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My first PARIS-BREST-PARIS

By Gilles Bodin, CCC 3091

My desire to do Paris-Brest-Paris was nothing new. I remember the evenings when Roger Outrequin and Dad would talk, tirelessly, late into the night, about fantastic cycling tours and, of course, Paris-Brest-Paris. How many times afterwards did I ask Dad about his experiences?
How many times have the stories told by other C.T.P. members at club meetings caught my attention? Clearly, this hike offers everyone more than just the kilometres covered.

In 1987, I’d almost given it a go: two 200s, a 300, then a 400, which for a long time remained my longest distance and my fondest memory of a ride in Sologne, featuring seven C.T.P.s. I then set off, lacking motivation, on a rainy 600-kilometre ride, having been barred from the Paris–Brest–Paris by an overbearing department head, and being too timid to stand up to him.
In Soissons, although we were ahead of schedule, Joël and I turned back. Soon followed by Thierry, we unwittingly caused Bob – who was waiting for us – to stop! I was left with a sense of guilt and bitterness over the whole affair. After that, my studies and then my career meant I could no longer even think about Paris-Brest-Paris.

Eleven years have passed

The era of qualifying certificates

On 28 March in Versailles, I met up with Bernard and Stéphane on their tandem, as well as Daniel, for the 200-kilometre ride. It had been ten days since I’d last been out on my bike. Nevertheless, it was a very enjoyable nine-hour ride with some experienced companions. After a weekend on a tandem with Marie-Laure, and a month later, I tried my hand at night cycling. Alone at three in the morning in the Brie region of Champagne, I switched on my 1987 headlamps, supplemented by a brand-new auxiliary light. I spent the rest of the night with a lone cyclist from Noyon, then part of the morning with another. We checked in at local shops or sent postcards. On the way back, battling a headwind, the three of us met up again when we came across the C.T.P. members who had come to meet me and cheer me on. The fact remains that this 300 was the toughest of the qualifying brevets: a short night’s sleep, plenty of wind and chilly conditions, and 14 hours and 20 minutes on the road. Still on our tandem, eight days later, there were seven of us C.T.P. members on the Côte d’Azur and in the hinterland. We organised a seven-hundred-kilometre touring trip, full of cols and perfect for exploring – the third of its kind – over the Easter holidays. A month had passed since the 300 when I set off on the 400 around Paris. As always, I’d taken ten days’ rest. Apart from the first few kilometres, I rode alone the whole way. Which could have cost me dearly. Indeed, I got a puncture in the middle of the night just outside Rambouillet, and realised I’d forgotten my pump! Fortunately, by sheer grit and pedalling out of the saddle, I managed to reach an open inn thirty kilometres further on, where a cheerful former cyclist came to my rescue. At daybreak, suddenly overcome by sleep, I stopped straight away and sat down at the foot of a tree. I slept for barely ten minutes, woken by the first car passing by. Refreshed, I set off again straight away. At 8.50 pm, having set off, I reached the finish line. Sticking to my plan, I continued with my weekly training. During a mountain-biking weekend in the Vosges, I extended the stage on my touring bike. Ten days before the 600, I treated myself to a solo 250-kilometre ride at a good pace, followed by some rest. Dad had accompanied me to the start and I met up again with my friends from the 200. Other reunions included with Bernard Faucheux, whom Dad and I had gone to meet many years ago, along with his partner Pierre Gros, upon their arrival from their first Paris–Brest–Paris; and with Lourdet, Dad’s partner on the 1961 Paris–Brest–Paris, who was also at the start that day. Bernard and Stéphane’s tandem is keeping us moving at a brisk pace. My companions know the route and are in their element. We follow part of the Paris–Brest–Paris route, which will prove very useful two months later. We turn off at Saint-Hilaire-du-Harcouët to have a bite to eat in Loupfougères in the middle of the night at number 381^e kilometre. The organiser had laid the table. It was to be a lively night, and I learnt something new from it. Once again, dawn found me dozing, but my friends were there to have a natter with me. The finish was a joyful occasion. Bernard said to me, «You’ve earned the right to enter Paris–Brest–Paris.» I also came away with the memory of a superb 600 in 31 hours 05 minutes and, to date, 4,250 kilometres since 1 January. The first week of July is traditionally set aside for a tandem ride with my partner. This time we chose the Alps: Belledonne, Chartreuse, Aravis and the Tour du Mont-Blanc combine long-distance riding, altitude and magnificent scenery. In late July and early August, the club met up in Corrèze, and every day I set off on my own for a ride lasting a few hours to clock up the kilometres at a good pace. On 12 August, I arranged to meet the family for a picnic north of Laon. By the evening, under this pretext, I’d covered 260 kilometres at an average speed of 25 km/h. There are twelve days left before Paris–Brest–Paris and I’m starting to go round in circles. I’ll make do with just 65 kilometres at a brisk pace on 19 August to get my legs moving.
On Sunday 22 August, I’m heading to Saint-Quentin-en-Yvelines, at the start line, for the compulsory bike check and to collect my route map. The atmosphere was buzzing; everyone was chattering away and seemed a bit excited. It was a chance for everyone to catch up with lots of friends who’d come to register or take part in this massive event, or simply soak up the atmosphere.

The start

I spend Monday checking my bike, raising the saddle by one millimetre. I sort out my luggage, deliberately keeping only the handlebar bag. I’m taking a pair of cycling shorts, some socks and a spare jersey. I’m wearing the same things myself, plus a thermal base layer, a fleece jumper and a fluorescent windbreaker for the night-time start. These three items will then be stowed in or on the bag. I’m also taking two spare inner tubes, a few tools, a razor with new batteries that can be used as a torch, a cut-off toothbrush, the last of a tube of toothpaste, a small hotel soap, half a tube of healing cream, half a tube of anti-inflammatory cream, a spoon, a knife, a road map with the route marked in fluorescent ink (which won’t be much use to me), plenty of fruit jellies and various snacks, and an Overstim cake.

At last, it’s time to set off. Dad drove me to Saint-Quentin after a good night’s sleep. He’d been hired by Robert Lepertel to keep an eye on the exit from the stadium. It’s 4.45 am when the tandems set off to the loud blare of their horns; Good luck to Bernard and Stéphane! We’re all crammed together behind the gate, feigning relaxation. Fifteen long minutes pass. And then: it’s our turn! Just a hundred metres to go; Robert Lepertel gives his instructions and the lights are checked. A blast on the horn, a wave goodbye to Dad, and off I go. The junctions are manned and cars lead the way. In the night, riders overtake one another time and again. We’re already going fast. I decide to stick with the pack to avoid getting lost or wasting time at the junctions. We can hear the excited exclamations of the Anglo-Saxons. The French are there, though; they say so when asked, then slip back into their silence. On speed bumps, at the entrance to a bridge, I dodge a rolling torch, then a jerrycan, then another lamp. Now two groups, not far apart, have formed. I’m bringing up the rear of the second one. Day is breaking; our support cars pull away and wish us a safe journey. The pace is still very high. Pierre Gros, a former club member, and I wonder together whether this pace is sensible. In any case, if we were sensible, we might not be here at all! At around the 100-kilometre mark, I catch up with Bernard and Stéphane’s tandem, who aren’t keen to keep up on the narrow roads. A little further on, I stop. Eventually, we arrive together at 10.10 am in Mortagne, where we have lunch at a café. The ride across the Sarthe is monotonous. It’s starting to get hot and groups form and break up unpredictably. Since leaving the Perche, people living along the roadside have been cheering us on, and the villages have decked out their entrances with bunting. I cycle for a while alongside Canadians, Norwegians, Australians and an American. In Villaines at 1.35 pm, I go for a meal at the self-service restaurant – which is very well run and organised – just as the tandem arrives. It will rejoin its support car.

Friendship and support

As I was leaving Villaines, someone called out to me: «How’s it going, lad?» It was Gilbert Duchêne, and I cycled a few kilometres with him along a road that was bathed in sunshine and fairly deserted. The heatwave has set in and I’m making a point of staying well hydrated. However, I’m still cycling at a good pace and I can feel my temperature rising despite everything. I spot a stall selling fruit juice and chocolate éclairs on the terrace of a popular café in Goron. All along the road, the villagers offer us water. I accept one of these offers but make the mistake of not wetting my cap. A little further on, I pick up a mobile phone, which I soon return to its owner, who arrives from the opposite direction a few kilometres later, out of breath, and calls out to me in English. In Fougères, it seems there have already been numerous dropouts. In any case, within the checkpoint area, there are plenty of bikes with red or green frame plates from the 8 pm and 10 pm starts. Daniel arrives just as I finish my collation. He suggests we set off together again. But 40 kilometres further on, I’m feeling very hot once more and I’m worried I might be on the verge of heatstroke. I ask Daniel to carry on, and treat myself to a few short but delightful minutes lying in the cool, green, shaded grass. I set off again feeling completely revitalised. Night is falling over the Tinténiac checkpoint when I rejoin my friend Daniel, who has just sat down, with my packed dinner. He’d been worried about me. ‘The tandem’s ahead of us,’ he tells me. My cycling mate arrives on his mobile and has hardly any appetite. I tuck in heartily, which isn’t the case for Daniel.

Somehow, we’d formed a small group as we set off from Tinténiac. Daniel was chatting to another experienced cyclist. The man on the phone and I, both novices, were making the most of the descriptions of the scenery and the terrain ahead that our two veterans were giving us. We tackle the dreaded Bécherel hill. Then the kilometres fly by in the night, the whole time filled with conversation. In Saint-Méen-le-Grand, we treat ourselves to a coffee in front of the illuminated façade of the town hall, much to the surprise of passing tourists. What followed were magical kilometres. In the dead of night, the villagers came out and offered drinks and cakes on their doorsteps. Further on, a multitude of cyclists were sleeping in the fields beside their bikes, leaving their red lights on so they could be spotted. All the way to Loudéac, on a mild night, the same surreal atmosphere of camping, hospitality and encouragement prevails. Soon we also come across the very first participants on their way back, having set off nine hours before us. First two stragglers, then a fairly large group just behind them; they’re not dawdling – they’re 360 kilometres ahead of us.

Loudéac by night

The Loudéac checkpoint is one big fairground. A huge number of cyclists from all the different starts are parked there. An impressive number of supporters, keeping a watchful eye on their favourites, form a crowd at the entrance to the site. It’s hard to find a place to park your bike; there’s almost a stampede to have your route card and magnetic card checked. The self-service canteen is swamped. The merguez sausage marquee right in the middle is doing a roaring trade. Near a makeshift dormitory in a sports hall, cyclists are showering with a garden hose, to general indifference. Under a covered courtyard, dozens of bags await their owners. There’s a hive of activity, yet everyone moves about quietly. On the school grounds, large numbers of cyclists are sleeping in neat rows under emergency blankets; an irresistible image: the aftermath of the battle. Daniel wants to get some sleep. I’m not too keen; I’d planned to ride past Brest and sleep for just one long night. He points out that the kilometres ahead will be very hilly and winding. I’m not keen on the idea of spending the night and then the early hours alone on difficult terrain, and so far we’re not behind schedule. I let myself be persuaded. We haggle over our mattresses for two hours. In front of us, a German man – whom the usher is persistently trying to speak to in English he doesn’t understand – manages, with our help, to get his bed as well. We’re led by the light of a torch through the sea of mattresses and sleepers to the other end of the gym. I sleep rather poorly, but I’ll set off feeling more rested than expected. Awake and ready early, we set off into the night. The road is winding and incredibly bumpy. Daniel acts as the perfect lead rider, anticipating and overcoming all the navigation difficulties for me. We catch up with and overtake a huge number of cyclists. It must be said that there were far fewer people sleeping on the grass when we woke up in Loudéac. Coming the other way, cyclists are few and far between. We pass through bustling villages where the hotels have stayed open all night. In Corlay, we emerge from this maze to find a very busy secret checkpoint. We have lunch in a café that’s just opening. Opposite, the baker is in his bakery; he must have closed up, having run out of stock.

We’re now taking one of those modern bypass roads, which are a rarity on the Paris–Brest–Paris route. The dawn is grey and damp, and the road is wet. More and more cyclists on their way back are passing us. It’s raining on the small, bush-lined roads of Maël-Carhaix. The name of this village is misleading and has us eagerly looking forward to Carhaix, 12 kilometres further on. Here we are, and I recognise the place: the Breton railway’s steam locomotive still stands proudly by the station bridge, and I recognise the old half-timbered houses that Marie-Laure, Philippe and I had admired, also in the rain. We check in at half past eight, then head back into town for a few bits and bobs. Daniel chooses a grocery shop; I go to the bakery, where I’m subjected to a long wait. I’m wolfing down my almond croissants when a reporter comes over to chat to Daniel. He’s suffering from indigestion and is feeling a bit down, which doesn’t escape the attention of the journalist from *Le Cycle*, who questions him and will report on it in his newspaper. This time we’ve taken too long. A brief explanation to the signalman at the checkpoint as we pass through again, and we set off towards Huelgoat. The road along the banks of the Argent is superb, but the downpour we’re caught in is severe. The climb up to Roc’h Trevezel is easy, and we enjoy a pleasant descent to Sizun, where the Brest loop begins. Daniel stops a little further on. We’re high up, the sky is overcast, the grass is too lush; we can sense the end of the mainland. Daoulas, Plougastel, Loperhet – we turn this way and that without yet catching sight of Brest harbour. «It’s a long way!« At last, we cross the Albert Louppe Bridge, reserved for cyclists. It’s a deeply moving moment. I’m here! Brest and its harbour spread out before us. Lots of people stop to take photos. On the other side of the bridge, the professional cyclist Madouas, quite by chance, gives us a little ride. The checkpoint in Brest is noisy; it’s 12.54 and everyone wants to eat. I’m a bit disappointed with our time on the way there – nearly 32 hours – but that’s the time for the 600, with an extra two hours« sleep; Gilbert’s there and tells me he’s booked a room in Loudéac. I’d prefer somewhere quieter, so we carry on to Guipavas, where we find a decent, cosy restaurant. On the hill just out of Landerneau, I’m feeling perfectly fine – in fact, very good indeed. Daniel gives me a bit of a hard time about it in Sizun, where I post a card to the chairman. He’s a bit anxious about the long, deserted stretch of road from here to Carhaix. Our »friend on the phone« had clearly chosen me to be the good Samaritan. He heads back to Carhaix to give up due to saddle problems. I send him to the chemist’s with a prescription, and I’ll have the pleasure of seeing him again near Maël, beaming. »It’s working, I’m back!” he’ll exclaim. Just at the summit of Roc’h Trevezel we pass the stragglers who, judging by their enthusiastic gestures, seem to know what’s going on. At 6 pm in Carhaix, we find the grocery shop where Daniel clears out the stock of fruit juice and honey! I have a chat and a quick discussion with a mixed tandem team whom I recognise from having seen them in a photo in the Paris-Brest-Paris brochure. There’s no time to linger, so we cover the kilometres at a brisk pace. We’re hoping to reach Loudéac before nightfall. In Corlay, to our surprise, Stéphane is alone by the tandem, which is missing its rear wheel. They’ve broken some spokes on the freewheel side and Bernard has set off in an official support car to have it repaired in Loudéac. They’ll lose a lot of time. Daniel, whose spirits are flagging, decides to spend the night in Carhaix. The hilly stretch between Corlay and Loudéac is truly superb. The setting sun bathes this succession of hills and valleys in a dazzling glow. The villages are as lively and welcoming as ever. We reach Loudéac after dark at 10.07 pm. Daniel leaves me to look for a hotel, promising to rejoin me on the road afterwards. I’ll carry on alone, guided by his valuable advice.

To start with, things aren’t going well. It’s very hot in this self-service restaurant, and the service, swamped with customers, is moving at a snail’s pace. A few cyclists are grumbling. I take off my jacket and go and sit in the cool air on the terrace. I leave Loudéac, vowing never to linger there again. This checkpoint is worth it for the atmosphere, but it’s a bit of a drag. There’s no one left on the road. Every now and then I spot a red traffic light far ahead. In a village, a café owner whose shop is always open paints a large directional arrow saying «P.B.P. Paris» on the road in the middle of the night, as he isn’t satisfied with the A.C.P. signage. The insomniac locals are still cheering me on. Out in the countryside, three or four teenagers offer me coffee. They’ve spent their second night waiting for us. I thank them: «You’re part of Paris-Brest too.» «See you in four years,» they tell me. I’m making good progress; I’m not tired and I’m not in any pain. I’m almost disappointed to have to stop at the secret checkpoint in Quédillac. It’s 1.25 am; a few cyclists are sleeping at the back of the hall, and there are more marshals than participants. I’m told that I’m cycling through a «dead spot» in terms of traffic. I come across hardly anyone apart from two motorcyclists from the support team coming and going. My aim, on Daniel’s advice, is to sleep at the boarding school in Tinténiac. I reach it an hour later via a road that’s still deserted. The organisers allocate us beds in small rooms according to the residents« wake-up times. I allow myself three hours» rest, including a shower, a shave and a brush. At the appointed time, they wake us up. I meet my roommates, who are struggling to wake up and complaining a great deal. I don’t waste any time. At dawn, I catch up with two cyclists from Alençon. They tell me they’re heading home; they’d given up on the way there. The area is quite marshy and the sunrise is very pleasant with its colours. In Sens-de-Bretagne, I spot a café on the corner of a street. I have breakfast there. As I set off again, I spot Bernard and Stéphane’s tandem outside the other café on the opposite side of my street corner. The two friends have already ordered. Shall we carry on together? Bernard replies, “You’re on a roll, you’re in good shape; a Paris-Brest is best enjoyed on your own.” I arrive in Fougères, grumbling like everyone else about an unexpected diversion which, in order to spare us six kilometres of the R.N. 12, forces us to cover extra kilometres, take an even busier road, make an epic detour through town and deprives us of the view of the castle. I tuck into more coffee and croissants whilst a cyclist tells me he rode all the way here last night but can’t seem to get going again. The road to Lassay is a real breeze. For a while, we form a small peloton with a lone rider, some singing cyclists from Pontivy and an exhausted man from Marseille who set off at 8 pm and is hanging on to make it home. A quick glance at the towers of Lassay and the hills start again. Some of them are tough. The group has broken up. Here’s Villaines-la-Juhel and its residents cheering us on. It’s 12.40 and I’m going to eat. At the canteen, I grab everything I can – I’m starving. Sitting at the table, I’m trying to work out if I can make it before midnight.

The road soon gets very hot. The landscape opens up onto the collines of the Maine region, with its harvested wheat and enclosed fields. I rejoin the route of the 600. After Fresnay-sur-Sarthe, the straight road becomes monotonous. The motorcyclists help me cross the busy junction at La Hutte. A little further on, I overtake a cyclist who set off at 8 pm (I’d spotted the colour of his frame plate), who’s struggling up the hill, without so much as a glance. I get an earful! «So, Gillou, don’t you say hello any more?» My friend Bernard Faucheux is making his way back quietly, keeping an eye on the time limit, but feeling confident. At the top of a hill, some children are delighted to hand out squares of chocolate; it’s just as much fun for them as it is for me. Further on, accommodation is on offer in a barn, complete with a host of painted signs; there’ll surely be plenty of takers tonight. Notre-Dame-de-Toute-Aide is a charming little church surrounded by trees, beneath which cyclists are sleeping. I spot a tap by the side of the road where I fill my water bottle. «Don’t forget to wet your cap,» calls out a passing participant; of course not – it’s very hot, and by the time I catch up with him, it’s almost dry. Between Mamers and Mortagne, I pick up the pace and join a large group of people. The wind is behind me, the sun’s at my back, the weather’s glorious and my spirits are high. I arrive in Mortagne at 4.40 pm. In town, I raid a bakery and head for a shaded embankment just outside the town to tuck in. I get through the Perche hills without any trouble; in fact, I really like this hilly, winding and shaded road. At the bottom of a descent, round a bend, the D.D.E. have been working since we passed this way on the way out, digging up the road to cover it with coarse gravel. Near Senonches, an Italian rider takes my wheel, then takes the lead, and we keep picking up speed. I find it amazing that we’re still having such fun after so many kilometres. But I don’t want to push beyond 40 km/h for too long. Shortly before Nogent-le-Roi, a rider who set off at 8 pm, whom I catch up with, quips about the «retro look» of my bike. I realise I set off on «my bike» nine hours after him. Nogent is a rather quiet checkpoint, and the lady at the table confirms that they haven’t seen many people so far. I ring Dad to tell him I’ll be arriving soon; it’s 8.06 pm. My hope of avoiding a third night away seems set to come true, and I feel in great shape.

On leaving Nogent, the road is diverted due to roadworks. During the detour, a rider who claims to be from the A.C.P. insists, rather aggressively, that I check the route on my map, as he thinks we’ve lost our way. I’m now cycling with a Canadian who shares his thoughts on Paris-Brest-Paris. He isn’t yet sure whether he’s glad he did it. Night is falling. On a steep climb, a cyclist falls. He explains that he’d got the hang of his derailleur, wasn’t going fast enough and fell over! Some people really are exhausted! The closer we get, the further away the finish line seems to be. As we enter the built-up area, we find ourselves going round in circles. A voice rings out: «I’m fed up with going round in circles!» Roundabouts, speed bumps and U-turns to avoid town centres are becoming more and more frequent. I regret not having spotted the finish line last Sunday. I also regret not having a detailed map of the area. In Montigny, a car coming towards us tells us the finish is two kilometres away. Yeah, right! We’re still following the signposts. We cycle through an industrial estate that we feel we’ve already passed by. After a while, no more signs! I ask a local who doesn’t know where the finish line is – he’s from Montigny! It’s nearby, but let’s not get confused. The town map standing proudly at the crossroads is for the same little town. A cyclist whizzes past and confirms he recognises the place. The Canadian and I are back on our feet. Finally, the roundabout and the crowd’s applause. Jean-Pierre Guillot quickly cheers me up after my bad mood at the finish. I hand in my card at 11.23 pm. Dad’s there, chatting away. So that’s another Paris-Brest under our belt. ‘Pierre Gros has just arrived,’ he tells me. The Canadian’s delighted, as is the Italian. I’ve done Paris-Brest-Paris and I’ll be back.

After dinner and a short night’s sleep at my parents’ house, on Friday we watched our friends arrive via the Minitel: Bernard and Stéphane, Daniel, Bernard Faucheux, Gisèle and Alain. Finally, I had a clear-out of my handlebar bag and threw away the Overstim cake, which I’d been unable to stomach from the very first quarter but had prudently kept on board.

On Saturday, whilst out on a tandem ride with Marie-Laure, we went to visit Royaumont Abbey.

On Sunday, over the phone, Daniel had the final word: «It took you 66 hours and 23 minutes, but you’ll be talking about Paris–Brest–Paris for much longer than that.”."