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Once in a lifetime ride… let’s do it again
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LEEDS-BASED RIDER PATRICK DOUGLAS TOOK ON THE CHALLENGE OF PARIS-BREST-PARIS IN 2019 – AND IT’S FAIR TO SAY THE EXPERIENCE HAD A MAJOR IMPACT ON HIS VIEW OF THE WORLD. HERE ARE SOME OF HIS REFLECTIONS AND OBSERVATIONS ON THE RIDE OF A LIFETIME
A ONCE IN A LIFETIME RIDE… LET’S DO IT AGAIN
Patrick, centre, with Luigi with his beautiful Gios Torino, and his riding partner Daniele
PARIS-BREST-PARIS is not a race – it’s a celebration of life; a four-day cycling festival where the rider is the most important person on the road. It’s about the supporters, the crowds, the villages “en fete”, the atmosphere, the terrain, the many nationalities – and the lure of the road.
It’s the little things I remember, the things that helped to keep my morale high through the event. The challenge is about the people, whether they’re fellow riders with a common goal, the public, or the official helpers who all offer fabulous support throughout the ride.
My plan definitely wasn’t to take part in a 100km three-hour road race, followed by 1,100km of hanging on in there. But that’s what happened. I’d always reckoned that people who deliberately rode through the night were complete lunatics. On reflection though, I thought that we must all be a bit mad to undertake these crazy rides. And so it was that I planned to ride through to Brest without sleeping, except for power naps.
I’d leave Rambouillet at 6pm on Sunday, ride into the evening and through the night, then through the next day and evening – and see if I could get to Brest in 30 hours, making it midnight on Monday. I’d sleep at Brest for about six hours, then set off back to Rambouillet with time in hand and see how I got on, aiming to finish by the Thursday midday deadline. What follows are a few random reflections on the experience of riding PBP.
THE GERMANS
On the return stretch after Carhaix a small group came past and I decided to jump on to them. They were a group of three strong, fast lads and I figured out they were German. I was riding at my threshold just to hold on to them, especially on the uphill sections. I sat on the back for maybe 15km while the others took random turns on the front then one of them rode alongside me and told me that I’d have to do some work. Dammit! My cover was blown.
I’m very experienced at following good wheels but didn’t think I could ride as hard as them when it was my turn on the front. They were a well-drilled unit and I asked if they trained together. No – they’d just hooked up on the ride. Not only were they super-fast but they’d also been highly efficient at the controls. “We had a 20 minute sleep at Brest and felt really good after it,” one told me. Twenty minutes at Brest? It had taken me longer than that to get a slot for the showers!
It was a bit of an effort to keep the pace when the road went uphill but downhill was even harder! They absolutely smashed down those descents and I found that over the top of each climb I had to stay really close to their wheel, then whack it into a big gear and ensure that I didn’t leave more than a yard to them on the descent
Over the ensuing 50km the trio slowed down a little, I was thankful for that. We picked up a number of other riders and ended up with maybe ten or so in the group. I was with those guys for around 150km, certainly the best part of the day before I got tailed off a few kilometres before the Tinteniac control. I chatted to them when I got there a few minutes later and said it had been an honour to ride with them, but now I’d have to ride at my own pace as I wouldn’t be able to maintain their speed.
Riding to the start in Rambouillet
❝Chuck a recumbent into a bunch though and it has the effect of throwing a swarm of angry bees into the middle of the peloton ❞
DROUGHT
On my final day, after Villaines-La-Juhel I was caught by a strong, athletic-looking lad in German national kit. We ended up working very well together. His name was Florian, and he was hoping to meet his girlfriend at the next control, Mortagneau-Perche.
The stretch to the Mortagne-au-Perche control seemed to be a series of five minute climbs and two minute descents, plus it was getting hot. I’d failed to top up my bottles at Villaines and I was getting really low on water. We picked up a Swiss rider and made a good trio, then picked up a few more riders. I was totally out of water and it was nearly 30 degrees.
All through PBP there are numerous villages, isolated homes or farmhouses where folks set up a trestle tables at the roadside to give out free water. Not on this stretch though. Each time I saw a building, village or hamlet in the distance, my hopes rose – and then dashed. Everywhere seemed deserted. In fact, it was like a desert out there.
We passed numerous parked cars and I hoped they might be giving out drinks. They weren’t. We got on to a stretch of busier road and I saw a mirage – a parked car in a lay-by. It was 800 metres away, and I wanted to believe they’d got drinks. Bingo! Most of the group descended on the drinks station like a plague of locusts. Laurent Delais and his young son had a table laden with bottled water and snacks. I thanked them profusely, telling them that theirs was the first water stop since Villaines. The young lad gave me a printed slip of paper with his address and asked if I would send them a post card from home. It seems to be a common tradition between helpers and riders, and I was delighted to do so. I rode briefly with a strong Irish rider who was churning huge gears up the climbs; the kind of gears that made my legs ache just looking them. Then I was on my own again, tapping away steadily, with plenty of fluids on board
FUNNY BIKES
Let’s be honest, we all ride at different speeds on normal bikes. Sure, we get into groups and bunches and the stronger riders tow the weaker ones. I’ve made a career of being towed by the big guys. We can hang in together or ride on our own, at our own pace, whatever suits us. Chuck a recumbent into a bunch though and it has the effect of throwing a swarm of angry bees into the middle of the peloton – riders swinging all over the place, the recumbents flying down the descents with their low centre of gravity and lower drag, then crawling up the other side as normal bike riders swing around to avoid crashing into the back of them.
I’ve read about recumbent riders complaining that people were overtaking on the wrong side. Well, if you’re one of the recumbent riders who insists on riding on the white line in the middle of the road, what do you expect? Do you really expect riders to cross the white line into oncoming traffic just to get past you? I was behind one of those guys for a while, when he insisted on white-lining. I was genuinely fearful he’d get run down by a truck. What’s the point? Try riding in a normal position – it would be a lot safer.
MECHANICAL DOPING
Officials must have been tipped off about a particular machine and its occupant, as he not only went superfast downhill, as you might expect, but he was also flying on the uphill stretches. He stopped at one of the controls and when he got back to his machine it was surrounded by officials who were busy dismantling it. It turns out he’d stacked a few batteries inside and rigged a mechanism to provide power to his cranks or wheels. Mechanical doping. Busted and rightly disqualified.
Recumbents and funny bikes at the start
A ROLLICKING
Every rider is issued with an approved reflective Gilet to conform to French road rules. You have to wear them when it’s dark. Being a good lad, I’d been wearing it as required, no problem. I took it off on
the Tuesday morning – the sun was well up and it was starting to get warm. I was riding on the homeward stretch, after Roc Trevezal, when a car pulled up in front. It displayed a badge indicating it was part of the official support. A woman got out and started giving me a right royal rollicking for not wearing my gilet. She took a note of my rider number and warned I could receive a time penalty. At that moment the sun was shining, but I realised that a few minutes earlier, when I’d been in one of the dips of this roller coaster of a road, it was foggy. My white and grey jacket would have made me almost invisible. I played the dim, polite, foreigner, apologised and put on the gilet. She seemed to calm down and eventually drove off. I counted myself lucky. The woman was, of course, correct, but there were scores of other riders also not wearing their gilets, so I assume she must have had a busy morning.
COFFEE
In the hour before dawn on the Wednesday, I suddenly started to slump. I’d had a few hours sleep on the floor of the previous control at Fougeres and had been riding quite well on my own in the dark. But it was cold, very cold. I was wearing everything I had including full finger gloves, overshoes, leg and arm warmers, a jacket and a gilet, but I’m skinny and feel the cold quite easily. My pace slowed.
I rode into a village and, in what was a fabulous piece of luck, the bakery was open. I rushed in and got a few things to eat. I needed coffee to help warm me up, but they didn’t serve it so I set off again. Riding round a bend, I saw a woman with a large flask of hot coffee to give out to needy cyclists. I stopped, had a drink and chatted. Had she been here all night? No – she’d been here since 6am. Her husband had done the midnight to 6am “shift”. What wonderful people!
The foggy lowlands earned me a smack in the Brouillards
Part of the fun at Hardanges including the small caravan for a perfect sleep
AN UNEXPECTED BED
They say that the coldest hour is the one after dawn, and I could understand why. My speed had slowed significantly and I knew I needed a sleep pretty quickly. The problem was, it was so cold that if I stopped, I’d surely freeze. I started seeing double. I was looking at the grass verges for anywhere to lie down. Absolutely exhausted, I plodded on to the village of Hardanges. They’d decorated the walls with bunting, set up a wood burner to warm the riders, and had a massive table with hot drinks and snacks. I stopped, had a coffee and tried to explain how grateful I was. I asked to sit in a chair for ten or twenty minutes to have a sleep, when a woman asked: “Dormir?” and showed me a small caravan with a bed and covers. I got the best one hour sleep of my entire PBP. It was fabulous. Thank you very much to Laurie Renard, her friends and family, for setting up such a great facility in their village!
A FAMILIAR FACE
On the way to Brest I reached Roc Trevzal, the highest point of PBP, towards the end of the Monday. By now it was dark and getting colder. There were a few campervans and supporters at the top of the climb and I stopped at one where there was a spare chair. I got talking to a couple of helpers, Joseph and Isabelle, and told them I was from Leeds, pointing to my Leeds Mercury jersey. “Ah, Leeds United!” they said. We chatted for a while
❝My white and grey jacket would have made me almost invisible. I played the dim, polite, foreigner, apologised and put on the gilet. She seemed to calm down and eventually drove off. I counted myself lucky. ❞
PICTURE© LUIGI CANDELLI
❝… PBP is a beautiful discovery of the French countryside, your fellow riders, the support from the public, the fabulous displays which the villages organise, the energy and enthusiasm of the volunteers, the high fives and shouts of support from the kids along the route ❞
Locals high-fiving the riders
about soccer and cycling. They’d got a fabulous set up with a trailer containing snacks, a water boiler and coffee – all voluntary. These are the people who make PBP such a wonderful experience for us riders. I told them I’d see them the next morning on my return from Brest. However when I got there the next day, and said hello, I was greeted with a blank stare. “C’est moi, Patrick – Leeds United?” Once they recognised me I was greeted like an old friend. These folks had been awake all night and would have seen thousands of riders and spoken to scores of them.
THIS ISN’T A RACE
Some PBP riders will aim to finish in less than 48 hours – some will go a lot slower and be nearer the time limit of 90 hours. The organisers strongly believe PBP is not a race, and all finishers should have equal recognition. Apparently the behaviour of some of the faster riders in the previous event had been rather rude and disrespectful to the volunteers, without whom the event could not be run. The organisers put out warnings before the 2019 ride that bad behaviour would not be tolerated. If you want to get round fast then do so, but if you want a real race then you should enter a time trial and get a number on your back. Or enter the trans-continental race if you want a proper tough, long endurance event. An event like PBP is a beautiful discovery of the French countryside, your fellow riders, the support from the public, the fabulous displays which the villages organise, the energy and enthusiasm of the volunteers, the high fives and shouts of support from the kids along the route, the buoyant atmosphere surrounding the ride. I can’t see how anyone can experience even a small fraction of this if they’re racing round with their nose to the wheel.
SQUEAKS IN THE NIGHT
At Brest I’d planned for a good five or six hour sleep. This didn’t work out. More than 3,000 people would be needing a bed over a 24 hour period, so planning for them was a difficult job. I was firstly told they were full, but to come back later. So, after food and a shower I returned and was pleasantly surprised to find a bed in a two-person dormitory.
I put my earplugs in and settled down for five hours of lovely, well deserved sleep. The reality was different. The walls between the rooms were paper-thin and from the next dorm, there was incessant talking between two Italians. Boy, those fellas could talk, but after 610km of PBP it was hardly the time nor place.
I turned over and tried to sleep. Somebody, presumably a helper, was walking up and down the corridor, showing folks to their rooms, and wearing the squeakiest shoes known to mankind! As if that wasn’t enough, there was a bloke apparently leading a donkey up and down the corridor. A sign on the stairs leading up to the dormitories said: “Absolutely no cycling shoes beyond this point.” I couldn’t get back to sleep, so after about one and a half hours, I decided to get up and make my weary way back to the canteen before saddling up again.
IS IT FLAT?
“It’s not that hilly. There’s only one hilly stretch. There’s only one big climb. It’s mostly flat. The hills are easy”. These phrases, and other such lies and halftruths, were told to me before PBP. Let me make this very clear. PBP IS VERY HILLY. There’s hardly an inch of flat. Where there is any flat you will have a headwind, or be freezing cold in the middle of the night, or be on your own.
THE PEOPLE
I’d had my super bad patch on the night and early morning run to Villaines and I was pretty tired after 1,000km of riding. I came round a bend and in that moment found I was fighting back the tears. A brass band was playing, crowd barriers lined the route, I passed under a giant Tour de France style inflatable arch, an announcer was calling the action and conducting interviews with various riders. The crowd lined the route. It was fantastic. All these people had come out to see us regular, ordinary riders; they’d come out to see common people like me. I ended up spending nearly two hours in Villaines and it was time well spent. The helpers were fantastic here, from the school kids who showed us the way to the dining room, to
the old fella handing out the towels for the showers. I got a good meal, a shower, a change of kit, and tried to soak up the special atmosphere.
ACHES AND PAINS
In the 100km before Brest on the outward leg I could feel my “gentleman’s area” getting very slightly numb. I was using top quality shorts I’d used on other long rides as well as the same saddle set in a horizontal position. Before leaving Brest, to relieve the pressure, I tilted the saddle downwards and this seemed to do the trick.
However that minor change in angle seemed to put more of my bodyweight through my ischial tuberosity (sit bones). At first this was ok because at least everything else felt as it hould, but over the ensuing 600km it got progressively more uncomfortable to sit on the saddle. A change of shorts with 200km to go seemed to help a bit. However by the end of the ride it felt like the batsman Ben Stokes had hit me for six on each of my sit bones.
ESSENTIAL KIT
The best bit of kit I had was a travel-sized toothbrush and mini tube of toothpaste. I know from previous long rides, especially LEL, and from talking to other riders, that oral hygiene can become a problem. Basically one is eating much more than usual and people tend to forget to brush their teeth. I made a point of brushing mine several times a day, usually last thing before leaving a control. It’s a great way to freshen up. My final tooth clean was at Dreux where I stood next to a guy who was flossing his. In LEL I ended up with lots of little mouth ulcers, in PBP I had no such problems.
KEEP ON TRUCKING
French motorists are way better than they used to be. It was once “de riguer” for drivers to down a few bottles of wine with their lunch, and then make their blearyeyed way back to their cars. In the last couple of decades, the French authorities have got really strict about speeding, drink driving and driver behaviour.
A proportion of PBP is on main roads and many motorists seem to drive like they are laughing in the face of that speed regulation. And that’s just the car drivers. Truck drivers seem to have their own set of rules – 80kph seems to be their minimum speed. On the road back from Brest the truck drivers were really flying along. I reckon most were doing a minimum of 100kph. For the most part, they gave plenty of room when overtaking. One driver came so close and so fast that I automatically yelled out an Anglo Saxon insult. In general though, the driving habits of French motorists around cyclists is far superior to that of their British counterparts.
RIDER QUALITY
There’s been a lot of talk about rider quality, handling skills and group or bunch riding etiquette, or lack of it. I’m perhaps quite lucky that I was taught by more experienced riders how to handle a bike, maintain your position in a group and, most importantly, being made aware that any, and every, movement you make will have an effect on all the riders around you. I’m usually very relaxed in a group riding environment and I’m used to close riding around others. I can also spot a “bad” wheel to follow, as well as a good one. Within a minute or two of riding alongside or behind someone, you should know if they have poor skills and might be dangerous to you. If that is the case then you can either continue to follow and risk a crash, let them ride off, or ride off yourself.
PBP throws together 6,500 riders from around the world who have a massively different set of experience and skills. Unless they prove otherwise, then start off by assuming that any single person or group could unintentionally cause you to crash. Keep well clear of anyone you are in doubt about. Safety first, have fun.
THE FINAL COUNTDOWN
The run to the finish is mainly flat. I felt good, no real aches and pains apart from sore sit bones. Nothing had really gone wrong on my ride and the remaining kilometres rolled by with ease, though I was shocked by a short stretch of cobbles entering the Rambouillet estate, then disappointed when one of the marshals told us it was the final kilometre, I was kind of hoping that the finish line would have been straight after the cobbles.
At Dreux I’d texted my wife and her sister, who were both with me on the trip, and I’m pleased to say that they were on the finish line to greet me. I found out afterwards that they’d only got there a few moments beforehand – perfect timing! A few photos, a few handshakes, the final brevet card stamp and it was all over.
Would I do it again? Initially I said no, it was a once in a lifetime event. However I now think that I would like to do it next time.
