I’m waiting amongst thousands of anxious cyclists on the grounds of the sumptuous Rambouillet Estate. My mind barely registers the beauty of the precisely-manicured French gardens as I try to relax, conserve energy, keep the adrenaline at bay. More than two years of training have led up to this August evening: the start of the 20th edition of the Paris-Brest-Paris (PBP) randonnée. Held every 4 years, it’s the oldest continually-organized cycling event in the world, having started as a race in 1891 and transitioning to its current format as a non-competitive event in the 1950s. More than 1200 kilometers of hard riding across the French countryside await, with 18 control checkpoints to pass through and a relentless 90-hour time limit nipping at our heels.
I’ve been in France for almost a month already, acclimatizing, sightseeing, and getting in a final few training and shakedown rides. Besides a few brief days spent with friends visiting their family here early in the month, I’ve been alone, and my mood has been on a pendulum between solitary contentment and full-blown crises of anxiety and self-doubt. I feel confident about the upcoming ride — it’s the rest of my life and the trials of the past few years that assail me in the lowest moments. Long-distance cycling has become a linchpin of my mental health in recent years: the physiological boost of a hard effort, the flow state achieved through hours of forward motion, goals set and exceeded. I need to ride, but in the final week before PBP prep starts in earnest I’m mostly cooped up in a tiny sweltering studio in a sleepy Paris suburb which is deserted due to summer holidays.
* * *
Like many others, I invested in a new bike at the initial height of the COVID pandemic. For months during winter 2021, I dreamed about it at night like a kid waiting for Santa: a Rodriguez Phinney Ridge, built up just blocks from my home in Seattle’s U-District neighborhood. A beautiful “Seattle sky” blue steel touring bike with wide, supple tires, it opened up a new world of riding for me, and soon I was casually doing 100km rides around the Seattle area. I noticed strong riders wearing “Seattle Randonneurs” kit, and begin reading about gobsmackingly long adventure rides in Bicycle Quarterly. I signed up for a 100km ride with Seattle International Randonneurs on the winter solstice of 2021: rain or shine, I was committed to ride, the route a familiar circuit around Lake Sammamish and Lake Washington. It was cold and wet, and I rolled in shivering to the finish, but I was hooked. SIR member Kevin Smith kindly offered me a ride home in his blue Volkswagen van, and told me about his experience going “from couch to PBP” in one cycling season. I had two before the 2023 edition. The seed was planted.
* * *
Finally, we’re moving. PBP riders depart every 15 minutes in “waves” of about 200–250 each. I’m in the O group, set to start at 7:30 PM on Sunday. It’ll be my first evening start on a long ride; I’ve already been up for 12 hours and ridden 35km to the start, but I feel fresh. En masse, we shuffle forward through a mandatory safety check: headlamp, steady taillight, safety vest. Then towards the start line, flanked by spectators. Then the countdown: Trois, deux, un… and we’re rolling!
Effort 1: Rambouillet to St.-Nicolas-du-Pélem (Aug. 20–21)
My plan is to ride slowly and carefully at the start to avoid any early mishaps. Indeed, at the very first roundabout, a rider misses their line and nearly collides with a pair in front of me. Conditions remain hectic throughout the first few hours: at regular intervals, fast riders from later waves overtake groups riding at an easier pace; transitions from straight country roads into labyrinthine towns dotted with traffic furniture and potholes become high-speed obstacle courses. I’m intending to keep my heart rate steady and under 155 BPM at all times — from experience and advice I know that a single hard effort early on can lead one to blow up many hours later. Nevertheless, I get caught up in the excitement and take a few strong pulls that put me over my limit.
And it is exciting: a stream of pacelines screaming by on my left; an endless line of tail lights snaking into the moonless dark; scattered spectators cheering us on even in the small hours of the night. In one otherwise sleeping town, a single elderly grandmother stands on a street corner clapping at 3am. Later, I see an emergency response attending to a rider on the roadside; I also briefly encounter two Seattle riders from an early 80-hour group, one bleeding at the face and with a badly damaged bike after an accident at a poorly-marked corner: reminders of the very real dangers of this event.
I stop briefly at control checkpoints to get my brevet card stamped, verifying my official passage time, but try to take care of other needs between controls to save time. The checkpoints can be confusing and chaotic, and time bleeds away faster than you expect. My hope is to make it some 480 kms to a non-mandatory control in a town called St.-Nicolas-du-Pélem. With food and beds but no need to stop for a stamp, I’m betting that fewer riders will plan to stop here, making things easier for myself. The effort should take about 24 hours, putting me just outside the halfway point in Brest on the Atlantic coast.
I spend most of the first night and day surfing wheels without committing to a specific group. Outside of clearly organized pace lines with a too-speedy agenda, other riders, and myself, are still getting the hang of things. Levels of apparent preparation vary widely. I’m shocked to see some riders already pulling off the road to rest within the first 100kms. Others are wildly under-biked for the course: a creaking hard tail mountain bike, bikes piled with swinging luggage that obscures their tail lights. It’s the reality of an international amateur event: skill levels, riding styles, and etiquette differ. Some hug the center line of the road at low speed, forcing overtaking riders to either pass in the face of oncoming traffic or break taboo to pass on the right. I’m looking for riders going just a little faster than I can alone, with a steady, constant pedaling cadence. Too many riders coast after every few pedals on flats or even while climbing. It may feel like seconds of rest, but they’re wasting energy. My cue to pass. Constant forward momentum is the law of long-distance cycling.
I eventually find solid wheels to follow: I strike up a conversation with a rider on a gorgeous steel randonneuring bike. From Düsseldorf, he explains how brevets are organized in Germany by a loose confederation of individuals, though things are trending towards greater organization. During daytime, it’s easy to start conversations by complimenting or asking about other riders’ bikes. I get a few shoutouts for the all-Seattle make of my Rodriguez bike and Swift bags. Later, in Tinteniac, as I stop for a tourist photo of an imposing church, an older Frenchman points out my bike and says, J’adore! He’s ridden PBP a half-dozen times himself, though not this year. It’s heartening to be among so many ardent fans of cycling, and the enthusiasm rises as we push further into Brittany. Families line the roads, picnicking and cheering, many offering drinks and snacks. One family sharing home-cooked pastries even allows me into their home to use the restroom. I owe them a postcard.
A highlight of the ride comes as we enter the town of Loudeac, host of an important control where many riders will overnight, meet support, or pick up drop bags. Riding slowly into town on suburban roads, we’re overtaken by a squadron of riders with the local club, AC Loudeac. They are met with rapturous cheers, and an onlooker hands up a full-sized Breton flag. In matching orange and white kit beneath the rippling black-striped banner, they are the very spirit of their region’s indomitable Celtic heritage. It’s an honor to be escorted by them into the busy control, where folk music plays, sausage galettes are on the grill, and beer and local Breizh Cola are served.
Nonetheless, I’m back on the road soon, and a few more hours of riding pass quickly before I arrive in St.-Nicolas-du-Pélem for a full meal and rest. After a hot shower (and a glass of beer), lying down in the dark, body-temperature dormitory full of snoring randonneurs, while wearing a mask, earplugs, and eye mask, is like being in a sensory deprivation tank. I sleep soundly for three hours, waking up to a tap on my shoulder at a set time. I feel profoundly grateful to the literal thousands of volunteers who make this ride happen, especially the woman assisting an agitated rider who thinks his shoes have disappeared, only to realize he’s looking under the wrong cot in the darkness.
Effort 2: St.-Nicolas-du-Pélem to Quedillac (Aug. 22)
After a quick breakfast including a face-sized bowl of café au lait, I’m back on the road, where the Roc’h Trevezel, the climb to the course’s highest point, awaits. In the cool predawn, I ascend alongside hundreds of other riders, some clearly struggling. The descent is exhilarating but scary; unwilling to scrub speed, I assume a low, aerodynamic position and take the left lane to pass riders who hug the median. An oncoming semi-truck appears, its lights blinding. I quickly check my right shoulder and swerve back to safety. Better take it easy.
The pace slows after the descent; it’s cold and foggy. Suddenly, a rider in front of me pitches to the right and rolls into the ditch at speed, tumbling into the long grass. They’ve probably fallen asleep at the wheel. It’s 6:30am or so, and I’m getting drowsy myself. Just after dawn is usually my worst time energetically, so I find a broad turnoff with picnic tables, put on my warm gear, and take a 20 minute nap. It’s refreshing, and I’m glad to have had the opportunity to choose a safe resting spot. Other riders are barely able to pull off the road before sprawling next to their bikes, one after another, all along the course.
It’s Tuesday morning as I enter the outskirts of Brest, the historic capital of Brittany. Unlike Loudeac, here we’re escorted into the control by commuters who are markedly less enthusiastic about navigating between hundreds of cyclists. The Brest checkpoint itself isn’t unwelcoming, but it is huge, and seems like a good place to lose a lot of time wandering around. I get back on the road quickly. Leaving Brest, I stop with other cyclists for selfies by the bay and the picturesque Pont de l’Iroise bridge: our only glimpses of the Atlantic. That’s 600kms down, and we’re now following route signs for Paris. However, I’ve been warned by experienced riders to consider the return route to be worth at least twice the effort of the way out, both physically and psychologically.
Nevertheless, I’m making good time. I’m more than 90 minutes ahead of the time cutoff, and I’ll keep gaining if I continue at the same pace. I surf more wheels and briefly join some pacelines, getting rudely pushed off of one by a rider who shoulders into my place. At a control, I shout Grazie! to two Italian Squadra Corse riders who I’ve shadowed for a couple of hours as they ride at what’s surely a relaxed pace for them. I’ve only recently internalized an important tip that greatly improves my handling: when drafting another rider, if they stop pedaling or slow down, instead of stopping pedaling myself, I should feather the brakes while continuing to pedal at a steady pace. This solves the issue of “rubber-banding” which has kept me from feeling completely comfortable while drafting in the past.
The route winds through hilly countryside and gorgeous Celtic towns back towards Loudeac — I’m hoping to sleep further down the road in Quedillac, another optional control that will leave me with less than 300kms to cover in a final effort. It’s getting hot, so I stop for an hour during the heat of the day to rest— and air out my sweaty chamois shorts — in a park by a peaceful pond. This is how I wanted my PBP to feel: strenuous but not rushed. By nightfall, I’m back in Loudeac, but not for long. The sound system is playing a Europop tune with the lyric, la gout de la nuit: the taste of the night. I’ve got another four or five hours of night riding to go until Quedillac.
Sometime, somewhere in these late hours, an older rider pulls alongside me and says bonsoir, asking if I speak French. Although my French is rudimentary, he is complimentary, and we chat in a broken mix of each other’s languages. Unfortunately, he’s struggling. I’m very sad, he says. I have a leg injury and I’m behind time. This is his seventh PBP and he’s afraid it might be his last. Do you know how to rouler (roll) together? He asks, Will you trade pulls to help me get to the next control? I agree, but I start out a bit too fast. As I slow down, we work out vocabulary and a reasonable pace: just over 15km on the flats, holding steady power on hills. His name is Alain, but my late night brain fails to register any of the other personal details we share. My PBP now has a mission: escort Alain to Quedillac. Good! Good! he shouts, as we figure out a rhythm. Isn’t it fun to roll together? This is the ineffable, indescribable spirit of Paris-Brest-Paris: spontaneous bonds of camaraderie forged through mutual effort and the passion of cycling.
We slowly grind out the kilometers; other riders attempt to lead out our little train, but they pull too hard and we let them go up the road. It feels good, but also a bit ragged. We’re pushing 900 kms in around 60 hours on less than 4 hours of sleep. I’ve never made an effort like this. In front of us, another rider swings into a ditch; others are passed out on the roadside where they’ve dismounted.
Finally, we roll into Quedillac. I eat a hearty meal of roast chicken and potatoes and a sugary crepe alongside Alain and a friend, then we lose each other as we go about separate errands. I’ve forgotten to get his full name or any contact info, though I give him a Seattle Randonneurs souvenir pin. Later I’ll look him up to see if he’s finished, but there are 42 Alains on the tracking website. I hope he made it.
I’m really feeling the fatigue now, in my brain, if not my legs. I walk back and forth to my bike, inefficiently doing one thing at a time. Go to bathroom. Refill water bottles. Money for shower and dorm. Finally I unload my luggage so that I’ll have everything close at hand. I line up for the night’s accommodations, but the queue isn’t moving. Exhausted and close to survival mode, I’m faced with a decision: stand in this line carrying my heavy gear for who knows how long, and fuss with shower and sleeping arrangements; or get off my feet *now*. In a snap choice, I give up on waiting and go back to the bike parking area, where I wrap myself in my space blanket under a table. I know this could be a bad decision: if I don’t get a good rest, I’m in for a rough time ahead. Despite all the action surrounding me, I sleep like dead for two hours exactly, waking up minutes before my alarm.
Effort 3: Quedillac to Mortagne-au-Perche (Aug. 23)
Somehow, I’m feeling OK. After a breakfast bowl of vegetable soup that I didn’t intend to order but that hits the spot perfectly, I’m feeling even better. I talk with some West Coast riders about rolling out together, but they’re gone before I’m ready to roll. Fair enough. I ride solo for the rest of Wednesday morning. I’m badly sunburned, and it’s going to get hotter today. The thin skin behind my knees is chafed raw. Somewhere along the way, my mouth and throat have taken on the texture of sandpaper. I can barely swallow, and everything tastes like acid. But I’m moving, and my ride isn’t defined by suffering. I can still enjoy the scenery as I descend into Fougères, with medieval castle walls looming over the town’s flower-lined river promenade.
In the bustle of the Fougères checkpoint, I meet a familiar face and bike: Carl Lind, a strong Seattle International Randonneurs member and PBP vet who I’ve ridden with on a few brevets. He’s made good time on his bespoke steel randonneuse bike: he’s about two hours ahead of me based on his wave, but he’s been checking the rider tracking app, noticed that I was only a short distance behind on the road, and decided to wait. He suggests that we ride together, and I accept gladly. I already know that we ride well together, and he is in good form and spirit.
From here, I have a new mission: enjoy! Carl and I trade pulls seamlessly. Trains of riders develop and fall apart around us, but we mostly work as a pair, chatting and signaling moves. We fly across the countryside holding a steady 20–25kmh pace on the rare flats and dancing over rolling hills. Carl is a great descender, tucked behind his handlebar bag, he sweeps through the wide curves, rarely needing to brake. I try to follow his lines, often hugging my bulging handlebar bag to assume a laid-out position, as much for aerodynamics as to spread out the pressure on my sit bones and numb hands. Time is barely a threat at this point — heat is the real enemy.
We pass through several controls and support points, stopping briefly at a hot, dusty hilltop plaza to rest, cool off, and refuel. In Villaines-la-Juhel, it seems like the whole town has come out to celebrate the riders like Tour de France podium finishers. For a while we join the rolling party that is the Societé Adrian Hands, named for a gregarious and tenacious U.S. PBP veteran and reserved for those who complete the course in over 88:55 hours, either struggling to the last moment or milking the ride for all the fun it can offer. In fact, we’re riding alongside Adrian’s son Ian Hands, a Seattle resident affiliated with Asheville International Randonneurs. He rides a fixed gear bike like nobody’s business, and his crew gives energy back to the roadside spectators, hyping them up with a whooping spectacle of tie-dyed kit and glowing red truck nuts dangling from their saddles.
Carl and I are on a different mission. The riding remains fun but hard, and we stop for popsicles and more vegetable soup at a restaurant. With the time we’re making, we could arrive at the finish line in Rambouillet by just after midnight, but it would be a long push. Neither of us have lodgings near the finish, and Carl reflects that his last late night finish felt anticlimactic. We decide to spend the night in Mortagne-au-Perche, a mere 120km from the goal.
We roll in at quarter to ten and agree to a 3am wake up, giving time for a solid four hours of sleep and plenty of leeway to make it to the finish before my cut off time of 1:30pm on Thursday. I drink a beer and eat a lactose-heavy dinner of rice pudding and custard pie; in the shower I take a chance and hand wash my wool shorts — right now they’re wet and filthy, at worst they’ll be moist and a bit cleaner when we set out. The sleep is almost too luxurious, and I wake up a few times, eager to get back on the road.
Effort 4: Mortagne-au-Perche to Rambouillet (Aug. 24)
We set out at 4am on Thursday morning, now just behind the clock but with no worries if we can keep the pace up. In the pitch dark, we tackle a series of long hills, a line of red tail lights scattered ahead. The scene recalls Alaska gold prospectors inching up the infamous Klondike Pass. Many riders are truly struggling at this point; unable to work together effectively, crawling up the climbs and coasting downhill. Feeling fresh and riding as a pair, Carl and I pass hundreds of riders in a couple of hours, spinning up the ascents and powering through the descents. It’s incredibly fun, but also tense as we navigate the masses of riders fighting against the clock.
The final checkpoint at Dreux is chaotic: the cafeteria line weaves like an ouroboros; a whole column of bike parking collapses. I eat a disintegrating but delicious Paris-Brest pastry out of my hands — after 83 hours on the road, manners are out the window. As we prepare for the final leg, a Philly Randonneur points out that my tires were pumped to a high PSI by a volunteer tech sometime yesterday, probably contributing to my painfully numbed hands. We let out air and the ride feels a bit more supple, though the damage is done.
The last leg is one of the only mostly flat sections of the course, contributing to a feeling of inevitability. As dawn breaks we catch a small group of Seattle Randonneurs; later we take up briefly with a Korean crew escorting a determined Brompton rider. We weave through fields, small towns, and eventually city streets as we approach Rambouillet. Finally we’re back on the opening stretch of the course, paralleling the stone wall of the huge estate.
A turn and the finish is in sight. Crowds, an inflatable gate, the Château behind. A radio reporter sticks a mic in my face and asks how many baguettes I ate. Dazed, I pull my last stale sandwich out of my handlebar bag and wave it at him wordlessly. Great radio. The final stamp on my brevet card and a heavy silver medal. Just under 86 hours. It’s done. I did it. We did it. Seattle randonneur Jan Acuff, who was tragically unable to start the ride after being run off the road by a car on a shakedown spin, takes our photographs and orients us to the finish area.
Except it’s not over yet. I still have to ride a couple more kms to pick up my drop bag of street clothes, and take a trickle of a shower in the provided facilities. I have no appetite for the complimentary meal, much less the line to get it. I’m on the edge of frustration as I spread my gear across the Château lawn and try to regain a semblance of humanity. I eventually gather myself and begin to meet my needs one by one. Food. Water. Beer. Friends. I find the Seattle International Randonneurs crew posted up in a nearby hotel plaza. Some have finished in near-record time; others pulled the plug early due to mishaps or rolled to the finish over time. As our club’s mission states: All are randonneurs.
Finally, I don’t have to move any more, just sit, laugh, and listen to other riders’ stories from the road. And share my own.
* * *
A week later. My shoulders have only just stopped hurting. My hands are still numb — Mick Walsh, a Seattle-based Irish former racer, says it took 3 months for feeling to return to his after the 2019 edition of PBP. There’s some concerning swelling and prickling in my feet. I’m ready to be home.
But my legs and my head feel good. I’m incredibly grateful to have had the opportunity to participate in the most historic amateur bike ride in the world, and to be welcomed, celebrated, and supported by the people of France. My recovery process will determine whether other rides of this magnitude are in my future, but I’m already dreaming about 2027. I think I can go faster and do a time. Or I could hop on the party train in the spirit of Adrian Hands. And maybe a leisurely tour of Brittany in the interim? The possibilities are as endless as the road…
Notes on gear and training
My Rodriguez Phinney Ridge was set up for comfort and reliability, inspired by the classic steel-frame randonneuring style. In fact, most PBP participants seemed to favor stock road bikes with bike-packing style luggage, or high-tech ultra-endurance bikes with aero bars. One British rider commented on the U.S. riders’ love of “heavy audax bikes”; the term “French cosplay” was also apparently thrown around. Hey, we’re all riding across the French countryside with baguettes strapped to our bikes!
Despite appearances, I’m not really a gear nerd, and I use components selected by my bike shop or recommended by more experienced riders, but here are some basic specs:
- Rodriguez Phinney Ridge steel frame and fork;
- Velo Orange flat pack rack and Swift Industries randonneur, bottle, and saddle bags;
- Rene Herse extra-light Babyshoe Pass 650Bx42mm tires;
- Berthoud saddle (a *key* component — I didn’t experience any major saddle issues over 1200+ kms);
- SON/Edelux dynamo lighting system, plus backup battery lights;
- Shimano Sora/FSA groupset with 50/39 front triple & 11/36 9-speed rear gearing; TRP cable disc brakes.
During my month in the Paris area, sudden thunderstorms and rain were common, and I was aware that early mornings can be very cold in northwestern France, so I brought a full complement of wool kit and rain gear despite the hot and dry forecast. I’ve never found wool clothing or synthetic arm protectors to be too hot on the bike, and I used everything here except foot coverings and warm gloves at some point of the ride. Most of this kit is standard on a long ride; I also threw in a pair of relatively modest wool boxer briefs so that I could get out of my chamois while sleeping.
In contrast, I experienced zero mechanicals, so all of my tools went unused with the exception of headlamp and battery pack. These were stored in a plastic bag in my handlebar bag. Dead weight, but essential.
In addition to the above, I carried extra hygiene and personal items: chemical and physical sunscreen, sanitizer, wipes, Lantiseptic cream, Gold Bond powder, toothbrush/toothpaste, earplugs, toilet paper, first aid kit, towel, etc. These items were all useful. I wished that I had brought some aloe gel to treat sunburn, and had a close call with a toilet paper shortage at a control.
To slightly offset the additional weight, I brought a light amount of food in my handlebar bag, knowing that at most I would only have to cover an average of 85 kms between control points and that no part of the route was truly remote from services. I started the ride with 5 ProBar protein bars, about 8 VitaLyte electrolyte powder packets (plus 2 experimental electrolyte powders that I bought in France and that were not great), 4 Clif Bloks (2 each with caffeine/salt), a bag of Haribo sour fruit candy, and a ham and butter baguette. I ate everything that I brought and only regretted not packing more electrolyte drink options, as these were mostly unavailable in France and the options that I did find were unpalatable.
With regards to training, I rode full super randonneur series with Seattle International Randonneurs in both 2022 and 2023: 200, 300, 400, and 600km brevets. In 2023, I followed Bicycle Quarterly’s PBP training advice and rode through a hot, hilly 600km brevet in 33 hours without sleeping: excellent preparation for PBP conditions. In addition to organized brevets with SIR, I aimed for 2–3 short intense rides (casual intervals or hill repeats), 1 social ride, and 1 long ride (5+ hours) per week. My longer rides were low intensity, targeting a ratio of 100kms distance to >1000m climbing. I used heart rate to track and moderate my efforts and am interested to explore training with a power meter in the future. Some of my favorite routes included the Issaquah Alps, Juanita Hillclimb, Lake Forest Park — Index, and the Whidbey Coast.