Paris-Brest-Paris

by Charlie Bladon

The Paris-Brest-Paris was conceived in 1891 as a cycle race of 1200km between the French capital and the western tip of Brittany and back. It predated the Tour de France by two years but differed because, whereas the Tour was a stage race with overnight stops, the PBP was non-stop. Initially it was run only every 10 years as professional riders could forget about the rest of their season if they participated, so hard it was. In the 1960’s it became an amateur event for the same reason.

Today, it is run every four years and participants must qualify by completing a series of 200, 300, 400 and 600km rides within designated timescales. The PBP is 1230km and 90 hours are allowed, which include any stops for any reason. Entrants have a book which they get stamped at roughly 90km intervals as proof of passage, and food and beds are available at these ‘controls’. Bearing in mind that at each control (18 in total) you will be queuing for an hour to get your card stamped, get food and get water, and the time allowance is suddenly being eaten away significantly.

I opted for the 6pm start on Sunday 21 August. This actually meant a 7.40pm start as they set you off in waves. This was just as well, however, as I had 2 punctures whilst waiting for the off – my first in over 6 months! It was incredibly hot and there was no shade, so all 5,000 participants were glad to get going and get a bit of a breeze in their face. Riding out of Paris the police closed off side roads, spectators lined the streets and the bridges overhead were crowded with well-wishers; quite an experience in a country where cycling is revered.

The first overnight stage was incredible; all you can see is a line of red rear lights snaking its way across northern France in front of you; behind, a similar line of headlights. The initial speeds are high as everyone rides in groups, and the first 220km were covered in a record time for me. After this, things start to settle down as people find their own pace. The emphasis is very much on making steady progress, and it is not a race. Having so many riders around always makes it easy to get into a group going at you own pace which makes life easier.

Whilst support cars are allowed, most riders see self sufficiency as part of the challenge and carry everything they need in a saddlebag. When the weather turned thundery on the first afternoon after about 400km, I was glad of my heavy waterproofs. Coming back the other way were the handful of semi professionals who do treat it as a race – no such luxury for them, so they got completely soaked. It was amazing to think they had already covered 800km and would finish in a time of about 48 hours. They have full support teams at the controls, who feed, massage and apply soothing creams all at the same time to minimise time spent stationary.

As with all endurance events there are good times and bad. Sometimes I could hardly turn the pedals, yet five minutes later would be feeling stronger than ever. There didn’t seem to be any logic to this, and unfortunately an enforced stop in the form of a control would often come as I was going well. However it is vital to refuel and the controls all had canteens where the normal diet was soup, rice or pasta with chicken and rice pudding. After eating you push your tray away and get your head down on the table for as long as possible – which means 15 or 20 minutes. These power naps stave off complete exhaustion and freshen you up enough just enough for the next stage. At one control I was lucky to get an hour’s sleep, but that was the most and the total was about 7 ½ hours over the four nights. Sometimes you just have to stop by the side of the road for ten minutes, and throughout the day and night you see riders fast asleep wherever you look.

The arrival in Brest was an important psychological point for me as it marked an equalling of my previous longest ride (600km) and also the turning point. From now on it was a straight road back to Paris. I got there at lunchtime on Tuesday, had a quick sleep and turned around.

The weather had now improved slightly but fatigue was well and truly setting in. However there was a very slight tailwind which was nice, but getting to the end of each stage was progressively harder. What really made the difference was the support the locals give; the route itself is very pleasant but nothing special, but at every junction people are there cheering you on, offering coffee, water and cakes and wanting to a part of the big event. Children make massive posters which adorn their villages, and communities come together for a day and night of celebration. Every single rider gets a massive cheer, regardless of whether you’re bowling along feeling great or really struggling; for the French, the fact that you even contemplate taking on the challenge is enough for them to encourage you loudly and enthusiastically.

The physical fatigue becomes matched by the mental; the mind starts playing tricks and night time shadows turn into interesting shapes. Hallucinations are commonplace as the brain tries to make sense of what is around it, when rational thought says you cannot possibly have been pedalling continuously for three days and more. For my part, the highlight of my hallucinations was seeing Scooby Doo at the side of the road.

The last night was arduous, seemingly uphill for about 8 hours. I am sure it wasn’t really. Riding through the night is a special experience, quiet with only the noise of your tyres on the tarmac. When dawn came across the wheat fields west of Paris and the penultimate control was reached a party atmosphere ensued; relief that all the training was going to pay off and that Paris would be reached in time. The last 65km into Paris were a joy; the arrival incredible and emotional. I arrived at 12.28pm, meaning I had covered the 1230km in 88 hours 48 minutes.

It’s difficult to remember every detail of the ride, but the over-riding memory is of the fantastic support which creates a very special atmosphere and means people come back time and time again despite the deprivations involved. My hands and feet are still numb, legs swollen and Achilles hurting, and cushions are appreciated when sitting down, but I’ll be back in four years.