PBP 2019: A Study in Sleepiness and Lesson on Relentless Forward Progress
I’ve been mulling for nearly three weeks now and have at least partially processed my experience. Paris-Brest-Paris 2019, the 1200 kilometer randonneuring bicycle ride from Paris, France to the western port city of Brest, and then back to Paris, is held once every four years, and was first held in 1891, making it older than both the Tour de France and the modern Olympics. For 2019 all riders had to qualify by completing a SR (Super Randonneur) Series of 200, 300, 400, and 600 kilometer brevets between January 1 and June 30. I barely qualified but did, and then completed an additional 1,000 kilometer brevet to make sure I was ready. I thought I was.
When I crossed the starting line with Wave G at 17:30 in Rambouillet (a SSW suburb of Paris) on August 18 I joined over six thousand riders from over forty countries attempting to finish the entire ride within our respective time limits (mine was 90 hours). Like roughly 250 others, I did not finish within my time limit, but did finish in time to receive my medal (my time was 92:55:42). Over 1500 did not finish at all and/or finished so significantly out of time they were not recorded by the (unofficial) tracker, the results of which have been compiled online.
In the time between the ride and this writing I have tried hard to remember all of the controls, my time on the bike itself, and most importantly, figure out what happened that led to my being over time. I do not necessarily have good answers, but I do finally have something to say: I was sleepy, and foolish, and failed to exercise some of the good sense I should have.
Just before crossing the starting line I found myself next to someone I had met previously, Rob Welsh, the RBA for Minnesota Randonneurs. He set out at a good pace with another Minnesota Randonner I didn’t know (Keith Morical), and I followed, but I didn’t follow too closely. I didn’t want to bother them, I was worried their pace might be too fast for me, a number of other men really didn’t like being passed by me and thus kept cutting in between me and them, and then finally some Italians who were coasting on a downhill objected when our whole line slowed on an uphill and like an idiot I went bunny hopping up the hill away from them. Rob and Keith caught up to me at intersections in several of the first few towns, and then eventually I think they passed me altogether.
From the start all of the towns on the route were lined with spectators wishing us“bon route,” and “bon courage,” and always urging “Allez! Allez!” The ride has been occurring for over a hundred years, always from Paris to Brest and back to Paris, so their families have been doing this for a long time. Many of them have an uncle or grandfather or sister who have done it, and thus they have a good idea of the strain our bodies were about to experience — all the more reason to suggest that we “Go, go!”
Despite losing Rob and Keith and burning matches early by sprinting with Italians uphill I did a pretty good job initially of going. I rolled into Mortagne-Au-Perche, a services stop (not a control for the way out), just after dark, while chatting with a Canadian from British Columbia. We were quick with refilling our bottles and hit the road together. I don’t remember the details of losing him but lose him I did — probably he was faster on the hills than me, although it might also have been the other way around. I ended up alone in the dark, occasionally passing or being passed by others speaking English, but mostly by myself or surrounded by those with whom I could not communicate.
By the time I hit the first real control, Villaines-La-Juhel, I was seriously nodding. I made it in, got my brevet card stamped, got a bowl of coffee and some pastries, ate them all, went back for more coffee, and was still hopelessly sleepy. I took pictures. I tweeted. I generally faffed. I ran into Esmond Sage, who I had met on the train, who was in Wave I, and who was surprised to have caught up with me.
At this point I should have napped while Esmond ate and then hit the road with him, but instead I found myself going across the street to pay a few Euro for a mattress, a blanket, and a wake-up 3 hours later. I didn’t end up sleeping quite that long, and didn’t even sleep very well, but my stay at that control was probably 4 hours, and there went all my time in hand.
This was to be a theme, riding hard and well when I was actually riding, but this or that eating all my time in hand. I passed hundreds of riders on the way to Fougeres, the next control, but en route I paid for a coffee and a sandwich at a cafe, was given the coffee immediately and was told the sandwich was coming… half an hour later I learned they had run out of bread but more was on the way. There went an hour.
Once we hit some hills in earnest my derailleur started giving me trouble. It began click-click-clicking through cassette gears when I was in my crank’s little ring. This made riding pretty slow. PBP isn’t exactly flat so I was going to need those gears. I brought the bike in to the mechanic at the Fougeres control. In good news, although the mechanic claimed he couldn’t find the problem, he totally found it and fixed it for free, in bad news, I was there for nearly two hours. I was there so long the experienced Audax Club Hackney rider Jim Cope (who takes his time to get “full value” and also started over an hour after I did) came and went.
And thus it went. I ran into friends Lydia Trott and Michele Brougher. I slowed to ride with them. I stopped to eat when they pressed on. I passed them and then found myself alone, riding slowly, in the dark of the next night, dangerously sleepy. I paid for a three hour bed again at Loudeac. I then got up and rode like the wind, passing masses of red lights over the next hilly sections to try to make up time.
I was so sleepy and cold at Carhaix I laid down and slept for an hour on a piece of cardboard in a room off the mess hall even though I had barely gotten my brevet card stamped before the control closed for me. I pulled out my space blanket and by the time I woke I was at least no longer shivering, but I was also officially chasing out-of-time.
I ran into some Americans from Chicago who had a fast enough pace line they got me to Brest before the control closed for me. Theirs was a later wave than mine, which meant they had time to stop and take pictures on the bridge, but I did not. I never saw them again. Brest was the last control I’m sure I made it to on time. It was mid-day but I was bleary-eyed as if it were night when I left the Brest control and I stopped for naps on the side of the road twice, and soda and coffee many times, at stations generous residents had set up for needy randonneurs on the roadside.
At Carhaix on the way back I thought I had arrived in the nick of time and then foolishly tried to revisit the “sleep-during-the-day” plan that I had originally had before crossing the starting line. I paid for a mattress and slept for 2 hours. By then I was way out of time but I thought I was still just skirting it. You get more time on the way back, I reasoned, 50 hours instead of 40. I was in trouble, which my husband Jesse knew as he was plugging my control arrival times into my spreadsheet at home. I just didn’t know it yet.
I did know that night-time riding was bad for me. Even if I looked like I was riding well (it’s good that training is good for something), I felt incredibly shaky. As I left Carhaix for Loudeac I expressed this concern to a rider I passed. He was from Brazil and his wife was due to deliver their first child less than a month after PBP. He shared my concern but said that things would get better after his friends arrived.
This much I can say: He was correct. I was just slogging along, sleepily in the dark, trying to chat with him, and then suddenly I was overtaken with a rollicking party on bicycles, complete with music, dancing, clapping, and singing with some of the best riders with whom I’ve ever been lucky enough to ride. They rode three abreast, all the time, with various men taking turns at the front. This would have been problematic for any other group but when passing others they smashed into the space of only two riders, which was fine with me (again, it’s good training is good for something).
Sadly, as we rounded a corner perhaps 40 kilometers later another rider who was riding in their midst handled it poorly and slammed on their brakes. I was behind him and his slowing meant I lost contact with the group. I tried to make it back up there and did make it to the back, but there were a number of non-Brazilians drafting their pile, and it seemed bad form to pass them and insert myself directly in their midst, even though I think they had welcomed me thus. A few more poor cornering/bad hill climbing experiences later I had used up all I had renewing contact with the group and I lost them for good.
Once alone I got sleepy, and I ended up taking a nap next to a wall in some small mountaintop town. I awoke shortly, cold again, and arrived cold at the Loudeac control. I still somehow thought I was still just in the nick of time for getting the brevet card stamped. I mentioned to an official how very cold and sleepy I was and they let me know that control times didn’t really matter so long as I made it back to Paris within my 90 hours. I made the choice to again pay for a mattress and blanket and try to warm up. 2.5 hours later I got up and bought coffee and food and hit the road.
By the time I got to Tinteniac I was out of time even by my accounting. I ran into Will Stevens, another Great Lakes Randonneur who rides a recumbent, and he was also out of time. He had started with Wave F, fifteen minutes ahead of me, and he had yet to sleep at all. We rode along and he drifted a bit. When we found a spot another randonneur was vacating under a tree on some grass we took a twenty minute nap, and when we left another randonneur arrived ready to do the same in the same spot.
Will and I rode together for some time but then another faster group went past and I (and Will) knew that leaving him to go draft them was my best chance of still finishing within the 90 hours. I did what I could to move quickly from then on out, following fast wheels when I could. Those hours are a blur — and the entire time I was very tired and thus stopping entirely too frequently.
I made it to Fougeres but realized that I was going to have to ride fairly hard through the night to be able to finish in time. A volunteer there at the Overstims sports supplements table helped me calculate how many caffeinated gels I would need to pull it off. I described some of my difficulties, including some slowing earlier when I had helped another rider, and she gave me a hug and took a picture of my brevet card. A little later she came back and said that the officials were giving me another hour. She made me promise that I was going to make it to Rambouillet (Paris) and finish. I laughed and thought that was still a given.
I left Fougeres trying to make good time but had developed a new problem — a throat sore enough that swallowing was starting to hurt. I stopped at various pharmacies along the way but all were closed. Finally I shared my discomfort with a family who had set up a roadside stop and a woman went into her house and came out with industrial strength throat lozenges which could be taken once every six hours. I needed them.
Nearing sunset I stopped in a small town in a river valley where Will caught up with me again. I bought squash soup and crusty bread. On the climb out of the valley I lost Will again but met up with a very nice German. We rode at what approximated the same speed — I climbed faster than him but he passed me on descents. He laughed at my climbing and suggested I spin more if I wanted to be less out of breath while doing it. I laughed and rode alongside him, humoring him long enough to prove that spinning more actually left me more out of breath. We resumed our prior pattern of trading places.
It was sometime after this that I came upon an intersection with no sign marking the right way to go. I had heard this would happen on the return — thoughtless randonneurs ahead of us taking the signs as souvenirs. I stopped and waited and inquired of those passing “GPS?” which seemed to be the same in every language. Every time I was certain I’d found someone who knew the correct route for sure I progressed, but every time I hit another unmarked intersection I had to wait again. At one point the German arrived and affirmed things were correct.
At this point I stuck with the German, who was unbelievably kind and continued riding with me even though the other Germans he had met were stopping for refreshments. He had been in the 84 hour group that started the morning after I did and he was ahead enough he had time for that kind of thing. He knew though I was chasing time and he saw me safely all the way to Villaines-La-Juhel. Once there he disappeared into the restaurant and I never saw him again, and cannot remember his name.
After getting my brevet card stamped I sat down and made a serious assessment. I was sleepy and physically shaking, from a combination of caffeine, muscle spasms, sleep deprivation, and cold. I sent out a Tweet: “Friends, the odds are good I’m gonna scratch. I am for now way too tired and shaky to ride a bike. I’m going to sleep a little. Rambouillet is 126 hilly miles away.”
Great Lakes Randonneur Samuel Kling found me there and encouraged me to go sleep for an hour. “It’s like magic,” he said. I walked over to where the small children were running the sleeping accommodations (ostensibly to practice their English and help out — the control was at a school). As was true when I slept there on the way out, a roughly 3rd grader, wide awake in the middle of the night, handed me a blanket, led me to the door of a room, helped me hold my things as I got my shoes off (so my cleats didn’t click through the room where others were sleeping), and led me to my bed. Sadly, although I had fully intended just the hour Sam suggested when I walked over there, by the time I was actually communicating with them it had grown to the standard three hours. And, like every other three hour increment, I slept for just 2.5 hours, got myself up, and left.
By this point I knew I was late and should have been plowing unceasingly onward but the road to the next control was foggy and cold. I stopped and snuffed down coffee at several small stands set up by villagers. I stopped more trying to figure out where the route was. At one point trying to navigate through unmarked intersections in a bigger town someone behind me said “That’s not Kelley, is it?” It was Josh Haley, who I met during my earliest qualifying rides in Florida. He said that our mutual friend Susan Gryder was somewhere just up the road. I went on with him but later lost him.
Dawn broke and I kept thinking Mortagne-Au-Perche had to be just atop the next hill, only to find that nothing was atop the next hill but another downhill into more fog. I felt hopeless. Everything I was wearing was wet, and on one climb my fingers were so numb I botched shifting and had to put a foot down. It was steep enough there was no starting from a stop onto it, and I crossed the street to a sidewalk and just walked my bike uphill. Passing randonneurs called encouragement to me and I just kept my head down, ashamed I was out of time, ashamed that I was walking, ashamed I probably wouldn’t finish.
When I did finally get to Mortagne-Au-Perche I filled my bottles with Orangina, bought two croissants, and meant to continue on, but was so weary that I found myself lured to the wall against which other randonneurs were sleeping. I sat down there with my back to the wall and rested, convinced I was giving up. Susan arrived, I told her about my hopelessness and she went to sleep next to me. Josh arrived and laid down near Susan. We were all so weary but they at least were still in good time.
I resolved that I really was giving up just as a woman was waking a man sleeping next to me. They spoke in French for a bit and I realized she was driving to Dreux, the next control, while he was riding. I began to think she could drive me to Dreux, where I could get a train back to Paris. I began to try to communicate this to them in my horrible French.
They both spoke English. I explained I was out of time and the man asked to see my brevet card. He looked at it and said “You have time. You will sleep here for ten minutes and then will ride to Dreux. They only care if you finish before the last closing time listed in the brevet card” (which was 15:00). He then ignored me and went about getting himself ready to ride again. The woman said to me “It is only 75 kilometers to Dreux. You can do it.” They left.
I closed my eyes for a few minutes and then got up and left while Susan and Josh were still sleeping. I hit the road to Dreux strong and passed dozens of riders on the first climbs. Just as I was starting to slow again a Frenchman with bike and apparel out of an old timey randonneuring ad (aside from his PBP 2015 jersey) passed me pulling a tiny Italian woman on a similarly classic bicycle. She realized right away that I tried to grab their wheels and drifted backward to help me do it. The next thing I knew we had picked up enough riders to have an actual paceline going.
Sadly, weariness got me and I lost their wheels. Inexplicably the Frenchman came past me again a little while later and we again picked up the tiny Italian woman and again built a paceline, this one including Detroit Randonneurs Gerard Schilling, who had also given up hope. We rode along hard and picked up many others, until we had a nice group going at a very good clip. Gerard was nice enough to open a gel for me so we could just keep hammering (he said it reminded him of his daughter) and we rolled into Dreux together.
At Dreux I tried to be incredibly efficient, getting my brevet card stamped, filling bottles, stuffing food into my mouth, and using the restroom all in very little time. It was the only control I handled well, handled the way all of my controls should have been handled. I ran into Michele again but did not waste time talking. I had 45 kilometers to ride to be done. Gerard was even more efficient than I was and he left saying I would meet him on the road.
As I was leaving town a pretty fast guy passed me and I sat on his wheel. We came to a town where a big piece of farm machinery was crawling along blocking the narrow road between close buildings, slowing our progress. He had the opportunity to pass the machinery and did. I did not and I never saw him again. Fortunately the machinery turned off the route and I was again able to ride.
Just about then Mary Gersemalina and Ed Felkerino came along on their tandem with their friend Jerry on a single bike. I’m not absolutely sure but I may have begged to sit on their wheel, which I did unabashedly, riding like a complete wreck, pedaling standing up (my derriere hurt pretty seriously at that point), and coasting. At one point I thought I was going to lose their wheel but then I somehow caught up again. I followed them all the way to the finish line in Rambouillet.
I rode through the sand and muck and across the electronic finish line. My husband Jesse found me there and helped me out of my shoes (we paid on the spot for some Alex Singer flip flops). My brevet card received its final stamp and although Iwas nervous, the woman awarded me my medal without any issue. Gerard caught up with me and thanked me for helping him finish. I credited the Frenchman without a helmet and Gerard claimed never to have seen him. I also realized the tiny Italian woman seemed to have disappeared as well. Maybe they were real. Maybe they were ghosts of PBPs past.
I finished and I’m grateful to the ghosts, as well as all of the real riders and villagers and volunteers who helped me along the way. The man on the floor at Mortagne-Au-Perche was right — I finished at 14:28, which meant that I finished in time to be given a medal. I will be listed with HD (hors delai) next to my name instead of as a regular finisher but my name will still be listed (in some lists, anyway).
I’m disappointed that I almost certainly will not be given homologation but I am very pleased with my performance at the end. I negative split PBP. My second to last leg was my fourth fastest. My last leg was my fastest. To quote Susan, who reached out after the ride was over (thinking I had DNFd, for that’s where I was before she went to sleep) “Nobody negative splits PBP.” I did though, when I figured out that to succeed you have to be relentlessly dedicated to forward progress.
In short, I learned how to succeed at something like PBP by the time I finished PBP. It would have been nice if I’d learned earlier, but I also had never really been in something that truly tested my stamina like that. I also learned that I am very susceptible to sleepiness, especially after dark, and will arrive for any future endeavors with more tools for combating it.
I will have at least one more opportunity to test my mettle against something this big in the coming years. The week after PBP I entered the lottery for an early entry spot in London-Edinburgh-London and on Saturday I learned I won one. That 1500 kilometer brevet will be in 2021 and is said to be even harder, hillier, and colder than PBP. I shall just have to see.
