Paris-Brest-Paris

"1200 kilometers is like a disease that needs to be treated."

There were two parts to my P-B-P: the first 44 hours and the last 21 hours.

The first 44
Riding with Team Charly Miller, with the goal of finishing in 56 hours 40 minutes, or less, was intimidating and exhilarating.  From the beginning, we rode well together, and collected quite a fan club of happy cyclists riding our draft.  The first 12 hours were a blur of fast riding over rolling countryside, into slowly degrading weather.  By the late afternoon it was raining hard, with much lightening and thunder as the sky darkened into night.  There was a dreaminess to the riding, knowing that we would not stop for more than 15 or 20 minutes at any one time, regardless of the weather or our fatigue.  Amy and Trudy, our expert support crew, met us at every other control, bringing us sandwiches and filling our water bottles and giving much needed encouragement.  A brisk tailwind pushed us along.
We had excellent international company in our fan club, and several riders joined in our rotation.  My favorite was Dominque, a native of Britanny living in Nantes.  We rode together through the lightening (eclair) and thunder (debarkement) sharing stories of our families and our travels in our pidgeon French and English.  By the time that Dominique said, "Bon nuit!" at the Carhaix control, we were buddy enough to trade reflective vests as souvenirs.
By the depth of the night we had left Carhaix behind, the rain had stopped, and we were enveloped in a deep fog while we climbed "the Rock," the only sustained climb on the route. Nothing steep, just long and dark.  Near the summit, our indomitable leader, Robin, requested a "ditch nap," as he was unable to stay awake.  For ten minutes we lay on the cold pavement of a picnic turnout and slept.  Oh, I longed so for a warm soft bed!
As the sky lightened, we descended the circuitous route into Brest, the fog clamped to us like a wet cape.  No grand view of the Atlantic Ocean.
I was holding out hope for a two hour stop in Brest, so that I could sleep a little.  It was not to be.  We did not have the time.  I came very close to throwing in the towel, and I am not sure why I did not.  Perhaps it was the fact that I was still able to ride, that my companions were riding, and that I knew that, in some way, this long ride was, for me, about the discovery of my limits.
So we rode back up the Rock. Slowly.  To my surprise, I felt pretty good!  Soon enough we had made the descent, and we were rolling our way back to Paris at a fair clip.  Miraculously, the wind had shifted 180 degrees, and was pushing us back to Paris.  Imagine: 1200 km with a tailwind.  Inconceivable! All through that second day, I kept wondering how I could go on.  It was like an endless rally in a game of badminton.  As long as the shuttlecock is in the air, you might as well keep hitting it.  Besides, it was still fun.  We had slowed our pace a little, and were making time to chat with each other. Our spirits were good.
Then came the second night.    Only once before in my life have stayed awake this long, and never before have I spent this much time in continuous demanding physical activiy.  If the terrain had stayed relatively flat, I might have been able to hold onto the thin threads of consciousness that remained in my possession.  My legs, oddly enough, felt fine.  But the hills got steeper and longer.  By midnight my head was swimming, my eyes were closing of their own volition, and I was unable to hold a line.  I was all over the road.  Fearing for my safety and the safety of my companions, I bid them farewell and "Bon Route!" I had helped them to reach their goal as much as I could, but I was no longer an asset.  I was a liability.  The ride had most certainly stopped being fun.  I needed rest in order to meet my primary goal: completion.

The last 21 hours
An angel was hovering at my shoulder, in the form of John Morris, veteran randoneur, physician and fantastic conversationalist.  Like Charles Lindbergh talking a weary pilot back to home soil, John rode beside me for the next two hours keeping me awake and lifting my spirits.  We chatted first about sleep deprivation, then about food,then about riding 1200 kms in 4 days, three days and two days, then about bike touring, then about food, then sleep, then food, then sleep.  By 2 a.m. we were at Villaines-la-Juhel, where a hot meal and a room full of soft foam beds awaited weary travellers.  I was asleep before my head touched the pillow.  Dreams of narrow roads illuminated by fireflies hovered at edges of my dizzy brain.  Shortly before our 8 a.m. wake up call, my eyes opened wide. Sitting up, my mind fully alert, I was shocked by how good I felt.  Just 230 km more to go.  Plenty of time to do it in. Good company and sunny skies.
By Mortagne-au-Perche,  I was falling down drowsy once more. After a pleasant meal, I bid farewell to John and checked myself into le dortoir.  Since it was only one p.m., I had the place to myself. It was like a movie set. A gigantic gymnasium filled to capacity with cots, each cot hosting a small pillow and a neatly folded blanket.  Sleeping like the dead in the bright emptiness, 30 minutes felt like forever.  Struggling back to consciouness, I imagined the cacophonous snoring that would soon be filling the cavern that I alone occupied.
The day became increasingly beautiful. Blue skies, a few puffy clouds, brisker tailwind.  About 100 km from the end, a tall German fellow came cruising by me, with a weary Italian in his draft.  I jumped on the train, and soon John was behind me.  How did that happen? He was supposed to be ahead of me!
Sleep had overcome him a few kilometers past the last control, so he had pulled over for ditch nap. Upon awakening, he saw me flying by on the tail of the powerful German.  After some hard chasing, there he was right behind me.  A very pleasant surprise!
The four of us dashed along until Dreux, arriving in the late afternoon.  By this time, the chafing I had been doing my best to ignore for the past twenty hours made itself unavoidable.  My tender bits hurt like no tomorrow.  The groan I made when settling myself back on the saddle after our brief respite in Dreux set off a wave of chuckles among the bystanders.
 "Votre arrière est tres mal, non?"
"Oui. Très très mal."
We rode into the evening, sun setting behind us, knowing that only in St. Quentin would the journey be over.  I was glad that I had ridden this first section a few times beforehand.  Seeing familiar roads energized my barn horse instincts, whispering, "Home, home, home...." into my wind filled ears.
Soon enough we were rolling under orange streetlights. As we entered the final roundabout, a cheer rose from the spectators.  For a moment, I was the hero overcoming insurmountable odds, arriving safely home. All too soon, I was the exhausted cyclist, searching for a flat warm quiet spot to sleep.