Appalachian 1000 K

This unedited article is dedicated to my beloved husband who passed away December 15, 2014.  How I wish he had been able to read it. Without his all encompassing love, compassion, wisdom, and support, I would never have had the strength to challenge myself and I would have missed so very much.  He was  present at my first triathlon, painfully hobbling to the start and waiting at the finish, assuring me I had enough grit in my craw to finish, and he bought me my first grown up bike when he worried I was running too much.  He told me I could have a better bicycle when I was a better rider, and then he kept that promise. I always knew he was waiting, if not at the end of a challenge at home.  Most importantly, I always knew that he loved me:  fat, thin, winner, loser......there was nothing that I could be that he would not accept.

While we both knew this day was coming, I selfishly was hoping that it would not come so very soon.   I say selfishly because he was always in so much pain.  His last words to me were teasing me about us both having gotten the other's Christmas presents and how about going on and opening them as he knew what a stickler I was for traditions at Christmas.  How I now wish we had. 

It was shortly thereafter that a blood clot caused a massive stroke that stole his ability to talk and move.  After a brief hospital stint, I brought him home to pass over as he would have wanted me to do. It is odd how you know what somebody wants without asking after being together over 34 years.  It is odd how difficult it is to not be selfish and hold on despite being told he would never walk or talk again.

There have been times when I have been tempted to stop riding my bicycle, and he would encourage me telling me it was important.  And somehow I know it will play a role in my recovery, in allowing me to move forward despite being more alone and frightened and lost than I have ever imagined being in even my wildest of dreams.  In the end, perhaps his gift of my first bicycle was about this, for he always knew me better than I  know myself and loved me regardless.

He was very brave and my hero.  I am incredibly sad and lost, but I know he would be calling me a "candy ass" and urging me onwards. My world without him has become a "terrible stranger." But I know that he is still waiting for me and doing his best to watch over me because I have never been very smart.  I just don't know how far it is until the end of this challenge.  No split times on this course. And I pray I have enough grit in my craw to last until the end. I have been been a blessed woman to have known a love like that, a love that was always there.  May each of you be so blessed as to know someone who loves you regardless of your flaws, hang ups, bad choices.  May each of you love and be loved. And may you have the strength and wisdom to let that  special person know despite the fact that doing so makes you so very vulnerable.

"I like the mountains because they make me 

feel small," Jeff says.  "They help me sort 

out what's important in life."

Mark Obmascik

It is time to depart, to leave this place, this person, and these pets that are so very dear to me.  And for a fraction of my second, as my eyes drink in their familiar visages and my lips welcome my husband's farewell kiss, soft, lingering and unbearably sweet, his embrace, warm and synonymous with home and safety, I think of just staying here and not riding.  With all of his health issues and his failure to be honest about how he is feeling when he knows I am going somewhere, I worry if he will be okay when I get back. One year when I went to Hell Week, he was admitted to the hospital later in the day.  With his typical generosity, he did not want me to miss something I wanted to do because of his health.  And while I have been an absolute harridan since that time, threatening  him if he ever does such a thing again, I know that he would and no amount of spousal threatening would stop him from repeating his action if he feels it would impact my embarking on a new adventure.  I think perhaps long term illness and pain causes him to appreciate how important it is to live while you can still enjoy it.  Or perhaps he knows that despite good intentions, I could not thrive shut away in a house only leaving to work or go to the grocery. 

Experience has taught me  that I can not live always worrying about what I know will eventually happen to each of us. Also my son, Jeff,  and his wife, Lena, are awaiting my arrival in Annapolis, and while there is a part of me that would like to stay home a greater part of me wants to see them and also knows that I would forever wonder what would have happened if I had ridden. A part of me is eagerly anticipating the adventure and knows that I need it despite being scared to death of it.  Life is not and should not be a lesson in stagnation however comfortable and appealing that may seem at times.  I have never been to Virginia or West Virginia before and I won't get there any younger.  And what better way to see it than by bicycle on a route designed by Crista Borras.

With this thought in mind I head out the door. As Oscar Wilde once said, "To live is the rarest thing in the world.  Most people exist, that is all."  I don't want to just exist:  I want to grow, and learn, and experience.  I want to be brave despite being such a coward at heart. I don't want to die wishing I  had done things that I did not do.  I want to ride my bike.

The land switches from flat to hilly to mountainous during the trip, farmlands yielding to towering aeries.  Briefly I think that is why the best riding requires climbing:  the land is just too wild to be completed tamed and subdued.  Entering Maryland, I see signs indicating that there are bear here.  For some reason, this surprises me.  We have deer and an abundance of wildlife in Kentuckiana, but so far as I know we have no bear in our area.  I wonder if they are aggressive.  Will the thought of a bear keep me from feeling comfortable pulling over for a short shut eye if I feel too sleep to ride safely? In my mind, I go over all I have heard about how to act during a bear attack, but I only remember not to run, good advice when dealing with any predator that is not human, but oh so difficult to remember if one is frightened because it means fighting a basic instinct.

I visit with Jeff and Lena for a few days and organize what I have brought into drop bags, hotel bags, and stay-at-Jeff bags.  I can't decide whether or not to use my carradice or to just stick with a large rear bag and my handlebar bag.  Nick Bull suggests I bring both packing my carradice in my drop bag so that I can add it if I feel it is necessary after the first day.  I heed his sage advice and feel better having it available in case I need it though I end up not using it. Finally organized,  I head for Leesburg. This means driving on the "Beltway," another new experience and quite stressful to someone who is not used to much traffic and is such a poor driver.  Everything is so busy and crowded here.  I wonder how people think with all the noise and bustle.  It is not necessarily bad, just different than what I am used to and rather unsettling.  Still, I am glad that I am just visiting.

I arrive at the host hotel, check in, have my bike inspected, eat, and go to bed. During this time, I meet several of the riders, but I know I will not remember their names.  Not good with matching names to faces in the first place, the stress of the past few days combined with an aging mind has made it more unlikely. Everyone is friendly and welcoming but I still feel rather out of place.  I have trained as best I can, but do I truly belong with these skinny, athletic looking people?  They all look so fit, and then there is me who carries a bit of a belly around with me.  I do love food and were it not for my bicycling I fear I would weigh 300 pounds.

Briefly I wonder if anyone else is nervous and has doubts or if it is just me. So many things can happen on a brevet:  I doubt anyone is completely confident that they will finish. I don't expect to sleep well as normally I toss and turn and sleep only sporadically the night before a challenging ride, but I find myself drifting to sleep easily despite the fact it is only 7:30 p.m. This bodes well for day one.

 The prediction for the first day of the ride is for oppressive heat, something that I have not had enough of this summer to acclimate to for in Indiana we have had an unseasonably cool summer. I respect heat.  I fear heat. During my years of riding, I have seen what heat can do to people and have suffered under his brutal hand myself.  He is merciless and has no heart, squeezing people dry and leaving them with nothing, laughing cruelly all the while, crushing any illusion they have of strength or endurance. I also continue to worry about the course.  With the heat and the hills will it still be a delight or will it turn into a death march? I know three men who are very strong riders who have ridden 1000K rides in Virginia, and all three have warned me about the demands of the Virginia terrain:  Greg Zaborac, Tim Argo, and Bob Bruce.  Each is much stronger than I am, and I begin yet again to question what in the world I am doing here. I have until 7:00 a.m. Monday morning to finish the course I assure myself.  I need not be so very strong to finish in the that amount of time. It is only 623  miles.  Surely with a bit of luck and a lot of determination it is possible.  In the past I have ridden farther, and I have trained assiduously for this ride. But I also realize that I must ride smartly, something more easily said than done.  I decide from the beginning that since it is going to be so hot, I will not press the hills as I often do but gently spin up them, changing gears whenever I find my leg muscles being pressured.

Despite sleeping well, it seems all too early when the alarm goes off, an alarm that I set but almost neglected to wind.  Freudian slip?  I dress quickly and head down to grab something to eat as the hotel check in person had assured me they were serving breakfast at 3:00 a.m. as there were so many riders that would be leaving from the hotel.  Despite it being 3:00, there is nothing there yet other than coffee, yogurt, and cereal, so I head back to my room and down the milk, juice, and bagel that I brought from Jeff's.  I also pack the ham sandwiches with butter on yeast rolls that I made at my son's house to carry on my journey, a trick learned from Steve Rice.

Heading downstairs with my loaded bike, a bike that seems to weigh 100 pounds despite my best efforts to take only what I need,  the lobby/breakfast room that was empty at 3:00 is bursting with activity and sound.   Nervous chatter and laughter fills the void, cleats click against tile floors, derailleurs sing their clicking tune as everyone completes their last minute preparations and hopes that they are one of the lucky ones who finish.  Someone, I believe his name is Mike, is clicking photo after photo as we ready ourselves and for a moment as the flash on the camera triggers relentless, I think that this must be what it feels like to be important and have the paparazzi on one's trail.

Momentarily I desperately long for the comfort of familiar friends who ride the brevets near where I live:  Steve, Dave, Bill, Mark.  There is something about having someone you know on the course even if they are not riding with you, even if you are having one of those times when you need or want to ride alone undisturbed by the demands of companionship.  It is like a life jacket, a source of comfort and safety. I slap myself internally and remind myself to be brave and not such a gutless coward:  it is time to cut the cord that binds me, restricts me.  It is time to assert my independence. For just a moment, I am extremely jealous of the women here who have spouses to ride with and to share their journey with, to help them through those "dark times" that a brevet inevitably holds.  How I wish my husband could ride and not be tied down to an oxygen machine. But in the end, I need to be thankful for what I have:  a supportive husband and friends who encourage me to be here despite the fact many of them think I am off my rocker.  "We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures."  (Thorton Wilder). And I have been blessed with a husband, children, friends, health, employment.

Outside in the darkness, I put the batteries in the GPS charger, a charger made and loaned to me by Steve Rice, the Kentucky RBA.  I download the course to the first control.   Per his suggestion,  I programmed the route from control to control.  It gives me comfort to know that if I mess up one section, I can start afresh at each control.  It also helps me understand some of the nuisances of the course, particularly in those areas where you ride out to a control and turn around.   I have also brought my own GPS to have as a back up.  Yes, people navigate course with no GPS at all, but I do have the most horrible sense of direction and I am not at all familiar with this area.

It is not yet hot outside, but it is clammy.  Just standing there I can tell that the humidity is high and that  it will be one of those days where sweat does not cool you but just stands on your skin until it drips to the ground taking your  life juices and salts with it.  Anticipation can be felt as Nick Bull gives his speech about the course, about calling if you DNF, about safety.  I momentarily panic as I realize I forgot to have anyone sign my brevet card this morning, but I realize that Nick won't be taking off on a bicycle as he rode the prior week.  When Nick asks if anyone thinks they will finish before 55 hours, one man says he hopes to.  Looking at the results, it appears that it was Barry Dickson and that he was successful finishing in 46 hours and 49 minutes.  Unbelievable.  It makes me feel like such a weak, whiny baby.  I know brevets are not races, but what must it feel like to ride so swiftly and conquer the hills so effortlessly?  Would it be a good thing or would you be so caught up in your speed that you miss your surroundings?  Despite the fact that I am not very fast, there are times that I wish I had ridden more slowly and absorbed more of what surrounded me.  Some of my favorite rides have been solo rambles where I creep along stopping to photograph or appreciate the grandeur  of the  scenery.  But there are also those times that I wish I were as swift as the wind and could be home long before it is a reality. In the end I suppose there is no "one size fits all" type of ride, even for the same person.

While waiting, I chat for a moment with a man named Nigel and I wonder if we will ride together at all.   He seems a comfortable sort of person and he even is familiar with my blog.  And then we are off, a blur of white and red lights and reflective gear.  Shortly after we start, I realize I can still hear the night sounds here:  frogs and insects valiantly chanting their farewell to summer.  I will miss this sound, the sound of summer and of life as it yields to the stony, barren silence of winter rides.  And I think how I always celebrate in the spring when the frogs and insects first wake up, hungry for warm summer nights and mating, filling the air and my ears with their joy, a song of hope promising warm weather and rebirth and of long, leisurely rides where you don't have to worry about your fingers or your toes getting cold. 

 I think how differently this group is riding compared to the Kentucky brevets where the front group heads out as if it were a race and there were not so many miles to follow.  The pace is subdued, even slower than I would normally ride.  The route seems to descend forever to Harper's Ferry and I begin to worry about the return trip.  My friend, Paul Battle, warned me that there would be a climb if I was visiting Harper's Ferry.  What a climb it will be at the end of a long journey when I am already worn out, but at the first control someone mentions that this is not an out and back course, something I  knew but had forgotten.  One trick I use on out and back brevets is to tell myself that ever hill I climb I will be able to go down on the return journey.  I am disappointed that it is dark and I can't see this famous place where John Brown once bravely walked, where the states of Maryland, Virginia, and West Virginia all converge.  Tendrils of mist swirl through the lower areas and through the headlights it is as if I can see the dance of small droplets that are the core of its being: silver and beautiful, like a lace shawl, its beauty hiding its potential danger as I am less likely to be seen by any approaching automobile, yet still enchanting and fairy-like. 


After the first control, the larger group begins to break into smaller groups.  Dawn begins to muscle his way into the world, silently but relentlessly, until the last bits of darkness yield. His mane glows and waves with billowing tresses in shades of pink, purple, and gray.  Traces of fog remain hidden in hollows and valleys as we ride along, a resistance movement against the steadily encroaching sun, so I leave my lights on. I am hungry and eat one of my sandwiches.  Butter squeezes out the sides and I rub my greasy fingers on my leg when suddenly the thought arises that a bear may possible like buttered human flesh for dinner. The damage is already done, however. I suppose that any passing bear will prefer me to others due to my sweet butter smell;-)

I wish I could tell you from day to day and hour to hour what happened, but as always on a brevet, the longer I ride the more confused my mind becomes until everything seems to blur together in a rhythm that involves riding, eating, and sleeping:  repeat.  The first day I do remember being surprised at the ease of the course other than the heat.  I remember fields yielding to more mountainous terrain, the verdant green that speaks of fertility and enough rain.  I remember the beauty of the architecture and of the surrounding fields, the camaraderie at lunch where everyone entering the restaurant was welcomed by other riders. I remember the Teresa's friendliness at a control. Mostly, however, I remember the intense heat, heat that will repeat itself the next day. I remember the relief that a brief, late afternoon shower brought, how the rain seemed so cold after the intense heat.  I remember that Norman and I sheltered for awhile in someone's barn when lightening was flashing and he did not laugh at me because I did not have a smart phone or know how to use his before we parted ways.  I remember the rainbow arching lithely over the earth following the rain, off to my left, colorful and oh, so very beautiful. And I remember coming into the overnight control alone and tired and being overwhelmed by the kindness and caring shown by the volunteers.

I hope I never forget how it felt when Crista introduced herself and said that a friend, Greg Smith, had asked her to check and make sure I was okay, as if a soft, fluffy blanket had been wrapped around me.  Mistakenly, I assumed they somehow knew each other.  I hope I never forget the melodious,  mellow sound of Carol's voice and laughter floating through the room, and her tenderness dealing with a rider who came in sick from the heat, unable to eat and nauseous.  Of how she carried his drop bag for him and helped him to his room so that he could recover to ride another day.  I hope I never forget the way the smell of food wafted through the air, heady and enticing, fuel for another day. Or how it felt to take off my riding shoes, to feel my feet sigh with relief. Or how showering felt, the inebriating smell of shampoo and soap, warm and sensuous, washing away the days travels and cares.   Or how the bed was welcoming and warm, a respite from a road and from my long journey.  Sometimes I think that this is what I like the best about brevets: it gives me a new appreciation for things I too often take for granted and a renewed faith in human kindness.  These volunteers will be here all night, doing without sleep, caring for riders as they come and go.  And it will be repeated the following evening by other volunteers and the evening after that.  Who could not want to be part of a club that has such people in it?

Sleeping a few hours, I head back out into the dark hoping to make the first significant climb, Warm Springs Mountain, before the heat once again lays claim to the day and yet again begins relentlessly pounding me with his smoldering fist.  I am more tired than I expected and had trouble drinking the coffee as it was strong and my stomach somewhat unsettled.  I climb and climb, and next to me I hear the rushing, chuckling sound of water, laughing as if it knows some secret that I do not.  I wonder how I missed this sound the prior evening coming into the control as I am tracing my way backward on the same road I came in on.  I wish I could see it rather than just hear it, but it still so dark.  Still it sounds lovely and makes the steady climbing easier somehow.  I worry, however, about two hours later, long after the stream has been left behind, when I find I am averaging only about nine to ten miles per hour.  The climbing is not particularly difficult, but it is demanding and it will be a long day if my pace does not pick up.  Still I know it would be quite unwise to push myself with such a long distance left to cover.  Eventually I meet up with Kelly and we ride together to the bottom of the first big climb.  His company helps to put my sleepiness at bay, and I am wide awake by the time I stop at the store to refuel and he heads onward.

I can't describe for you the loveliness of the climb up Warm Springs Mountain, the rhythm of my pedal strokes, the pattern my breathing takes when I climb, as if my body becomes a song.   I can't say I am sorry when I reach the top, but oddly enough I am not particularly glad either for I have enjoyed the climb, that is until I see what awaits me at the summit.  At first I think my eyes are betraying me, and they are, for there appears to be an ocean winding among the mountains, tapping around corners with an errant paw, arching its back, curling around the edges, and settling down, still but not still as it is fluidity and constant motion, a shining, shimmering sea of mist, blue and gray.  And I begin to cry silently, glad the guys aren't here to see the tears streaming down my cheeks, at finding such beauty in the world.  All the scenery has been delightful, but this view alone is enough to make a 623 mile ride seem insignificant.  It would be a worth a lifetime of climbing and striving and riding to see this, to feel the coolness settle tenderly upon my shoulders like a heavenly shawl.   And I feel small:  small and grateful.  I am grateful to Crista for designing this route, to God for creating such magnificence, and to the DC club that organized the event.

Coming in that evening, once again by the Maury River but this time able to see through the insidiously creeping dusk, I feel like a drunk woman, inebriated by the beauty that filled the day, by the ice sock that kept me from overheating when it was one hundred degrees in Covington. Now the river is going to give me more.  Huge, grey rocks lace the sides of the road forming patterns and the river gurgles and sings and laughs at my human foolishness.  But I am oh, so tired and cannot pedal much faster despite the downhill.  Cimmerian night grabs hold gently brushing my forehead with her cool, soft hand before I reach the end of this road and the cruel last climb after a blessed downhill stretch.  It starts to rain and I find that despite the rain, I need to stop whenever I need to drink as I am having trouble getting my water bottle back in its holder and can no longer do so safely without stopping.  God provides when I am having trouble attaching my jacket to my rear bag so it does not rub the wheel.  There on the ground is an elastic cord just waiting to be picked up.

Again, I am glad I am alone here in the arms of the night, able to do what I need to do to keep myself safe, not feeling any pressure to keep up with others and not impede their progress.   Perhaps I should feel afraid here, alone, in a strange place on strange roads, surrounded by shadows and murky darkness, but oddly enough I do not.  There is so much left to see, but I am temporarily sated.  Like a sponge that has been in water, I can't absorb anymore. Alone I can begin to process everything.

And then there is the third day.  When I leave the control I feel a tad dis-spirited for I am weary, my legs are sore and complaining and my butt hurts. Additionally, I have been warned about the climbs between Lexington and Leesburg and how they will beat a rider up.  200 miles seems a very long way to go when one is already tired. Gratefully, I latch onto someone's wheel as they pass hoping that he does not mind.  I think that this, along with the cooler temperatures, is my salvation.  Would I have finished otherwise?  Probably, but who knows.  Certainly I would not have finished as early or with so little effort because in the end, the third day practically flew by.

 Before long we are climbing again and I call a thank you to this unknown man as he pulls ahead on the climb and settle into my rhythm.  One lesson I learned early on about brevets is the necessity of riding your own pace unless there will be payback for the greater effort, like being sheltered from a strong headwind. Out of the dark on the side of the road Norman appears, temporarily startling me, saying his bicycle has broken and help is being called.  I head on when he assures me he is okay.  There is nothing I can do to help him  and I have "miles to go before I sleep."  (Robert Frost)  I repay the man who gave me the pull when I see him miss a turn and shout out to him so he can turn around.

I later end up spending the rest of the day with the man who turns out to be Paul Donaldson.  He reminds me so of my dear friend, Davy "Packman" Ryan, and I grow comfortable with him quickly, something that is normally quite hard for me. (Packman was a very strong brevet rider consistently arriving at the last control earlier than people who are now Charlie Miller riders.  He never owned or drove a car, but he was paralyzed after being hit by a car, one of life's little ironies). I get the feeling that Paul, like Packman, has forgotten more about randoneurring than I have yet learned.  Of course, he started riding brevets in 1992 while I was still rearing children and would have joined the crowd in thinking anyone riding brevets was, well, just a little bit off.  Rather than soaking myself in scenery this day, though I did some of that, I immerse myself in friendship and laughter and the telling of stories.  The miles pass unbelievably quickly as we laugh and joke.

At one point, on a descent, I feel something moist pelt my arm momentarily wondering if it has started to rain.  A large purple splotch is there, and I mean large.  It have been pooped upon by some gigantic bird.  Luckily, I carry wet wipes on rides and it is on my skin and not my clothing.  I complete the descent and clean myself.  Later in the ride, a truck pulls out in front of Paul and I, a truck carrying turkey dung.  It seeps through the cracks in the trucks siding and tail and dusts us with feces from head to foot.  Now if you have never smelled turkey/chicken dung, you have much in life to be thankful for.  One year, my husband got me a load for my garden for some holiday:  birthday, anniversary.  I just don't remember.  What I do remember is not being able to garden that year or spend any time outside of the house because of the pungent aroma wafting through the air.  I tease Paul about being shit upon twice in one day in one ride.  We also laugh about my inability to find any fried chicken along the route, something I have been craving since the ride start for some reason.  I suppose, as Bill Pustow once told me, it helps to coat the stomach with grease at times on long rides.   


Jim and Roger join us a bit out from the end, though Jim later says he is going to drop back. Nobody else appears to have noticed the house I noticed a day or two ago that allegedly was designed by Thomas Jefferson and I think about how each ride is unique to each rider. I keep teasing Paul saying he said he would have me home by midnight, and he does. 

And it is somehow over.  I have not been eaten by a bear or fallen off a mountain top.   All the planning, training, and hard work lead to fruition. Not just in completing the course, however.  I am not quite the same person I was when I embarked on this journey, and I suspect that the others are not either.  I am a bit stronger, and I realize more that my strength has grown only through the giving of others.  Christa, Nick, God, the mountains, and so many others.......more precious the gift in that it was given by strangers.  Thank you all for this feeling of accomplishment. Hopefully one day I can return the favor and pay back. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."  (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)

What is Randoneuring: To Steve Rice who asked me to write this for the club web site.....this probably was not what you had in mind, but it is what came out

It has been awhile since I was asked to write something defining what randoneuring is all about.  I am quite certain that the person who asked that I write it thinks I have forgotten, but I have not.  The moment just was not right.  Always the words have escaped me dancing just outside my reach, there and alive but unfailingly elusive, giggling at my discomfort, promising but not delivering, taunting, refusing to ground so that I can take hold.  How do you share something you both love and hate when those around you who have not been there already think you are surely not quite right if not downright crazy or lying.  As I often tell the people manning the cash registers at stores along the route, "They say there is one born every minute.  And you have a whole group of them coming here today. Lucky you;-)" Yet while it may hold common threads, randoneuring is as individual as the fools, er people, who ride them.

How do you explain to someone why they should ride a long distance on a bicycle, through the night, through the wind, through the sun, through the cold, through the rain, through whatever conditions fickle fate decides to throw at you often without any or adequate sleep because brevets are canceled only if it is deemed dangerous to ride?  How do you explain to someone why they should ride a long distance on a bicycle when it makes their butt hurt and their knees ache and their legs cramp and their mind has the unusual freedom to swirl with new ideas or thoughts?  How do you explain to someone what could be enjoyable about putting yourself in a situation that is potentially dangerous?  How do you explain the weariness, the doubts, the struggles,  both mental and physical, and how these challenges contribute to the sweetness and total exhilaration of the victory or the bitterness of the defeat? How do you tell someone that you can learn as much, or perhaps more, from your failures than from your successes? Or that both contribute to your being you, unique in all the world?  And how do you describe the joy and humor and sadness that the scenery and the thoughts and the experiences stir up within your heart leaving you achingly fulfilled yet somehow yearning for more? The bonding with fellow travelers along the same route? The reliving of ancient memories.  The joy of seeing the final control that also is sometimes oddly mixed with a sadness that your journey has ended?

Because there is something about brevets, any brevet but particularly longer brevets, that gives you some insight into who you are and what you are made of and of what is important to you.  Even if you decide to ride a shorter brevet and never to do something so silly as to ride approximately 750 miles in less than 90 hours, the distance of a 1200 brevet, (none offered locally)  you will have gained insight into who you are, what you are made of,  and what is important to you because that is the nature of a challenge, the gift of a challenge,  and brevets are a challenge, even for the most accomplished cyclist.  The words of C. Joybell come to mind:

"I feel that we are often taken out of our comfort zones, pushed and shoved out of our nests, because if not we would never know what we could do with our wings, we would never see the horizon or the sun setting on it, we would never know that there is something far beyond where we are at this moment. It can hurt, but later you say, "Thank you."

And that is part of what a brevet does:  it takes you outside of your comfort zone, even if it is a repetition of a course or distance you have traversed previously.  And it may and often does hurt.  Will you be able to ride the distance?  Will you be able to find the correct roads or get hopelessly lost, doomed to wander the unfamiliar country side until you can go no further?  Will you ride alone or with a group?  Will your bicycle hold up mechanically or will your suffer a break down?  If it does breakdown, will you be able to fix it? How will you get home if not by bike?  Will the night or the heat or the wind or the cold or the rain overwhelm you and win or will you overcome them entering the last control with the prideful mantel of victory cloaking your shoulders?  Will you make the smart choice and live to ride another day during those times when it is not wise to go further and will you have the guts to try yet again in the future learning that defeat need not be permanent and can be a springboard to success? Will you find the divorce papers on the kitchen counter when you get home after spending more time making love to your bike than you do with your spouse?  And how do you thank someone who supports you in your quest? And in the answer to these questions and other questions, you will learn more about who you are, and you may gain a greater appreciation of others as well. And you will say, "Thank you."

In the end, even if you ride a brevet with others, you are alone in your acceptance of responsibility.  There is no one guaranteeing to sweep you in as there is on a club ride. There is no one who is responsible for fixing your flat tire or for waiting for you on a hill or for loaning you money or equipment if you came ill prepared.  Often, indeed normally, there are others who will stop and help those in need, but there is no guarantee.  When it happens it is from the heart and not from obligation and thus ten thousand times more precious, like when your husband brings you flowers not because it is your birthday but just because he wants you to know that he loves you.  What increases the sweetness of the offer of help is that it is not required.  And perhaps there is a sense of pride that comes with accepting responsibility for yourself, a lost art in a modern society where it sometimes seems that everything is someone else's fault.  I suppose what I am trying to say is that a challenging brevet, whether one rides it successfully or not, is or can be character building.  "Character isn't something you are born with and can't change, like your fingerprints. It's something you weren't born with and must take responsibility for forming." - Jim Rohn - And each of us, I would hope, strives to better themselves, to become the best they can be with the talents and gifts were are given.

A challenge can be a 200K or a 1200K brevet depending on your background, equipment, and fitness level.  The challenge is not the distance particularly, it is setting the goal and planning to give yourself the best chance of meeting that goal.  The challenge is in dealing with yourself if you fail to meet the goal, for it is much easier to be a gracious finisher than to be a gracious non-finisher.  The challenge is leaving a warm, dry control in the middle of the night to head out into a cold rain or a ferocious wind for no other reason than you want to conquer the weather and accomplish the goal that you set for yourself.  The challenge is in going without sleep, but knowing when this sleep deprivation impacts you to the point where you are unsafe.  The challenge is in throwing yourself once more into the jaws of the wind. The challenge is in being alone with yourself and your thoughts and in conquering your doubts and negativity.  The challenge is leaving your sense of self and merging with the group you are riding with if you are sharing your journey. The challenge is in conquering the negative thoughts that tell you to just quit, mastering self doubt. And I could go on and on.  Very rarely have I ridden an entirely easy brevet, whether a 200 K or a 1200 K. And remember this:

"The brick walls are there for a reason.  The brick walls are not there to keep us out.  The brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something. Because the brick walls are there to stop those who don't want it badly enough."  Randy Paush

In the end I find the words to define randoneuring still elude me, and I have not done a good job.  Writing, like randoneuring, can be a challenge.  In the end perhaps randoneuring for me is a love/hate quest that connects me not only with other riders, but with the endurance that has allowed human kind to not only surmount, but to triumph over obstacles, both internal and external.  And I am glad I was pushed out of the nest.  My wings continue to grow and I will mourn the time when age inexorably clips them, but think of the memories that I will have.  Ride on, friends, ride on.

Paris Brest Paris 2011

"Sure I am this day we are masters of our fate, that the task which has been set before us is not above our strength; that its pangs and toils are not beyond our endurance.  As long as we have faith in our own cause and an unconquerable will to win, victory will not be denied us."  Winston Churchill 


Finally I am on my way to Paris, France. The long months of training and waiting are finished.  I will either succeed or fail, and there is not much I can do at this late date to tilt the scales either way.   I am determined to succeed, to be victorious,  but I hope I have the inner fortitude to accept failure if it should happen.  As much as I hate to admit it, some things are out of my control.  

Traveling stresses me to no end as it is so unfamiliar to me.  Vacations were postponed to save for college expenses when the children were small with only the occasional week-end foray into different neighboring states. Now my chicks are grown, and for the most part what I earn is my own and there is a world to explore.  Being a social worker I am not highly paid, but I am a saver. For the first time, I book a flight on line and print my own boarding pass. In 2007 when I attended PBP,  I traveled through Claus and his travel agency, Desperes, but his schedule is not the schedule that I hope to have this time. In 2007 some people had to spend the entire first day in the airport waiting for the bus to the motel. Unlike my wondrous daughter who is the soul of patience and understanding and still takes my breath away as she did when I first gazed in awe upon her tiny face and held her to my breast to suckle knowing that my life was somehow irrevocably changed, somehow more than what it was before, I am impatient with waiting and an entire day in an airport would seem an eternity. 

I briefly ponder my daughter recently thanking me for teaching her how to wait. Can a person teach something that they don't possess?  She is beautiful in her waiting, unseasoned wisdom and patience in her eyes.  During the flight I wonder if there will ever be a man wise enough to see through those thorns and pluck the rose that is encased within or if she will spend her life alone.  But it is her life and she must live it to suit herself and not her mother. As the Graham Nash song says, "And in the end remember it's with you that you have to live."  What a different life I would have lived if I had lived the life my mother envisioned for me.  Despite the fact she wanted only the best for me our definitions of what is best vary drastically: I think I would have been very unhappy.

One of my saddest moments of PBP 2007 was seeing Dave and Steve leave for their plane the day after the event knowing that I had to stay an extra night when I did not feel well enough to do much of anything and knew nobody to commiserate with or with whom to share tales.  The glow of successfully completing the course had faded and and while I nursed a nugget of satisfaction in my core, I was left with an all encompassing fatigue such as I had not known before. I would much rather have my extra day in France prior to the event rather than stay an extra day when I know that every fiber of my being will suffer exhaustion and will long for my husband, the home of my heart, and for my little stone house and the lure of the familiar. For a moment I wonder what madness possessed me to return to ride this ride again: 2007 was so difficult.

But this year I will not have to wait after the event, only before, but still there is stress. The packing up the bike and worrying that it will get there and not be broken, the trying to get work in order so that things will run smoothly while I am gone, the trying to get my house in order,  the  packing of suitcases and hoping that I will have the right clothing for the weather, the wandering through airports and trying to find where I need to be, the necessity of having different currency, the anxiety of being unable to speak the language and to ask questions of those around me, and the nervousness of finding my way hold me momentarily captive despite the fact I have traveled the same flights as Dave King, despite the fact Steve Rice has assured me that Bill Pustow and he will be there with a taxi when we leave the plane.  At heart I believe I must be quite the coward, and I wonder that anyone tolerates me.

I think that this stress is good for me though, that it is a form of living death to become too comfortable with one's existence, that perhaps people quit growing when this happens.  Growing and changing is not always a comfortable experience.  In fact, change is normally decidedly uncomfortable.  It humbles me to think how much of this world is foreign to me. Complacency,  perhaps, has a cost.  I realize yet again that I treasure these friends who encourage me to overcome my fears and weaknesses and become a bit more than what I was before. What a blessing it is to have friends.  Not everyone has a friend, and certainly everyone does not have friends like these.  How very sad that is.  These friends were the very ones who first encouraged me to take a chance at conquering an event like PBP, a 1200 kilometer bicycle event that must be completed within a 90 hour time limit.   I puzzle over whether they know how I cherish them, these men who allow me to share the roads with them without asking for or expecting things that I cannot give them. Sometimes I don't quite know why they are my friends as I am not particularly clever or beautiful or talented, but I have come to accept that it is enough that they are my friends. "One doesn't know, till one is a bit at odds with the world, how much one's friends who believe in one rather generously, mean to one." (D.H. Lawrence).   Perhaps the love of distance and the bike is what bonds us?  I wonder sometimes that the sport does not draw more women, and my friend, Greg Smith, another friend who encouraged me,  has discussed this with me.  Whatever the reason, the man to woman ratio from the USA this year is somewhere around 12 women to 100 men, and most of the people I normally ride with are male. I have female friends that I love dearly, but few of them ride a bicycle.

The ride to the motel, the Campagnile in St. Quentin en Yvelines, wakens us as the driver recklessly brakes in tunnels, swerves out of his lane, and misses other cars by inches. To come this far and be injured not on the bike, but in a car accident, seems too cruel to imagine.  The right side of the van shows the signs of previous crashes,  silver creases deeply etched in the white paint. Still the taxi fit four bicycles and numerous suitcases and four riders as well as the driver and it is heading in the right direction.  All is said when we reach the motel and Steve Rice looks at me and says he wishes that I had been driving for I am the archetypical female driver;  I am among the worst of the world's drivers, and his words tell me just how bad the driving looked from the front passenger seat.  Before his comment, I thought perhaps it was my imagination.   Still, we have arrived and are safe and it is time to assemble the bicycles.  

Originally Steve was going to help me pack my bike as it has been four years since I last packed a bicycle and that was with his help, but my husband wants me to go with him to pick peaches prior to leaving and I cannot deny him or myself that pleasure knowing that I will be leaving him alone for 10 days and understanding the sacrifices we have made to get here. So often he does not feel well enough to do things any more, and it is delightful to spend some time together with this man that I love, generously laughing and holding hands, carrying the bushel baskets overflowing with peaches,  and sharing the memories that are our life. I know I will remember this day and hold it dear, the smell of fresh peaches and the warmth of the morning sun will mingle with memories of his dear face, the arms that have held and protected me through happiness and sorrow. I will remember that this man has loved me and supported me when I am most unlovable and flawed. That memory will be worth more than any bicycle or bicycle ride.  If my bike is packed correctly fine, and if not I will be fine:  disappointed but fine.

Now, however,  I have to unpack a bike that may or may not have been properly packed and figure out how to make it whole.  While I love to ride bikes, having a good grasp of how they work and how to fix them when they don't work is not my forte.  I try to visualize the correct order to put things back together hoping I will only need to ask for help with the pedals, and mostly I am able to get everything where it belongs. Steve Rice graciously helps with the rest.  Despite the fact we are a day earlier than in 2007, there are still other bike cases scattered in front of the hotel with their owners working diligently to get them back together.  Tomorrow will be our trip to Paris by bike, the only pre-ride I will do other than the ride into the bike check prior to the start of the event. Briefly I take a short ride and all seems to be working.  I park my bike in the bike room within the hotel and check into my room eager to wash off the smell of travel. 

After a good nights sleep (I was quite happy I brought my own pillow from home), I go down to breakfast. the petit dejeuner..  The breakfast room has changed since 2007, but not the delicious fare.  There are all manner of pastries and breads, crepes and cereal, jambon and fromage (ham and cheese, some of the most useful of french words), and all manner of delightful tastes and textures.  I try the coffee, but as I remember it is quite strong and slaps you across the face.  Unlike my friend Steve Royse who loves this fierce coffee, I prefer to ease into morning gradually with weaker coffee. Bill is already eating and encourages me to try the coffee au lait.  While I am not very adventurous with foods, I decide to try it  and find that I like the taste; I like it a lot.  It reminds me of  the year we lived in England when I was 9, getting sick and Cliffy asking if I wanted warm milk.  I assumed she meant hot chocolate, but such was not the case.  She literally meant warm milk. But they do have hot chocolate here as well, a drink the French appear to appreciate as much as I do.


After breakfast, we meet to test our bicycles and ride into Paris.  Dave, Bill, and I all have on club jerseys.  They are wearing the red captains jersey and I am wearing my yellow jersey.  It is the first time I have worn the jersey since winning it a few years ago. The fleur de lis on the jerseys briefly makes me think of the connection between France and Louisville, something I had not considered before.  If I remember correctly, the fleur de lis was a symbol of the Plantagenets representing faith, wisdom and chivalry. I let the thought go when I cannot think of a  Plantagenet named Louis. Perhaps Geoffrey? Perhaps I am wrong in my association. So many things that I do not know, and not enough life, mind, or time left to learn them. 

I think of 2007 and miss Joe Camp and Steve Royse.  Joe did not come this year and Steve is not arriving until today, too late to join us.  Soon into the ride, I realize that my steering does not seem quite right.  I can't determine if this is because of riding with the carradice, or if I put it together incorrectly.  Still it is not significant enough to stop and try to fix at this point and we continue toward Paris passing Versailles.  Around us are countless people on bicycles:  men in suits and women in dresses heading toward work.  Many carry a back pack slung over their shoulders.  There are rows of bicycles on the curbs that people can rent. At least I assume they are for rent.  Momentarily I imagine a city where there are bicycles freely available to all.   Bike lanes rule, but everyone seems to make allowances for bicycles whether they are in the bike lane or whether there is a bike lane or not.  Indeed, some streets run the bike lane down the middle of the road with curb protection on each side and their own little set of traffic lights with a bicycle in the middle of the light that work to allow pedestrians to cross the bike path.  Even as we make our way around the round about at the Arc de Triomphe, cars seem to yield to the cyclist melting out of my way at the last moment when I think a crash is surely inevitable. Bicycles are just so accepted here, a part of life rather than an anomaly.

In places the streets are still ancient cobblestone and our bikes rattle and groan protesting that they are not mountain bikes but road bikes.  It is a good way to test your bike and to be sure that  nothing is lose,but this may be taking it to extremes.  I find my bike is not shifting correctly and is jumping gears behind.  I will have to decide whether to try to fix it myself, locate a bike shop, or plan on having it fixed at a control.  I remember Tom Armstrong telling us in bicycle repair class to turn the little knob one quarter turn at a time, yet I can't remember for sure which way he suggested trying first. But I will deal with that later.  For now I am enjoying my ride through this city.

In 2007 our Paris bicycle trip was more about passing the tourist sights, but this year  though we do pass Notre Dame, the Louvre,  and the Eiffel Tower, it is more about seeing different bicycle shops. It feels different. I relax and let go of 2007.  Experiences just never can be duplicated, so they have to be appreciated on their own merits. A few shops are closed and Bill, who lived in Europe for a number of years during his working years,  explains that in Europe people close shops for extended periods of time while they are on vacation.  We finally reach the shop of Alex Singer and it is closed; however, there is no vacation sign on the door and the grill over the front door is up so we determine the store may be closed for lunch.  We decide to get our own lunch. We find a place that serves the traditional ham and cheese on a baguette.  Sitting on the curb experiencing the marvel of this sandwich, I wonder why the taste cannot be duplicated at home in the United States; but it has not been or if it has been I have not yet found the shop.  Kind of like croissants:  they have them at home but the texture lacks the rich flakiness of the french croissants.  And there is real butter everywhere, rich and creamy:  not the pale imitation spreads I have at home. We eat and then return to the Singer shop.  The bicycle in the window lures me and I spend a minute or two admiring the beauty and being glad that there are people in this world who can create such art.  How fulfilling it must be to be able to combine usefulness with beauty.  I will dream of this green bicycle as a starving man dreams of food.  What a greedy girl I am wanting yet another bicycle.  Two other people are waiting on their bicycles, and soon the shop person arrives by bicycle and opens the shop so we can look inside.

When we return to the motel, Steve Royse and Steve Wyatt have arrived and are putting their bicycles together.  It appears that this year there was no waiting at the airport.  There are smiles and hugs and stories of past rides floating through the air.  Those with the internet will be endlessly checking weather predictions for the next couple of days before the ride starts as if it really matters for we will ride regardless.  The only thing the weather prediction affects is what I will lug with me on my bike, and I will be taking everything I reasonably "might" need anyway because weather is fickle.  Still it feels weird to be without access to the internet or a telephone.  Everyone is comparing the prices they paid to ship their bicycles, and there does not appear to be any consistency even within the same airline. 

Mainly, other than an evening trip in by train to Paris for dinner, the remainder of the time before the event will be spent eating and resting.  The guys will remember the mussels swimming in "stinky" cheese and beer from the trip, but I will remember the sound of our footsteps as we  walk through the darkening streets with history popping up everywhere and the soft chatter and laughter of friends caressing me and holding me close.  I will remember the warmth of the smiles and the hum of people around me saying things that I do not understand but wish I did. I will remember the ice creams we bought that were scooped into cones so that the ice cream looked like an open rose, and how the beauty of the presentation made it taste much better than it might have otherwise.  Oh, I am such a girl.  The  guys would laugh sometimes if they knew my true thoughts on such things.  It is not often I share.  I try not to be a bother.

Before you know it Saturday arrives and it is time to take our bikes for inspection and registration.  It is required that you show your lights and back up lights and your reflective gear.  I have my new RUSA vest that meets the French requirements, but I also have purchased another that I hope is a bit smaller.  I worry briefly about the vest I have and whether it will be too hot, but later it turns out to be perfect for the weather.  Bill, Dave, Steve, and I ride over and I try to memorize my way back to the motel so that I don't get lost if I finish alone. While I have made progress in dealing with it, I have a fear of getting lost that is a constant battle for me where intellect battles emotion.  It is an irrational fear and I have no idea what terrible thing I think might happen if I lose my way, but there you go:  that is why fears are often irrational as they make no sense. Emotions just are. It is not a good fear for a randonneur, but as I once told my friend, Grasshopper, if you ride long enough you eventually come out somewhere, and I have found that I can ride a long way when necessary or desired. It makes no sense that I have no dread of riding this entire event alone, but I don't.

My bike makes it through inspection with no problems, and it is time to go through registration.  I have wrapped my lights in plastic not trusting the e-delux due to numerous on-line tales of failure and Steve Rice's lights failure in one of the qualifying brevets.  Following the ride, Jeff Bauer tells me his light failed during the ride. The registration line is short and moves quickly, and directly I am given the numbers for my bicycle and my helmet.  It is not as impressive as it was in 2007 when there was a table that obviously was for each individual country, but it is efficient.  With the rain in 2007, everything was moved indoors and there were no outside booths as there were this year. There is also a neck pouch and my brevet card included in the package.  I will use this pouch to carry my passport and brevet card the entire ride, slipping it inside my jersey or jacket except when I am having the card signed. This time RUSA has also supplied a nifty little name tag for your bike with your name and USA designation. The young lady helping me explains that I need to fill in medical and emergency information on my brevet card prior to the event.  Last time I stupidly forgot to do that, but this time I manage to remember when I return to the hotel. 

Unlike 2007, there seem to be fewer booths to tempt my pocket book, but I do end up buying a jersey, a rain cap, and a tee shirt.  I am spending money like I have it, but it is fun and a luxury I don't normally allow myself.  Earlier this week I haunted the shops and bought gifts for my family: chocolate for the men and lace scarves for the ladies. There are all sort of bicycles here, many with ingenious inventions to meet the riders needs.  One rider had modified a tennis racket to make a rack for the back of his bicycle that was lightweight but would hold what he needed to carry. The ingenuity astounds me.  My husband worked for a few days inventing a device to keep my handlebar bag from touching my front wheel. The guys will make fun of it saying it is a phallic symbol and will later decorate it with a red knob on the front, but it works and it was built with love.

After registration we easily pedal back to the motel passing cyclists that are on their way to a later registration time.  We each attach our numbers to our bicycles and to our helmets. Initially I attach mine over the cables, so I have to remove the number and redo it. Duh! Drop bags have to be prepared and taken to the trucks and I have to pack my carradice and handlebar bag with those things I will carry with me on my adventure.  Each drop bag contains a change of clothing, a towel, spare tubes, a folding tire, and gels and energy bars.  My first PBP I did not use any gels or energy bars, but I have vowed to ride more smartly this time, and part of that is better nutrition and not becoming so depleted.  I make a trip to the ATM to make sure I have enough money to carry me through as I know of no place to stop on the ride to get more. When we later take the drop bags to the trucks, I take note of a Subway as I know I will need some type of nourishment to take to the start as it is at dinner time and most stores in France still close on Sundays, like the United States when I was a child.  Suitcases will need to be ready for check out and stored in the luggage room once it is no longer the bicycle room.  And then I must rest.  

But before resting, I need to decide what to take with me.  My handlebar bag is for food.  In my carradice I pack clothing and tools.  I have a wool undershirt, arm warmers, leg warmers, wool gloves, and an extra pair of gloves that are water resistant.  I have my rain jacket. I have spare tubes and a spare folding tire.  I have medications and personal care items such as a toothbrush and toothpaste and floss.  Before you know it, I have about what feels to be about fifteen to twenty extra pounds of stuff to cart up and down the rolling hills that are PBP.  I try to whittle the weight:  each item is carefully examined and thought about.  It is no use.  I will be more comfortable toting it all than I will be not having it if I need it. The only thing I leave behind that I originally packed was a wind vest, and that is because the reflective vest seems as if it will be warm. I realize too well how cold can debilitate you, sapping your will to succeed and sapping your strength until you are shriveled and wanting.  I know from other longer rides that no matter how I prepare or what I carry, there will be times when all I want is to throw my hands up, white flag flying, and I know from the past that I will fight this giving in with all of my being.  It is a physical and mental scrimmage: cold will not be only thing I contend with on this ride. I also have brought a cheap camelbak to wear until the first stop at mile 87 and then discard.  If I were faster, I would take much less; but I am not so very fast.

I am surprised by my ability to sleep the night before the start.  Often I suffer insomnia the night before an event.   When I was doing triathlons, my husband would chide me for racing the tri the night before.  Eventually I got it under control the majority of the time.  Maybe I am becoming comfortable enough with distance bicycle rides that insomnia will now be a thing of the past.  Despite my reluctance to use any drug, I did use melatonin for the first time when arriving in Paris to help with the jet lag.  Perhaps that is the reason. Perhaps it is from being in Paris late (for me) the previous evening or just the luck of the draw, I find sleep easily and I let him claim me,  wrap his arms around me, surrendering completely to halcyon oblivion.  And then it is Sunday.  The strain is evident from the moment I come down to breakfast.  I can hear it in voices and see it in the nervous movements of the others around me.  People are checking their bikes like Santa checks his list, not once but twice.  Movements are jerky and less fluid.  At this moment, I know what people mean when they say that the air is electric.  It is almost tangible, this anticipation.

Originally I intend to have pizza as my pre-ride meal, but the others want McDonalds and I go along.  I want food that is filling and has a high sodium content, and McDonald's or pizza fit the bill.  All this rest and all this eating, I should be as full as a tick.  More weight to carry up hills, I think to myself.  Before eating,  we move our bicycles from the bicycle room to the hallway so they will be easier to get to and we talk about the time to head over to the start.  I know from experience it will be a long wait with everyone pushing and crammed in like sardines.  It is almost impossible to stay together as a group.  In 2007, I grabbed onto Steve Royse's carradice to keep from getting separated. Hating crowds the way I do, it is one of my least favorite parts of the ride, but it is part of the ride experience.  This year the ride is to start earlier rather than the 10:00 p.m. start time.  

After lunch I rest and read for just a bit keeping my legs elevated, then I dress and head downstairs dropping my suitcases off in the bag room.  The outside is crowded and if anything the tension has increased.  We head over stopping at Subway on the way to grab a sandwich to take.  It is the hottest day there has been since we arrived, and I know I will need extra water while waiting in line.  I take a throw away bottle of water.

The waiting is in and of itself an experience.  Our group happens to pick the wrong line, and despite getting there quite early we don't manage to get out until the fifth wave.  All that is except Dave who left with the fourth wave despite the fact that most of the time he was a bit behind us in line. The movement of the line makes no sense and depends on metal gates that appear to be opened or closed into starting chutes at random without rhyme or reason.  Unlike 2007, the earlier start time means that despite getting out in a later wave I can see better as it is still light outside, and I am grateful as there are narrowing roads and roundabouts with unexpected curbs.  I still remember the horrible sound of someone crashing near the start in 2007, then sound of scraping on the pavement made worse by the darkness and the crowd.

While in line, though I hate crowds and waiting like this, it engages me to see the riders from different countries and their bikes and hear people talking.  Some conversations I can understand and others I cannot. I watch in disbelief as one woman pulls a bag of make up out of her handlebar bag saying she thought it might be easier if she could put on make-up during the ride to make herself feel better.  Another man brags about DNFing in 2007 and not being trained enough to finish this year.  His rationale for attending was that it meant a trip to Paris.  I don't understand this, but there is much in this world that is beyond my ken. Amazingly, one woman lights a cigarette to smoke before the ride.  Around us there are multitudes of watchers and entertainment:  musicians with bagpipes and people in costumes on stilts. I am toward the center and can't get a good shot of these performers, but the music is uplifting.  At times I become annoyed as people are bumping and pushing me with their bicycles and their persons and I am not a patient person and I like my physical space, but I know that we are getting closer to starting all the time and I counsel myself to be patient.

We finally arrive at the start after a two to three hour wait.  I have eaten a sandwich while in line, ran to the bathroom while Steve held my bike, and drank the extra water that I did not intend to carry on the bike.  I have taken a picture for a man from another country of him and his buddy.  I am weary of standing. My feet are beginning to ache. As we near the start, attitudes change and smiles begin to flicker across faces. I feel myself inflating inside with excitement.  The journey is about to begin.   All of us here, whether or not we understand each other, are challenging ourselves, and all of us love the bikes.  All of us have worked and sweated and planned and dreamed for this moment.  Maybe because it is an event rather than a race, nationalities seem to unite.

Finally the gun sounds and our wave is off.  I  remind myself not to get caught up so early in giving chase to others.  Some of the cyclists appear to be riding individually; others are clustered together with others from their country wearing special jerseys.  My choice to start this year was my 2007 PBP jersey.  It is a personal thing with me from my running days:  you can't wear a shirt or jersey until you earn it.  Still I appreciate the idea of countries identifying their participants and may need to change my thinking in this area.  I find myself at the front of a long pace line, and I force myself to slow and drop back to accept the draft.  It will be an hour or more before the crowds thin.  I end up near Bill, and despite dropping back we pass rider after rider.  Steve Rice pulls ahead, and Dave is long gone. Some of the riders I encounter have good riding skills, but others seem squirrely so I pay particular attention to those I don't know, mostly everyone, trying to prevent or avoid an accident. Throughout the ride I remain alert for riders stopping without giving any indication they will be stopping or pulling out in front of me.  Weariness will exacerbate poor handling skills.  I notice early on that more riders wear helmets than in 2007.  In fact, I encounter very few riders that do not have on helmets.

The first fifty miles or so are fairly flat and I make good time.  Then we hit the forest, the Foret Domaniali Ramboullet,  and the start of the climbs.   There are never any really serious hills steepness wise, but they are relentless for most of the course.  I don't remember this forest from 2007, maybe because it was dark and I was occupied doing my best to hang onto Joe and Steve or maybe because of the incessant rain and wind, but it is breathtakingly beautiful. Like many of the villages we pass that are centuries old, it seems settled somehow, something you can rely on to go on much the same tomorrow as it does today giving stability to the world.  Everything is so green and verdant.  I wonder if one of these hills was the one where in 2007 on the return someone shouted, "Bravo, Madame USA."  Throughout the ride, the French people will be out supporting us with cheers and giving out water and other goodies.  Bill and I discuss how different it is, that in the USA our children would complain of boredom after the first two or three riders passed.  The French adults and children warm my heart with their desire to be supportive. Throughout the ride families and individuals are there giving riders water, cheers, sugar cubes, and other goodies.

Even with the extra weight of my bags and the drag of my hub generator, I find I am climbing well.  We will ride through the night, the next day, and part of the next night before stopping to sleep for a few hours.  Bill and I talk about sleep stops.  I tell him that my plan is to get to Loudeac and see how I feel.  If I feel as if I can go on, I will.  If not, I will sleep there as I did in 2007.  I can tell he is wanting to plan on pressing onward, and that is fine.  I learned in 2007 that I need to ride my own ride and not someone else's  ride. He must do the same. During long rides, it is  not unusual for me to go through periods of feeling strong and well to periods of feeling weak and wanting to give in.   I need to use those moments when I am feeling powerful while still being careful to pace myself.  It is unusual to find someone whose rhythm matches your own, but so far Bill and I seem to be matching paces.  If this changes, I can ride alone.

We delay putting on our reflective gear as long as possible because of the heat.  Even with evening gradually blanketing us in darkness, I am covered with sweat.  This will change during the nights and the second day of the ride when I am at times gratefully wearing everything that I brought to stay warm other than my short sleeved wool top.  But for now, it is hot and I am glad for the training I had in 90 degree temperatures at  home.

It seems a long time before we hit Mortagne, the first control.  It is an optional control so we don't get our cards stamped here, but we stop and eat.  I remembered that they have mashed potatoes and have been looking forward to them. They are bland and seem to settle my stomach which was beginning to worry me with a faint hint of what I suffered in 2007.   I drink not one, but two cans of Coca Cola sending silent apologies to my dentist, my middle brother. One thing I remember is that I need to force myself to eat and drink. Deficits are hard to recover from, particularly when there is little sleep.  It is a relief to lose the camelbak as it is beginning to bother my neck, and I wonder at the riders that are able to carry backpacks the entire way rather than using panniers or carradices or other baggage holders.  Mostly these riders seem to be European, but it makes me think momentarily of Packman.  How I wish he had been able to do this ride.  I feel sure he would have been a Charly Miller rider.  Before I left the states I openly lamented the lack of Sprite that would be available during the ride, and I giggle thinking of his response that he would have taken his own and had it in his backpack. I think that I am glad he is my friend.

We eat quickly once we work our way through the line, and then it is back on the road.  We share a large bottle of water, filling our bicycle bottles.  Looking back, we might have been better served time-wise stopping at one of the cafes we saw open along the way earlier on, but I had made my plans based on 2007 without taking into account the different starting time, something that will come back to bite me at the end of the ride. In 2007, I don't remember all these places being open.

The controls pass quickly and the countryside flies by.  At one point, I look to my right and am awestruck at seeing a castle. I stop to take a photograph and Bill patiently stops as well.  We talk briefly about what it must be like living in a castle.  I have been admiring gardens along the way. There are vegetable gardens that in themselves are works of art, but almost every home has a flower garden bursting with a collage of color.  It is as if every gardener here is an artist and planting is not just utilitarian.  I like to garden, but I have done nothing to compare to this,  and I marvel at the complexity that ironically seems so simple.  I briefly wonder if the cooler temperatures affect the lushness that is the french countryside.  I marvel at the lack of litter along the way and think that the French must be a proud and caring people for there to be so little litter. I did not see one pop bottle or pop can discarded along the side of the road.  The little trash I did see seemed to be from inconsiderate riders who had used energy gels and dropped the empty packages in the road rather than taking them to the trash can at the next control.  I pride myself on not doing this with my trash.  You should not litter your own nest, and you should not drop your trash in other people's homes.  Yes, it means that some of my things got a tad sticky, but everything I have is washable.  I am a guest here, and I am honored that they have allowed me to share their home.  Respect is just one way in which I can show my gratitude.

 I find myself singing as I ride along.  The hills are coming easily and my song helps me pace myself.  Later in the ride, while I am sitting on a curb drinking a coke, a man from Canada will come up and thank me for my song. He says he has never thought of music in connection with brevets. People stare at times, but I figure that if my singing bothers them they can speed up or slow down.  My legs still feel strong when we reach Loudeac and there is no way I want to stop and sleep there.  Controls have been crowded and have eaten our time, but it is still light.  Despite my vow from 2007 to avoid eating at controls like the plague, I find myself eating at many of them.  I also find myself getting used to entering a woman's bathroom and finding men inside or there being unisex bathrooms. The bathrooms often don't have seats on the commodes, and sometimes don't even have commodes.  In the port-a-pots at Villaines, I find myself trying to figure out how to urinate when all that is there is a small hole in the floor of the port-a-pot.  I finally see how urine is funneled downwards and that a woman does not even need to squat to urinate, but what one does when one needs to defecate in one of these port a pots eludes me.  I am glad I brought along camping toilet tissue and corn fields will be fertilized and watered.  Passing through the middle of one town, a man has his bib shorts pulled all the way down to his knees and is bent over examining himself.  It is early in the ride for saddle sores, but I suppose that is what it was.  I giggle and ask Bill if he noticed (as if anyone would not).  It might have been sore, but he did have a beautifully muscled rear end. I think how different it is in the United States; here he would be arrested for indecency.  Somehow, I don't find it offensive; just different than what I am used to.  I revel in the newness. 

Bill is still with me, and we plunge onwards.  I am relieved that he appears to be okay because early in the ride he began to suffer from cramping.  This was rather strange as I don't remember ever seeing him cramp before. The people watching from a doorway began shouting at me when I retraced my course to check on him after realizing he was not behind me and did not understand when I shouted, "Ami," but they understand when we ride by together and I holler, "Bonjour."  I thank people for their "Bravos" and "Allez" and "Bon Chance" with a merci.  Bill thanks them in English.  By now it is apparent that Bill and I are riding together for at least the first part of the ride. We go a bit off course and find a McDonald's to attempt to replenish our sodium and hopefully prevent further cramping.  It is rather odd how hard it is to find salt here, an American staple at every table and with every meal.  I wonder if it is the same McDonald's that Dave and I stopped at on the return in 2007.

Fatigue is beginning to set in a bit by the time I reach St. Nicholas.  Bill and I talk about continuing to Carhaix and just refilling water and grabbing a quick bite here; however, the volunteer directing us misunderstood and before you know it we are back out in the country with no water and no food.  I toy with the idea of continuing on the Brest, but by the time I reach Carhaix I am ready to sleep.  I am glad I did not stop at Loudiac.  It was light and I was not tired. Bill and I decide on three hours of sleep.  There is a line for the dormitory, and he says he will just sleep in the cafeteria.  I want a cot.  When I reach the front of the line, I hear knocking on the window.  Dave King has found Bill and I understand that now we are going to sleep four hours.  At the dormitory, I tell them when to awaken me.  They do not understand.  Luckily, the couple behind me speak french and are able to translate.  I later find that both Dave and Bill slept there as well.  While I am tired and do sleep it is not a sound, dreamless sleep and not particularly restful: the cots are not as comfortable as Loudiac was in 2007 being plastic and too full.  The wool blanket makes me sweat, but I am cold if I am not covered.  I am awake fifteen minutes before I am due to be awakened.  Opening my eyes  in the darkness, I see a totally naked man dressing.  I think to myself that taking my cycling shorts off while resting would be a good saddle sore preventative and vow to do so the next time I sleep at a control.

I arise and go to look for Bill and Dave, but I can't find them.  I decide to eat breakfast and brush my teeth and hope they turn up. After breakfast and a few trips walking from the bikes to the eating places, I finally see Dave.  An hour has passed since I awakened, too much time to waste not sleeping, eating, or riding.  He says he is going to eat breakfast.  He does not know where Bill is.  Perhaps they meant 4:00 a.m. rather than four hours of sleep.  I leave a note on Bill's saddle telling him I am forging ahead alone, then roll out into the night.

The fog is thick, curling around me like gauze, obscuring my vision and dampening my clothing.  I have trouble regulating my core temperature going from cold to hot, so I find myself stopping often and taking clothing on and off.  We climb and descend and climb again. At one point a man from Japan asks me in halting English if there is a name for this hill.  I am sure there is, but I don't know it. I think how I admire people who know two languages.  The fog is so thick that only the continual climbing tells me where I am.   Water drips off my helmet in large drops.  It distracts me, hanging on the edge of my helmet, sliding from side to side, but no amount of wiping will keep it away. I have to remove my glasses as I can't see with them on and I am glad that I still have some sight left in these old eyes.  I worried about my eyesight when planning this ride, but they have been okay aided by the French roads that never seem to have the large pot holes or debris that take out unsuspecting riders in the USA.  I wonder how people I have not seen on the course are doing.  It is Dave Rudy's first PBP.  Jeff Bauer, Tim Carroll, and Steve Phillipsa are riding fixed gear bicycles along with another rider I don't know at all.

I pass a field of what I believe to be Charolais cattle and think how peaceful they look.  Every cow in the field is lying down and peacefully chewing their cud.  William Wordsworth comes to mind.: "The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending we lay waste our powers:  Little we see in nature that is ours." Yes, I not only sing sometimes on rides, but I have been known to quote poetry.  I marvel that anyone will ride with me. I begin to wonder why I never see cattle laying down and chewing their cud at home any more, and I never reach a conclusion.  It is odd the things one contemplates on long rides.  I do know they are beautiful animals, sleek and well muscled.

At one point, I become incredibly sleepy and pull over remembering my promise to my daughter.  Before I left in 2007, she asked me to give my word to pull over and rest if I get too tired to ride safety, and it has reached that point.  It always amazes me how suddenly I can become sleepy, my eyes blurring and wanting to roll backwards in their sockets,  and how hard it is to resist the temptation to just try to make it to the next control rather than stopping.  It seems I am feeling fine and strong, and then quite suddenly fatigue overcomes me and brings me to my knees. Normally a five to ten minute stop will revive me enough to where I am not a danger to myself or others.  This time it takes a bit longer, but I brighten and before you know it I am crossing the bridge to Brest.  I lament that the fog kept me from enjoying the view from the top of the climb because it is one of my favorite memories from 2007:  the panorama and the crowds cheering me on. Due to the fog and the changed start times, nobody is there when we crest. And I lament about not being able to see the view from the bridge more clearly.  But I won't complain about this weather.  The ride is so much easier than 2007, and I don't think it is training related.  I think it is weather related.  At one point I meet Dan Driscoll and the Texas crew, the name tags at work, but I fear I am rather in a foul humor from losing so much time at Carhaix and I want to be alone so I press the pace.  They must think me unfriendly, rude, and an incredible snob. I just don't feel like talking. It is my own fault for not doing as I planned and riding my own ride, but I am disgusted with myself and I am not done chastising myself. I do not want company with my thoughts.  I later feel shamed.  Bill has done nothing but praise the Texas 1200 and these individuals who rode, helped, and organized it.

Crossing the bridge to Brest and reaching the control after what seems to be an eternity winding through city streets, I am elated at reaching the turn around point.  It seems to take forever as I wind my way through the city to the control, and once I get there I can't help but compare how pleasant the control was in 2007 and how good the food was to what was available this year.  I wonder if the course change is due to the fatality that happened in Brest in 2007.  While I am eating, Bill appears and I believe we will ride together again; however, we get separated due to bathroom issues and he takes off without me.  I run into Dave, but he has not seen Bill.  After checking for and not finding the Hilsen, Bill's ride, I take off.

My foul humor is beginning to leave me, finally shrugged off like an old sweater, and I find I am enjoying myself and my legs still are not protesting the climbs.   It interests me how some men react to being passed by a woman on a climb, pressing the pace.  I think of my son talking to me about driving and trying to pass cars that are going slowly but speed up when you attempt to go by them.  "Sometimes, mom," he said, "you have to break their spirits."  I break a lot of spirits on this part of the course.  When I ask, my legs give without excessive complaint. I wonder at the difference from 2007. Dave catches me for awhile, but then drops backward as I charge these hills to return to Carhaix.  I am surprised when he falls back, for he is normally much faster than me, at least riding.  Now eating is another story.  I know only one person who can rival Dave's slow eating and he doesn't ride:  my nephew, Chris.

Despite what feels to be a pretty good pace, like the last time  I am amazed at how long it takes to cover the approximate one hundred miles from Carhaix back to Carhaix when there are so many hills to climb.  While I am riding along, a rider pulls directly in front of me and allows me to hold his wheel.  He pulls me the entire way back to Carhaix.  The fog has cleared by the time we reach the top of the big climb, and I can see for miles and miles. Numerous people jump on our back wheel, but none of them stick. With his helmet on, the fellow pulling me looks like a young man.   I think how nice it is that a young man would help an old woman by eating the wind, asking nothing in return and wonder if I will offend him if I tell him that his mother did a good job raising him. We pass Bill and I think he might jump on, but he doesn't.  We are machine like, attacking and steadily eating the hills as they appear.  I already have been passed by many people during this ride, and will be passed by many more before it is over, but not on this stretch from Brest to Carhaix.  The road belongs to Graham and to me and nobody seems to be able to hold our pace. When we reach Carhaix and he takes off his helmet, I find that my new friend, Graham, has more gray in his hair than I do.  He just has kept the body of a young man, and I have the body of an older woman who has given birth to two children, likes to eat too much, and suffers an addiction to chocolate.  He compliments my climbing and asks if I am from Colorado.  I tell him no, Indiana, but I ride in Kentucky often. Graham is from Scotland though he now lives, if I remember correctly, in Montgomery, England.  I later look it up and see that it is a small town between Wales and England.  I thank him for the pull and wonder if we will continue together, but I am ready to move on and he is nowhere in sight.  A poem from Robert Frost comes to mind: "And miles to go before I sleep." I regret that I did not get Graham's last name before we parted company, but I can't go backward.

Bill once again joins me somewhere either at or soon after Carhaix.  Somewhere along the way we pass the postcard man that Greg Zaborac had told me about.  This man will take care of you, giving you water and food, in return for a post card from your home.  Everywhere he has postcards from previous people who have stopped at his stand. Towns and happenings begin to blur and run together in my mind.  Bill and I talk briefly about how some people remember every detail and are able to ride such detailed accounts, but my mind does not work that way.  I know that I met another woman, a lawyer from the west coast named Louise, and I know that I run into her again at Dreux, but I do not remember what town I was near when we met or whether I was coming to or going from Brest.  While part of me wants to stop, Bill and I elect not to stop to visit the postcard man as weariness is beginning to grow.  My eyeballs feel gritty.  We pass a restaurant advertising pizza and I decide to stop.  Bill continues onward, changes his mind, and returns.  The owner of the restaurant is outgoing and friendly, the service is fast, and the food is good.  He talks in a mixture of French and English about his children's visit to the states. While Bill and I had discussed sharing a pizza, we elected not to:  big mistake.  The pizzas are huge and neither of us can completely eat ours.  It is strengthening to eat a familiar food, but it does seem a shame to waste it.  There just seems to be no good way to cart it along.

We stop at Loudiac and get into our drop bags.  Bill talks about showering, but it is cold.  I tell him I intend to use the wipes I brought and just change clothes.  I just can't bear thinking of showering and having wet hair while I ride.  If it were warm it would be heavenly, but not in this cold. Perhaps if my hair were short, but that would necessitate regular trips to the beauty shop, something that is right up there with visiting the dentist.  Currently, I get by only visiting those shops once or twice per year.  Bill decides to follow suit, and I give him some wipes.  They have just finished cleaning the bathroom when I go in to change.  While I don't feel that I am taking a particularly long time, I am startled before I am finished by a pounding on the door and I call out that I am almost finished.  I hurry and come out expecting to find a long line and there is nobody in line.  I'm still not sure what the pounding was all about. While still at the control, Dave shows up and talks about showering.  I offer him wet wipes and he accepts.  It feels wonderful having clean shorts and jersey.  I have now chosen my red Tour De Mad Dog jersey from 2010 designed by Steve Rice.  Bill has on his green Tour De Mad Dog jersey.   We will get lots of compliments on these jerseys as we finish our journey.  The weather has actually been perfect riding weather, but I had hoped for sun.  Maybe tomorrow.  We continue onward.

By the time we have reached Tinteniac, it is dark and I am tired.   Bill agrees it is time to sleep.  Dave is with us.  We go to the dormitory only to find that the beds are all taken: there is  no room at the inn.  I don't think I can safely continue the 33 miles to Fougeres without some sleep, so we return to the cafeteria and lie down. I take out an egg timer I brought with me and set it for three hours, then lie down between a table and the wall on the hard floor amongst strangers.  Despite the light and noise, I am soon asleep, awakening only enough to unfold my space blanket when I chill.  When it is time to get up, I cover a stranger who is shivering in his sleep with my blanket and get ready to move onward.   A man from England notices and tells me I am kind and asks if I have heard about the accident.  When I say no he tells me that an American was killed last night.  He stated that initially they thought he was a "Brit" because he crossed onto the right side of the road, the side the English normally ride on, and was hit by a truck, but they then determined it was an American.  He speculates that the poor fellow fell  asleep on his bike and drifted.  I say a silent prayer in his honor and for those who loved him, and selfishly hope it is not one of my friends.  I will become even more cautious about resting when I am tired as I continue.

As we ride, morning breaks, stretching and tossing her golden mane, flooding us with warmth, reviving our bodies and our spirits.  For some reason, it is so much easier to stay sprightly when the world is awake and glowing.  It will be hotter, but it appears to be just the type of day I have been hoping for.  We stop at a cafe beside a river and have a coke. But I am beginning to feel the ride.  At Fougeres, I put my head down on the table in the cafeteria and sleep for a few moments while Bill goes to the medical tent.  He has cut his leg on his big wheel and pulled a back muscle.  The cut on the back of his leg has blood running down it and looks like a bear swiped his calf with a paw.  The doctoring does not help the pain in his back, but a tad later I remember I am carrying lanacane and stop and have him put some on.  I am not sure if it will, but it helps. We continue to Dreux where we decide to rest for a half an hour before continuing.  I sleep as soon as my head hits the cot.

I am blown away by the friendliness of the volunteers, anticipating what I want before I ask for it.  Their kindliness takes my breath away.  It is nice to get a good dose of mothering. When we come out, however, Bill has a flat tire, and while fixing it he breaks his light.  I give him my secondary light and we continue to the finish.  At one point, there is a group gathered around me seeming to wait for me to point the way.  Despite being completely tuckered out, I find the humor in this and think how it would amuse my friends who know that I am directionally challenged.  There is another section where the blackness and the surroundings make it seem like we are traveling a road that is surrounded on all sides by water. We are passed by multitudes of people as I keep taking breaks to wake back up.  I tell Bill to go on, but he tolerantly waits and we finish together.  Cards are stamped.  It is done.


This is where I made a big miscalculation.  I really had not expected to finish this quickly, so I had not rented a room until the day I finished.  But I finished at 5:00 a.m. so it is doubtful that they will let me in.  Sure enough.  When I return to the hotel I am turned away.  Tearfully, I go back to the gymnasium only to realize that if I enter, I will not be able to get back out.  I lay on the grass near the finish intending to sleep when a woman comes up and asks why I did not finish.  The volunteers kept trying to herd me into the finishing chute and I would not go.  She speaks English and explains to volunteers who allow me inside.  Because I have left, however, they will not allow me to sleep in the dormitory, only on the floor.  That is fine.  Using my cycling shoes as a pillow and wearing the wool shirt over my clothing that I did not use on the ride, I sleep until about 10:00 a.m.  At one point, I awaken quite cold and find a tall, blonde,  good-looking Suede covering me with his space blanket.  Perhaps our good deeds do find us. The kindness of his gesture touches me and warms me as much as any blanket.  There is something intimate about the gesture. Upon reflection, if I return I may plan on sleeping here again rather than spending the money on another day at the motel.

After going through another translation nightmare to get my bike back out, I return to the hotel.  Bikes are packed.  I finally bathe and happily smell like a girl.  Out to dinner and home. In the Chicago Airport, a stranger comes up to me and asks about my Paris Brest Paris tee shirt.  When I tell him I just completed the ride, he looks at his wife and says, "Now this is a real cyclist," admiration in his voice.  He makes me smile.  I do love a good adventure, but it is always good to come back to the home of your heart.  There will be hugs and laughter and warmth.  Will I do this again in four years?  Originally I would have told you definitely yes.  There will be times when I know I would tell  you, "Hell, no." Who knows?  When you are an infant, four years brings on immense changes as you learn to walk, talk, and think.  In your middle years, there are times when four years are hardly noticeable.  But now I have reached my middle fifties, I suspect that four years will begin to cause more major changes.  Unlike when I was an infant, those changes may be losing the ability to do things.  And there are other adventures.  Whether I go back or not, I am glad I was here.  I am glad I shared the ride with my friends.  "Vive la France!"