finds its way to my hands. Somebody parks my bike (probably Andrew), and the process of warming me up begins in earnest. I am still shivering, but thanks to the kindness of these four, I am finally in fit enough shape to eat something and go shower. I still have some time in the bank, but can only sleep for a couple of hours before I have to get back on the road again. I eat, shower and plug in my phone to be charged. I don't remember waiting to fall asleep, but I am gently woken up by Barbara, who tells me it is time to head out. Mark, Joe and Vincent are all in bed, but I brush my teeth and have a hot breakfast and my life is good again. The only thing left to do is to prepare my bag for the next 300+ kilometers.

Every randonneur (or randonneuse) has had a mentor, a guiding influence, and a good recipe for success in randonneuring is to learn from the experienced. The best are those that don't pretend to know all the answers, but rather share what has worked for them.  When I was new to randonneuring, Michel Richard and Karen Smith took me under their wing and helped me learn the ropes. Indeed, much like the BC Randonneurs, RUSA is full of these folks and whoever came up with the idea of a Paris - Brest - Paris special edition of American Randonneur ought to be canonized. A few weeks before we left for Paris, I received a special edition of American Randonneur in the mail. It had a lot of very interesting articles but by far the best one was the one by our own Dr. Codfish on drop bags, and the tricks to function with the reduced brainpower during the latter stages of a grand randonee. One of the lessons that I took from the "drop bags" article was to have a one Ziploc bag full of the things required for that day: your brainpower is inversely proportional to the number of kilometers you've ridden your bicycle. Of course, such bags represent your idea of how things will go during the ride rather, but it is a great starting point.

Even though I had decided on and packed combinations of jerseys, shorts, socks and gloves back in Paris and stuffed them in big Ziploc bags , I mull over my choices for a little while. For a brevet of this magnitude, especially away from home, one tends to think and rethink clothing, food, equipment; looking at the mountain of things to choose from, one draws scant comfort from the strength of routine. I decided to switch to my wool jersey, but kept everything else. I switched to a comfortable pair of shorts and a new pair of gloves: well worn and well washed. I picked up a new ziploc bag of Sustained Energy. I had little left of the food I toted from Paris.

I leave my rain gear in the Carradice, but put on my rain jacket. The rain is gentler than yesterday. The road gently tilts upward and I pass farm after farm in the darkness of the night, the only light coming from homes set a bit inside the land. I worry that there wouldn't be any water until Carhaix, but my fears turn out to be unfounded: families have left tables of food and several 2L bottles of water on the side of the road to help us. Vive la France!

The rolling hills eventually end and I remember cycling up a long false-flat in the company of a dozen bobbing taillights a few hundred feet ahead and the whir of tyres on the pavement as riders pass me. Our lights offer the only illumination on a starless night. The red lights atop the giant windmills flash in a steady rhythm. Giant droplets of water smack our helmets as we ride on, each one of us wanting the sun to come up again. We pass through a still-sleeping Corlay (secret controle from a past PBP), and past the sleep stop of St. Nicolas du Pelem. Tons of tents dot the grounds as people rush about. We ride silently past, but the stream of riders thickens as riders rejoin the course after (hopefully) a few hours of sleep. It is still gently raining.

A few miles out of Mael-Carhaix the sky starts to lighten, but it is still dark out. I remember this because this was one of the very few sustained flat stretches after Loudéac. At Mael-Carhaix, the cafés are doing brisk business. Riders are stretched out in every chair and table possible, some resting their heads on the still wet table, some sleeping under store awnings. We are riding among curvy misty hills though the road itself is fairly flat. The road is rough but I guess French chipseal has yet to learn all the dirty tricks from Mason and Thurston county chipseal, and the road is still pleasant to ride.

I arrive at the control a little before 7a.

PBP Randonneur 2011, Part 2: Mortagne-au-Perche to Loudeac

August 22, 2011: Mortagne-au-Perche to Villaines-la-Juhel

Mortagne-au-Perche isn't a control on the way to Brest: it is termed a "ravitaillement" control and is housed in a very modern-looking building, but I don't need to enter it. I only need water and that need is very quickly satisfied thanks to well-placed spigots. Just ahead a food truck is doing brisk business. There is a mechanic station (with one very bored looking mechanic) and another booth selling Overstims products and even bikes. There are volunteers near the bike parking area which is overflowing with bikes. Finding a spot to park my bike is a challenge, so I lay my bike down on the ground and mix up food. I post a photo of the control on Facebook. I had been quite excited about keeping my friends up-to-date on my activities in France; This is my preferred way of sharing my journey with family and friends all over the world. After about 10 minutes I ride away. Helpful volunteers help us stay on course right out of the control, and yell "Brest, Brest" as they wave riders through. After several solitary miles I am back in the company of quite a few riders, most of whom have arrived here before me, but have taken the time to nourish themselves with that fancy French faire.

The approaching dawn rears her head behind me and my mind rejoices at having almost successfully navigated the first night on the course. The roads get hillier the closer we get to Villaines-la-Juhel, but with the exception of a couple of steep little hills the course has been very benevolent so far, but who knows what lays ahead. The rain is gentle at first and then gets annoying in a little while. I am not far from the first control as my bike computer informs me and we finally get to the top of the hill and the road takes a sweeping left. The crowds start appearing, slowly at first and thickening the closer we get to the control. The first signs that we are near the control comes from the tons of RVs parked along the road with riders from various nationalities being helped by their attentive support personnel. I get to Villaines-la-Juhel a little past 7:30a and now have a 3 hours and 15 minute cushion. I might have had more but I try to put the hilly bonus miles out of my head as things are going so well.

August 22, 2011: Villaines-la-Juhel to Fougères

Inside the Villaines-la-Juhel control

The control has very nice wooden bicycle racks alongside a stone wall that runs for quite a while, but every single one of them near the entrance is taken! It takes a while to find an empty spot but it isn't that big a deal. It is actually cause for cheer because it means I haven't been spit out the back yet. The control building is to the right and this is my first control! There isn't any confusion or a stampede. The ACP has a fantastic system in place for signing cards, with two tables to our left and right with 3 persons each. There is not even a trace of a wait to get one's card signed. A volunteer directs me to the correct table (plenty of volunteers, might I add?), and I exchange a merry Bonjour with the person who signs my card. It is of paramount importance to stay respectful and not act like an express train making a cursory stop. There isn't anybody else in line, so I take my time: they've taken the time to be with us and see us through. I ask them how they are doing and thank them for volunteering (Thank you, Google Translate!).

They forward me along to the food room, and I dutifully follow instructions, though I am not planning to stop here for food. I step out and survey the scene. Most of the people present are riders and their support staff, but there are a noticeable number of townsfolk nearby cheering the incoming and the outgoing. I've finished my control formalities and am ready to go in about 10 minutes. I feel pretty good. Looking west I see some gray skies with a tell tale trail from the clouds to the ground. Being from the Pacific Northwest, I have no trouble identifying rain nearby or in the distance. A bit of nervousness at the prospect of harsh conditions further ahead is quickly pushed down by the excitement of being in France and amongst these riders. It begins raining softly barely a few dozen miles west of Villaines-la-Juhel. I do have all my rain gear and that will tide me over. Things have been going well and I have 3 hours in the bank. I've ridden through the night and now have the day to look forward to. Riding in France at night has been wonderful and I've just done something that I've never done before: ride through the night and feel good after.

Lassay-les-Châteaux Castle on the way

On a long ride like this, the details of the latter parts of the ride cloud any memories one may have from the earlier parts of the ride: this is both good and bad. Good because it allows you to stay in the moment and forget any misfortunes that may have befallen you, and bad because you don't really recall the earlier stages when you are trying to write a report on the event. I confess that I don't remember the intricate details of what happened between Villaines-la-Juhel and Loudeac, but a lot of what I recall are standout moments: the mundane has been washed away as the detritus of a long ride.

One may spend an inordinate amount of time on a ride like this living in his own head, but one clambers out of it often: there is one word that my mouth utters constantly, and that word is Merci. The French are out everywhere and are at key intersections guiding us along the right path, silently clapping sometimes, raising a glass to us other times, increasing the probability of our success, and expecting nothing in return: okay, they want a high-five every once in a while. You have to admit this though: we cyclists make a stunning spectacle. Different physical shapes, speeds, bikes of all types, riders from several nations, multi-colour jerseys, the differences so stark and yet the purpose so similar. I'd be fascinated by this stuff if I lived along the route too.

I remember riding along on a fairly lumpy road and in the company of a few riders when the rain takes a turn for the insistent. Gentle reminders about the precipitation that envelopes us are replaced with nags, with each nag getting more and more severe as we ride further west. My head is still clouded from not having slept the previous night, but because of the sleep that I've accumulated over the last few days, I am still functional. We are riding on a ledge cut into the mountain with green fields receding downhill to our left and  the road heading more or less straight toward another cluster of hills. A town lies ahead in the distance, covered by the misty fog of the early morning rain. It could be a scene from a hundred years ago as I see very little of the vestiges of a modern civilization: no skyscrapers, no disgusting industrial plants, no neon signs, and no malls. Stone buildings, farms, barns and forests. Delightful. I ride on, not worrying about putting any rain gear on, but my determination is being tested with every dollop of rain that hits my face.

I come to realize I have to stop and put my rain gear on, but there is no place to stop and change. I finally see a tree along the edges of a farm, and decide to stop there. Another rider has the same idea, and we both open our bags to get the rain jackets out. We introduce ourselves and I find out that he is from Canada and discuss people we know in common. I am embarrassed to say that I have no idea who he is now. So, if you are reading this and you are that person, please drop me a line. We leave together but the Canadian drops me easily, no surprise there. I settle into my former rhythm, the speeds of the previous night a distant memory, and continue on straight, when I am woken up from my reverie by the sound of a man yelling, and yelling it sounds like, to grab my attention. I am intent on riding straight ahead and the gentleman wants me to turn right and up a nice hill. It seems that I would have ridden off course if this genial gentleman hadn't interfered. Merci, Monsieur!

Back to the task at hand: the hill. We climb slowly up the hill and I get a good look at what I am trying to ride over. This climb is hardly steep but I am slow and for the first time in almost 13 hours I am reminded of how mediocre a rider I really am. The course shows its teeth and there isn't much flat land here. The rain has stopped, but the air still a wee bit on the chilly side. I am still doing decent time, which surprises me greatly. I half-expected myself to be dead after the first control and I take some comfort in my rate of progress. Despite the rain, the day is warming up and after a while, the rain stops completely. We pass a beautiful chateau in the town of Lassay-les-Châteaux, and I stop and take a picture and upload that so my friends can feel jealous of me. Quick stop though, no faffing, though we are in France. I do have to hit a bed around 9p.

After a long and gentle climb through a forest that felt like it went on forever, the delightful little town of Ambrières-les-Vallées materializes out of nowhere. The town is picturesque, lampposts and balconies are bedecked with flowers, and the bridge over the river is beautiful, and the town center is teeming with bicycles. Houses are arranged in rows up along the hillside. The river Varenne overflows a brilliantly constructed embankment to create a sort of faux waterfall. There is a wonderful painting of a horse drawn carriage on a wall that advertises the local bar and restaurant, which looks very inviting. It is a lovely spot for a bit of breakfast: it is around 10 am now. That would be too decent and not fit in my plans, so I keep riding, but in hindsight, I would rate this town along with Sizun as must-stop along the PBP route. Next time, I am taking a break here.

We hit a T-junction and are directed right towards the town of Gorron, whose significance I would never have recognized if it were not for Jeff Tilden's 2007 PBP report: Gorron has the highest per capita ridership of any town in the world at PBP (at least, it did in 2007). We start climbing a few hundred yards away from the bridge and traffic is now heavy. Unerringly courteous though, as we snake left and right, climbing away from town. I find myself overheating on some of these climbs out of town and stop to take off my jacket. A few miles later we are up against yet another hill when the first heavy droplets of rain hit. Serious rain. No messing around. I ride on, not wanting to stop and lose time, but I am not going as fast as I'd like. The legs aren't quite spinning right, the power is absent and the brain is feeling the effects of that last all-nighter.

A few miles before Gorron the rain thickens. My brain tells me the rest of the ride is going to be like 2007, my energy is at an all time low, and I am search for the power button. I have to stop and put on my rain clothes or I will be soaked to the bone. I find a huge tree to hide under and lay my bike against the dry ground. On the other side of the road, a small group of people waiting under an awning watch riders go by and they observe as I go about my business. My sense of urgency vanishes as I slowly pull things out and begin to dress up to head into the deluge. I take a good 15 minutes and eventually get going, but I am disappointed with the length of that stay. I suspect I am bonking but I am powerless to do anything about it. My brain is fried just a wee bit.

I haven't advanced a few hundred yards when Ken Krichman catches up to me. Ken is in great spirits and I tell him that I am not doing so well. Ken reaches into his jersey pocket and hands me a half-eaten baguette wrapped in white paper, which he has been carrying for who knows how long. "Eat this; you'll feel better", he says. We ride together for a little while, finally entering the town of Gorron and before we exit it, Ken has gone on down the road. Baguettes are easy to eat on the bike, as they are long and not that bulky. It is also my first solid food since yesterday afternoon, and the taste is everything you want in a piece of bread. I have been bonking! As I chew, the baguette rips into the soft tissue at the roof of my mouth and I wince in pain. It is another one of those glorious experiences that you can only get in France. Where else do you recover from a bonk by eating a baked-this-morning baguette ?

Gorron is motivating in several ways: first of all, it is a decent-sized town which means that there are lots of people at every curve and crossing cheering us on, the weather an afterthought in their minds as they hoot and holler and raise our spirits by just speaking their language. French is a delectable language and, along with Italian, is one of my favourite languages. Second of all, the townsfolk of Gorron have scribbled down numerous names and motivational phrases on the road exhorting us to ride with courage and ride well. How could one disappoint them? After Gorron, the rain seems a little less strident and the brain a little more aware as we enter Bretagne and finally the outskirts of Fougères. Not an inch of pavement is dry anywhere in Fougères. A big banner proclaims this as as "Haute Bretagne". The time is a little past 12:30p.

August 22, 2011: Fougères to Tinténiac

Sign welcoming us to Haute Bretagne

There are volunteers everywhere helping us find the control. The control is in a little building on the left, and straight ahead is the cafeteria. I lean my bike against the wall and go inside to get my card signed. I am dressed from head to toe in rain gear and the person doing the signing registers surprise as I amble to his table. I ask him how he is doing. He clearly doesn't expect me to ask him how he is doing. I get my card signed, tuck it away, and head out, not spending any more than 5 minutes off the bike. It is still raining as I leave. It is only 54 kilometers to Tinténiac. I am happy with myself for having left the control this fast. I feel pretty good and that is never a bad thing. I leave with a huge swarm of riders, bent on making Loudéac by nightfall. 445k in 24 hours would give me with a huge cushion - something I could draw upon to the end. The rain stops and temperatures warm up. This is most welcome.

SIR has arranged for riders doing PBP to get small souvenir pins to hand out to folks along the route. Naturally, I waited too long before I decided to get some. These pins haven't really been occupying my mind until now and have been lying in my bike jersey pocket, clinking away. I don't know why but I suddenly remember that I am carrying these pins to give out, and I am not exactly being diligent or appreciative of the cheering crowds and children. I vow to hand them out at the next village. In front of house with a small table, sit 5 kids: two of them, boys of about 10 or 12 years of age, and three little girls. I stop and the kids come over, not knowing what I stopped for. The oldest kid is clearly in charge.

When I reach into my jersey pocket, their eyes light up. I give them a pin each, one after the other, and they all look at it with wide eyes. Merci, they say; their parents have taught them well. But, there's one more child than I have pins for, and he is the oldest. One of the hardest things to do in the world is to disappoint a child. I confess to not having the heart for it. But I've handed over whatever I had and am one pin short. I dread what I have to do next...

Je suis très désolé, I tell him. His face changes to one of sadness, he stomps his feet and runs back into the house, crying. The other children look in the direction of the house, bewildered. I spend the next dozen miles regretting putting off buying these pins until the last minute. Next time around, I'll probably carry more than what I need and buy them early. Better that than disappoint a child. I have no recollection of which town this happened in, but I remember it was shortly after 1p. I am quite disappointed by how little I remember from this leg. Sorry. Slate written over by memories more recent. I do arrive at Tinténiac shortly after 3:30p.

August 22, 2011: Tinténiac to Loudéac

Entrance to Tinténiac control

I leave swiftly again ever mindful of the clock, and the steel reputation of the course from this point on. I remember precious little about the terrain itself. One of my motivations in writing this was to report on the exact nature of the course, but unfortunately I seem to have mislaid the details somewhere. Out of the controle, I start riding with Bill Russell. Bill is on a beautiful bike with even prettier panniers. We talk about SIR and I remember making inane jokes about him being the wrong skin colour for a Bill Russell and Bill being a good sport about it (having heard the same joke for the 900th time in his life).

A little past 5p and about 15 miles out of Tinténiac, in the little town of Quédillac, we come upon some commotion in the middle of the road; it is one of PBP's secret controls. "Controle", "Controle", the volunteer repeats as a fellow volunteer steers us towards a row where we are to park our bicycles. I get my card signed and leave immediately, quite proud of the fact. Out of Quédillac, the road flattens out as we make a left turn onto a major roadway with wide shoulders. We are on this for a few kilometers before we are sent off the main drag again making a right turn towards the town of Saint-Méen-le-Grand. There are farms to the left and right, lavender fields to be precise, and the warm air is rife with the smell of lavender. A brown brick shed sits not-quite in the middle of this field. A powerline runs along the road, interrupting my view of the farm. A tree stands amidst the greenery, its leaves shaking gently in the evening breeze. The memory is seared in my brain. The fantastic fragrance doesn't last for every long though, and we enter the town proper.

After the lavender fields, the buildings of a village ought not to impress one too much, but Saint-Méen-le-Grand has other ideas. It is a pretty town with a very imposing Hotel de Ville (City Hall, to the uninitiated) straddling the city square, sporting a giant banner welcoming cyclists to the town, it stands almost like a palace. Onlookers on both sides of the street yell out encouragement and applause. The reason I describe this scene in vivid detail is because I just rode on by, wanting to get to Loudéac before dark. Next time, I'll stop for a photo.

A little past this beautiful sight I spot an arrow pointing left mounted on a street sign and dutifully follow it. I don't go 200 yards before an elderly gentleman working in his garden signals me to stop. I ask him if I am on course and he shakes his head and points back in the direction where I came from. He waves as I thank him, and turn my bike around. Cyclists are streaming ahead on the main road and now I cannot even fathom how I could make such a simple mistake. I am guessing somebody - or the wind - turned the arrow a bit left to lead people astray.

The closer I get to Loudéac, the more excited I become. With a few miles to go I see the lead group with a very focused Chris Ragsdale near the head of the peloton. They are only a few hundred miles ahead of us. "Go Chris!" I shout, Chris looks at me, but is going at a speed that discourages identification of voices and faces. Still, seeing a familiar face is a big boost and seeing one of ours in the lead group is a giant morale booster. It looks like Chris is going to be one of the top finishers! Club Pride! The approach to the town is littered with farms but it slowly transitions to an urban environment: it cannot be long before the control now. The RVs give away the proximity of the controle. My pace quickens. We enter a roundabout and past it is a crowd two or three deep behind barricades, lining the road all the way to the controle. A few hundred meters of riding through this and the entrance to the controle emerges. It is 8:40p.