STORIES
GETTING THERE: Paris - Brest - Paris 1995
Barry Black
As most things that come along in life, we never quite know what we're getting ourselves into until we're smack dab in the middle of it wondering how we ever got there. I had accepted an invitation from a guy named Jerry Davis who asked me if I'd like to go to a pot-luck supper of D.C.'s local bicycle group, the Potomac Peddlers. They rode long distances, he said, and he mentioned something about 750 miles in France. I responded that I wouldn't even want to drive my car that far, but innocently went along to the pot-luck anyway.
Upon arriving, I suspiciously observed the crowd. After all, they had to be freaks who did nothing but eat, sleep and breathe bicycles. I surveyed all legs that I could, looking for magazine-cover quads and .rippling calves. To my surprise, all (exposed) body parts looked fairly run-of-the-mill. In fact, the people I met that evening were of a variety of ages and body types, and they all seemed quite normal and very nice. I enjoyed some good food and heard amazing stories about the 750-mile race Jerry had mentioned, but I left still in disbelief that these people (mere mortals, after all) could ever undergo such an ordeal.
If you're like me, you've never heard of Paris-Brest- Paris (PBP) before. Begun in 1891 and currently held every four years, it is one of the oldest and most prestigious long-distance races in the world. Twelve hundred kilometers (744 miles) in distance, the race course - which begins in Paris, proceeds to Brest (on the west coast of France) and returns to Paris again - must be completed within 90 hours (just less than four days). Riders from all over the world are welcome.
*The Brevet Rides*
The qualifying rides began in the spring. To qualify for PBP, American riders are supposed to complete the Brevet ride series two years in a row. The four Brevet rides are 200 Km (1 24 Miles), 300 Km (1 86 miles), 400 Km (248 miles), and 600 km (372 miles). Though avid, I had been only been a recreational rider and tourer up to then. These numbers truly horrified me. Nevertheless, I let Jerry, who had long been dreaming of being a top American finisher of PBP, talk me into giving some of these Brevet rides a try. Intimidated and anxious, I completed the first 200 Km ride. By no means was it comfortable, but gratified at my accomplishment, I agreed to attempt the 300 Km ride a few weeks later. Now this one was a shock to my system. It hurt and I was irritable with myself for even attempting it. I just wanted to get it over with and get back on four wheels.
Time, it seems, heals all wounds. Within a few days, I was thinking about the next ride. For better or worse, the high of crossing that seemingly unreachable finish line had worked its way into my blood. Again, I crawled out of bed in the middle of the night to make it to the 400 Km ride start at 3:00 a.m. It wasn't until 1 50 miles into this ride with 1 00 left to go, that I finally started to realize how much patience and mental work this kind of long-distance riding required.
Somehow my body and my mind had to enter into an agreement. My body had to just keep pedaling despite being deprived of much needed sleep; that was rule number one. My mind had to accept any general pain and fatigue, realize that breathing would very often be gasping, and know that my body would somehow recover. It had to act on sheer faith that my legs would get me to the next turn on the cue sheet. I couldn't think past that turn. Although there was a certain amount of negotiation over the details of this agreement in finishing the 400 Km (and throughout the night as I struggled, several weeks later, to complete the 600 km), it worked well for me.
Having only the ride series in mind, I cringed when I discovered that with an extra 400 Km and 600 km ride, I would be able to make up for missing the Brevet series last year and could qualify for the PBP race. With David Berning, International Randonneur Regional Administrator, organizing the last-minute Brevet rides, and with Jerry's encouragement, the insanity continued. I had now ridden over 1,200 miles in one month and I was tired and burnt-out. It had overwhelmed me and I rested with my decision not to attempt PBP ... I thought. On the day of the postmark deadline, I sent off my race application, ignoring my previous decision. The frightening realization that I was going to do the race finally began sinking in.
*To Brest*
Finally, I was in Paris! As the crowd of more than 3,000 riders gathered in the days before the race, nervous excitement filled the air. Riders exchanged war stories and tinkered with their bikes. I saw cycles of all kinds - tricycles, triple tandem tricycles, tandem recumbents, recumbent tricycles, and road bikes with interesting design twists - on the streets.
On August 21, waves of riders began leaving the race start at eight p.m. I left with the slower group at ten. It was an extraordinary feeling being amongst the thousands of red taillights snaking for miles through the countryside. If nothing else, I thought, at least I had made it to Paris-Brest-Paris!
My biggest fear was the pain of sleep deprivation. The adrenaline of packs and pace lines and of finally endeavoring this ride of a lifetime was almost enough to get me through the first night, but a couple of times I pulled onto a side road and slept in the dewy foot-high grass for about 10 minutes.
Villages were often only ten kilometers apart, so it was easy to feel that I was making more progress than I was. In fact, by the next afternoon, it seemed that I had peddled a lot farther than 200 miles. At one point, I missed a turn and detoured off the route for almost an hour. Even more discouraging were the pace lines that came buzzing past me as if I was standing still. An unexpectedly large number of these packs were 50- to 70-year old European men who seemed to be barely drawing breath. There were more women than I thought there would be and they seemed to be very strong riders. Not having speed on my side, I knew my only way to a decent finish was to forego long breaks. So, I kept on. But, at last, giving into sleep; I crashed out on a sunny village side street for a 1 5-minute nap.
The second night was nearing and I was at the checkpoint in Loudeac, about 100 miles from Brest. I was feeling frustrated and miserable. My pace had slowed because of the hills and my neck and arm muscles were cramping from leaning down on my handlebars. I scowled at anyone who dared look in my direction. Why on earth was / here anyway? The food in my bike bag didn't appeal to me anymore, but I forced down some bread, an energy bar and mixed a fresh batch of Gatorade and grimly got on with it.
It was becoming hillier, darker and colder, but it wasn't until midnight that I woke myself up by riding off the side of the road almost into a cornfield. My body was in full motion, but it was as if huge weights bore down on my eyelids, and no matter how hard I tried to keep them open, they closed. Squinting with just one eye open worked, but only for a while. Finally I had to stop my bike, shake my head and squirt water on my face. Of course, unconsciousness can happen with your eyes open as well; in seconds you can pass through several colorful dreams.
With the company of a guy from Seattle who was riding a one-speed mountain bike, I finally made it to the last checkpoint before Brest. Here, I napped on the bench of a picnic table. When I awoke, apparently talking in my sleep, the people at the next table were staring at me and looking greatly entertained. Embarrassed, I left at 2:30 a.m.
As we descended into a deep valley, the fog was so thick it was hard to see more than three feet ahead. The valley was filled with air pockets that were, alternately, as warm and humid as a dog's mouth and cold enough to numb my fingers. By sunrise, I was crossing the bridge into Brest, and the sun off the bay created a spectacular view. Just over an hour later I was on my way back to Paris with renewed fervor.
*And Back Again*
For those who live along the route, the race Was an occasion for festivity. People gathered along roadsides and in village squares throughout the four days and nights of the race to party and cheer us on. The true spirit of the race was embodied for me in a woman who as I passed, paused from sweeping her stoop to raise her fist high and victorious, in the air. I felt from her that I was carrying on a tradition that her village had witnessed for the last one hundred years. Later, when I stopped to get my water bottles filled, a group of children ran up to me with pens and, pieces of paper in their hands. They wanted my autograph! Boy, that's all the fuel I needed for the next hundred miles.
At last, it was my last night of riding. I had reached the checkpoint about 200 miles from the finish. But before I left I decided I couldn't possibly pass up the free massages they there were giving in the first-aid tents. I hand-signaled that my feet were in need of help. It was a lousy massage, but the worst was that the first-aid workers didn't wake me when the massage was over. I awoke three 3 hours later, yelping as I read my watch. It was like those nightmares about sleeping through a final exam! I sprang off the cot, grabbed my shoes and tried dashing, but they corralled me back into the tent until they found a translator to assure that I was indeed all right and not delirious.
I was fortunate to find a fellow Texan with a good strong accent to talk to throughout most of the third night. I suppose it was a good thing that I had the nap in the massage tent because by the last day of riding by I was slipping in and out of dreams. I was only 20 miles from the finish when I asked the 75- year-old Belgian man riding ahead of me where we were going. I knew I was meeting Jerry somewhere, but I had no idea where. "We're going to Paris for the last checkpoint,' the man answered. 'Oh right, of course." It all started coming back to me. I was in a race. It was the Paris-Brest-Paris. I was close to finishing.
* Finish Line*
Jerry was waiting for me at the finish. He had finished the day before, in 54 hours- just eleven hours over the record-holding winners. He was indeed a top American finisher and was the top unsupported (no sag support) rider of the race. I completed the race in 71 hours. When I rolled into the finish and received my last timecard stamp, my fatigue mysteriously vanished. I had accomplished what I had been sure a mere few months ago was impossible - the most extreme mind, body and soul effort of my life. Paris-Brest-Paris had been an amazing event, but the journey itself had been even more extraordinary. I had qualified for the race, made the trip to France, and started and completed the race. I had pushed myself past what I thought IL could do, past my fears and doubts of my ability to keep going. The exhilaration of finally finishing glowed inside of me and I knew everyone else at the finish was experiencing the same feeling. I was truly proud to be a part of the experience, to have gotten there.
Paris - Best - Paris '95
Duane Wright
The French call it "The Human Adventure." It might also be called 'The Mother of All Randones." The tour, 1200 km, completed in 90 hours (or less), starts in Paris, proceeds through Normandy and Brittany, to the port city of Brest, on the western most portion of France's Atlantic coast, and returns. With 36,000 feet of elevation gain, this adds up to a fair bit of work, but the fair bit of magic that's thrown in helps one rise to the occasion. There are bikes of every vintage, so it's a feast for the connoisseur. And there are unusual "bikes," like tricycles and tandem tricycles. The more humble bikes usually come with French riders; the more high-tech steeds are usually ridden by Aussies and Americans. Riders tend to be older (by our standards), with men and women in their 60s a familiar sight. The older the rider, and the older (and more humble) the bike, the more likely the rider will exhibit great smoothness (la soupplesse, as the French say). They can ride a all day (which you have to, in this ride) with no wasteful movements.
This quadrennial celebration of life took place Aug. 21-25, with approximately 3,500 riders from 22 countries. No other ride on the face of the earth comes close to this range of nationalities. The "peloton of Babel" is a familiar experience.
Tradition has the tour proceeded by a "prolog," a 40 km ride through the streets of Paris. This year, the prolog was canceled due to security concerns stemming from two recent bombings in downtown Paris.
The randonneur format has control points, enroute, with windows of time during which cyclists must reach them. At these controls one finds friendly local volunteers handling the operations of "passport" stamping and computerized ID card reading, cafeteria (with local delicacies), mechanical assistance, massage, and later in the ride) sleeping "facilities." Not a lot of sleeping is done because the clock is always running.
To the locals this is a big occasion; the people of Brittany set up chairs along the roadside and cheer on the riders. If you return their greetings, they take it as a great honor. If the weather turns hot, they offer you cold mineral water; if it's late in the day, coffee. At three in the morning it was not uncommon to encounter spectators; their cries of "bonn courage" helped riders continue in the end less procession of bicycle headlights and tail-lights. Drivers are not only patient, they too would shout out words of encouragement as they drove by.
Zipping through the town squares and narrow streets, was always thrilling with more cheering yet (due to the crowds). The towns were also a good place to again get "right with the universe" by visiting a boulangerie. No fatigue or discomfort is so great that several tarts and a baguette can't rejuvenate one's spirits.
Two of the most intriguing sights were the consumption of beer and wine by some of the European riders (different strokes for different folks, or perhaps Cascade Bike Club has been overlooking something on their food stops on the STP) and the small percentage of riders wearing helmets (recommended, but not required). Cyclist hats were quite popular.
Sixteen riders from the Seattle area participated in the '95 PBP: Ernie Grillo, Pat Rodden, Kendall Demaree, Charles Clinton, John Wagner, Vince Sikorski, Duane Wright, Dave Johnson, Ken Krichman, Tom Brett, John Enzweiler, Mark Roberts, Barbara Schaeffler, Paul Frederick, Dan Wood, and Jeff Brain.
For me, the high point of the ride was at the finish when a rider from Aragon, Spain offered to exchange, jerseys with me.
REFLECTIONS ON A PBP
Gord Cook
Doreen and I arrived in France at the Charles de Gaulle airport, put the bicycles together, and started our tour of France, England, Scotland, and Ireland. This tour lasted from July 12 to August 18 and covered 1660 cycling km. Not exactly the optimum training for PBP but it certainly kept the rust out of the joints and was very enjoyable. The weather was perfect: only two hours of rain, one in France and one in Ireland.
Now, a month or so after the event, I reflect not on the sore butt, neck muscles that had difficulty in holding my head up, the two flats, or the broken shifter cable, but on the camaraderie of 2800 cyclists from all over the world and the two little girls that dispensed water at the road side when I disparately needed it. These and a multitude of other pleasant thoughts flow like waves through my mind as I relive the event it self and the activities before and after. I had similar feelings after the 1991 PBP, but this time the feelings seem even stronger.
My start time was 5:00 am August 22. The day turned out very hot and humid and by late afternoon I was wondering how I was going to keep going. A water stop straightened me out and soon I was backup to speed. I had a minor lighting problem the first night and two flats the following day. The second took place in a small town and attracted a crowd, all bent on helping me get back on the bike. The result was, of course, it took about three times as long to fix. But the stop gave me the opportunity to speak to these people in my poor French, and they to me in their poor English. It was a great experience, I wouldn't have missed it for anything. I broke the front shifter cable on the third night and after a readjustment of the front derailleur stops I was able to lock the chain in the middle chainring which limited my speed on the flats and downhills. I was able to get it repaired at the last control stop at Nogent le Roi.
About 11:30 pm on the last night I was catching a few minutes of shut eye at the cafeteria table when I was awakened by a man and his wife who insisted that I go to the designated sleep area. They weren't upset that I was sleeping at the table, but because I was from Canada (my jersey said so) and they wanted me to be comfortable. They pulled a few strings to get me to the head of the line and then paid the three francs for the sleep space. They wouldn't hear of me paying.
The few minor problems precluded me from finishing in less than 70 hours (I took about 78:30), but the main objective is to finish within the time limits. Any other objective is secondary. And the finish: as I rounded the final corner and entered the finish area there was the greeting committee, the B.C. riders who had already completed. To say it was a thrill sounds a bit trite, but that's exactly what it was. A few km before the finish the thought crossed my mind that his would be my last PBP. Now a few weeks later I find myself looking forward to the next one and how I'm going to implement changes to bike set-up, eating and sleeping times, etc., etc. It's that kind of life experience.
First of all I want to state that finishing Paris Brest Paris (PBP) was not difficult as originally perceived. I'm not saying it was easy, just that it is attainable for the average cyclist. It really comes down to a cerebral thing called attitude. If you prepare and are determined you will be successful but if you indulge yourself in the plethora of encounters along the way you will be changed. The PBP experience is like no other, uniquely different for each of us, as different as our personalities.
Two aspects of the PBP experience that I'll never forget are the start and finish. Starting at 10 pm (90 hour group), the affinity of 2000 Randonneurs pressing a frighteningly fast pace accented the hypnotic serpent of tail lights that reached beyond the horizon. Hours went by in this state of hyper excitement; then came the cobbles. For the push to the finish I joined up with an international pack. It was midnight of our fourth evening out, the pace kept quickening with the Swedes in front and the French keeping every one loose with song. At about 12 K from the finish we were met by an official PBP escort car. The Renault driver, a wild hair of a Frenchmen, had the best job at PBP. With strobe lights blazing, he ran interference for us at breakneck pace through the outlying communities. Screeching to a stop to block any crossing traffic at intersections then jamming back in front, keeping us at a 40 KPH pace. Half our group was dropped on this surrealistic sprint. I was determined not to loose contact, this jaunt was a blur and all I really remember was finishing with my new Swedish friend Ingvar.
The first day was hot, 90's hot. It was mid afternoon, Ernie and I were on our way to the Loudeac control @ 441 K. Thirty some-odd hours without sleep and riding in a fog of depression. We were mumbling to each other about why people do this; we were naive but the veterans had to be nuts. It got worse at Loudeac as I met up with others from our club. Dan was on his back suffering from heat exhaustion, Pat had abandoned, Paul's freewheel had quit and Mark was in search of a replacement chain wheel before he could continue. Bummer.
I was now about 42 hours without sleep and had to stop. Riding with Ernie and John, I told them to go on while I snuggled up and nodded off in someone's door way. I awoke refreshed and stopped at the first open tavern for cafe au lait before continuing on. It turns out I slept only five minuets.
It was the third night on the same four headlight batteries. To conserve its energy I would turn the light off when approaching each town's street lights. At some point one of the roving motorcycle PBP Marshals saw my rules infraction and gestured to me. This turned into a game, he would hide at each successive town and as I rolled through lights off he would pop out and catch me because rider safety is fundamental.
The last twenty four hours I rode with a swollen Achilles tendon. Initially I stopped at an aid station where they rubbed some white cream on it and said "go ride", so I did. It hurt like hell, the cream was probably tooth paste for all the relief it gave, forcing me into my emergency stash of codeine, remnants of a years ago surgery. Pretty nice stuff until it ran out.
Before PBP I bicycled toured from Spain to Paris and became addicted to another drug along the way, fresh fruit tarts. A most memorable one was soaked in brandy, yum. For me getting through PBP was as simply riding from bakery to bakery and on one such break is when I met Ingvar munching a pastry, a tough as nails Swede with an enormous heart and humor. He and his companions were a delight to ride with.
The French citizens are passionate in their support for this event. They line the streets day and night offering unabated encouragement. Many provide complementary refreshments along the route ranging from beer, wine and coffee to a simple garden hose. One such family serving morning pastry and cafe asked only that I send a post card from my home to add to their displayed collection.
Day three I rode behind pack of Danes. They were twelve in a double pace line and wearing national jerseys. Awesome to behold, the pace never wavered or broke rank (Audax style). When they stopped they all stopped, when they go they all go. Motor traffic would follow endlessly, until it was unquestionably safe to pass. I observed this phenomenon repeatedly on PBP. This respect for cyclists brought me to tears. I was now wearing the commemorative official French PBP jersey and noticed the crowds would cheer just a little louder when I came by, hollering to one of their own, "bon chance" "bon courage" holding out their hand for a slap from a champion. What an adrenaline hit. Four years is to long-a-time to wait.
Deja Vu, again, au PBP
John Wagner
I awoke from a deep REM sleep and bolted to my feet, stepping on something soft, I struggled to calculate how much time was lost sleeping? Groggily, I gazed through the darkness, fighting to gain my senses. The last thing I remember was riding through the beautiful Brittany countryside on the way back from Brest. As my neurons started functioning it became obvious that I was in a sleeping chamber, but at what control and where's my cycle? The clock is ticking. Then disappointment set in as I realized I was home in Ballard and having yet another dream (the original Virtual Reality experience) of my month old PBP adventure. The soft object under foot was my Golden Retriever who sleeps bedside guarding her king.
The potentially dangerous elbow to elbow, tire to tire form of riding in PBP concerned me, especially when riders get tired. We Americans are solo dudes, occasionally riding with a buddy but rarely relinquish one's space or pace. This is contrary to the discipline and skill of Audax, as practiced by European Randonneurs. Saint Quentin stadium, France, 10 PM, August 21st - Dan, Mark and I were sandwiched in the end of the first of three wave starts. Right from the getgo we were flying along elbow to elbow, tire to tire, I mean these guys ride faster at night than I do in daylight. Initially tentative about riding in such a tight pack at speed, it didn't take long before their superb bike handling skills became reassuring; besides you had no other choice. After a couple of frenzied hours the mob came to a grinding halt and lot's of shouting started. The road narrowed and turned into very rough cobblestone. Anything not well secured was gone. Lights, water bottles and clothing littered the street. The cobbles lasted about a kilometer, sufficiently long to meter the flow squirting back out onto the security of blacktop. At this point I lost contact with our Seattle group but soon Davy J. came by riding like a man possessed and having a ball. We chatted for awhile then he was gone, as quickly as he had appeared. Gaps started to form between groups of riders. For some the adrenaline had done its job and the pace now slowed. Riding alone, sort of, I kept bridging up to the next group until the road ahead was void of red tail lights. Momentary panic set in, had I missed a turn? The night was incredibly still and clear with a canopy of brilliant stars. Your senses were extraordinarily alive and in a heightened state.
An ancillary joy was going on exploratory rides the week before PBP. Most of us neophytes were eager to check out the PBP route so it was never difficult to round up a gang. The unofficial ride headquarters was a hotel and mall complex in Centerville Saint Quentin, 20 K west of Paris, with a meeting place we affectionately called McDonald's du Lac, a McDonald burger joint adjacent to an algae filled reflecting pond with Dan Wood the omnipotent landmark. The Rambouillet forest, just west of Saint Quentin, represented the finest riding in the greater Paris area and happened to be part of the PBP route. The terrain is so good that a number of professional racers live and train here, or so I was told. On one such sojourn I met Liz, instantly likable and the lone representative from New Zealand. He was out of his mind with exuberance, "Look at me, I can't believe I'm here doing this, I've read about PBP for years and now I'm here, look at this, look at that" he went on incessantly. We had a great ride that day and Liz went on to finish PBP in 65 hours and is currently enjoying the fruits of New Zealand's summer.
Power naps and post cards - I found that nodding off for 5 - 10 minuets was all I needed to ward off an impending Zonk. On three occasions I availed myself of this refreshing respite. It was probably my most productive use of time on PBP. After snoozing in a doorway in Mael Carhaix, it was head in folded arms on a tavern bar after consuming crepes filled with asparagus in wine sauce for lunch on the way back from Brest. The final episode was the arms across chest, casket style, on a picnic bench at the Nogent le Roi control while waiting for our French riding contingent to "Get their act together." After each I awoke refreshed and ready to ride unlike my 2 long sleeps of 1 1/2 and 2 hours, waking up and wanting more. Some of my least productive time was looking for requisite post cards and the elusive open post office. I don't expect to do that next time, but there is danger in being too efficient, fixating on finishing time and that is missing the subtleties of the journey, for me this is the essence of PBP and of living.
Les is More on PBP 95
Les Vincent
I was a little nervous going through the bike check, I had nominated a 9:00am check where most of the riders I had spoken to had picked a later time. One of the officials made some comment about my back-up rear light but fortunately I didn't under stand him so just moved on through. and passed the check O.K. On returning to my hotel I did however readjust how the taillight was mounted making it much more secure and in a better position.
The day of the start I just lay around our hotel room for most of the day conserving myself as much as possible, going down to the bike room every now and then and join some of the others in fiddling with our bikes. Drinking bottled water is very uncommon in New Zealand so I was enjoying the vast range available in France and had packed about four liters of my favorite one in my carrier bag as well as two drink bottles. Walked around to the start point with my wife Noeline in the lovely warm evening conditions. Pressed into the center of the stadium with so many other riders speaking all different languages I started to feel more than a little nervous, how do I explain to the Russian next to me that I wanted him to hold my bike and keep my place while I went for a leak.
When it was apparent that the gates had been opened for us to make our way out to the start point in front of the stadium every one it seemed was trying to get to the front. Finally out on the road and yarning away with a guy from Boulder Colorado and another chap from Edinburgh Scotland we looked behind us to discover we were the very last in the front bunch having just made the cut-off for the 10:00pm start. It took several minutes to cross the start line and I decided caution was the better part of valor at this stage so rode along happily at the very back for some time avoiding hopefully any tangles with other exuberant riders strutting their stuff.. Remembering from a pre ride of this section coming down a hill with a stop at the bottom and wondering how the hell would a large group deal with this in the dark. Well of course as I discovered much later on, cyclists in France hardly ever stop for red lights or other traffic and this was no exception, straight through with a yelp of glee thinking this ride could be fun. So for the first couple of hours I just dawdled along enjoying conversation with anyone who could speak English and marveling at the curving, winding endless stream of red lights ahead of us. After awhile I thought it prudent to pick the pace up a bit so pulled out to the left and started passing large groups of riders and before long had formed a group eager to get ahead.
With now a couple of Australians in this group a bit of familiar Trans Tasman rivalry started to get the better of us, something I was later to feel the effects of. Didn't stop until Villaines la Juhel at 6:30 in the morning. Can't remember much about this stop except that there were people willing to hold our bikes as we climbed the steps to the desk to have our books stamped. I still had plenty of fluid and food on board so carried onto Fougeres arriving at 9:33am.
At this stage riding with anyone who was close by but I do remember riding with an American guy during the night who had a strong beam light attached to his helmet that he switched on when we were looking for direction arrows, so guess who was at the front as we went through each town. Made Tinteniac by 11:41am and had lunch there but between Tinteniac and Loudeac I started to fall apart, couldn't drink enough and the heat really starting to get to me. Lay down on the side of the road in the shade trying desperately to recover and by this stage had given up on drinking bottled water and didn't drink any more during my stay in France.
I struggled into Loudeac arriving at 15:27 pm and had to change my plans of not resting until at least Brest. Showered and washed my clothes then had a two hour sleep. Refueled myself, filled drink bottles then headed off for Carhaix. Rode with a Danish rider for awhile till I got sick of him sitting on my wheel so I picked up the pace till I dropped him on some of the little rises in the terrain. Shortly before Carhaix the leading riders from the 8:00pm start passed me on their way back, they were in a single file pace line just honking along. Made Carhaix by 23:07 and had another feed.
Headed off into the fog with a couple of other riders from the UK and soon afterwards really started to fall apart. I even stopped looking for a place to lie down and curl up under my survival blanket but could not find a non prickly/stony place anywhere to continued on in the fog and dampness, was looking again for somewhere to lie down and rest when I stumbled/weaved my way into the secret check-point at 0 1:35am. There a compassionate Frenchman took pity on me and offered me copious cups of coffee, he also wanted to talk about our New Zealand rugby football team which I discovered is famous and much respected in France. He was less inclined to talk about French Nuclear Testing in the Pacific and I figured that this maybe was not the best time to raise the subject. Later on after PBP I found that the French people in general knew very little about the upcoming French Nuclear Testing program in the Pacific. This short rest and the coffee set me on the way again feeling much improved and I rode quietly into Brest arriving at 04:00am.
Realizing I still had not fully recovered I decided on another rest so booked a bed and slept soundly for three hours. Got up feeling refreshed, had breakfast, mashed potato, eggs, chicken and bread, washed and just on leaving spoke briefly to Lon Halderman discovering he had not long earlier arrived at Brest and with the knowledge I was in front of him, a person who's cycling ability I admire, gave me a feeling of 'hey I must be doing O.K.'. After Brest I never looked back, just seemed to get better all the way back to Paris. I teamed up with an English chap and Glen from Norristown PA and we rode together from Brest, Carhaix (11:56am), Loudeac (15:42) and onto Tinteniac arriving 19:53. We laughed, told jokes, related stories and generally enjoyed each others company. To me this was just bliss, beautiful country side and villages to ride through, marvelous riding conditions, fabulous French cuisine, this is what I came for. I didn't stop again for a sleep, only food stops and I left John and Glen at Fougeres (22:57) where they stopped for a rest.
I rode all that night with a small group of French riders, had a brief stop at La Tanniere not far out of Fougeres where a French guy had his garage open, lights and music blazing and offering coffee and food to anyone who wanted to stop, bloody marvelous really all the support along the way. Had a very early breakfast at Villaines La Junel (arrival 03:27) and left for Mortagne-Au-Perche still in the dark. I thought it was beautiful riding into the sunrise as we rode past vast fields of sunflowers, some of which looked like they had to much sun. Also there were some large trucks going the same way as us that were happy to sit in behind us until they had a very long clear stretch of road in front of them then beeped and waved as they passed. Back home here it would be more likely for cyclist to be driven off the road so the friendly attitude of the French towards cyclists impressed me.
I Stopped at Mortagne (08:35) only to have my card stamped and lower my seat as I was starting to have some pain in my right Achilles. I found this section of the ride most attractive, climbing the hills, through the forests and very pretty country side. Didn't realize that Mortagne was so high up on a hill, on the way out of course rode this section in the dark and my recollection is that it was basically flat. Then across the flat plains in the blazing sun to Nogent-Le-Roi arriving at 12:24, where I stopped for my last P-B-P meal, being so close to the finish I had intended to carry on but the smell of fresh food was too much to turn up so I stopped and enjoyed the local cuisine and it turned out for me to be my most memorable meal for the entire ride. The chef cooked and prepared the food I ordered as I waited, it was just magnificent as you can imagine.
Leaving Nogent-Le-Roi behind and climbing up out of the hot sun in the shade through the glade of trees and bare fields beside was just stunning, the photos I took unfortunately don't quite match my recollection. Up more enjoyable hills and through more cool forests, attractive small villages and finally into the built up area before St Quentin were there seemed to be many traffic fights and not many in my favor. I finished just after 3pm on Thursday giving me an all up time of 65:17 which was well ahead of my predicted time so I am very pleased with my effort. I went back to my hotel and waited for my wife to turn up after spending the last 3 days in Paris then went back and watched some finishers coming in. After finishing I went around to the medical tent to get some ice for my now swollen and painful Achilles, I was given some white cream to rub on but no ice. For all the good the cream did it may well have been toothpaste as someone had suggested.
Paris-Brest Paris The Toughest Ride
Pat Rodden
Imagine riding STP, RAMROD, and Cannonball in one effort, with only minimal rest breaks; you 'd still be more than a Century short of the distance covered in Paris-Brest-Paris! RCC members Pat and Kristy Rodden have Traveled to France, where Pat completed the 100th Anniversary (1991) Paris-Brest-Paris Randonneur. Here's his story:
August, 1991. Paris-Brest-Paris eve - City Hall (Hotel de Ville) - Paris, France
So I told myself that I was going to come over here for a nice relaxing trip. That didn't mean I actually had to do PBP. I mean the only reason I brought the bike was to get in a couple of rides in the French countryside. So what am I doing here at the Paris City Hall listening to the mayor describe the participants of PBP as heroes? It should be more like fools - not heroes. Fortunately I just have to survive the 40KM prologue through the streets of downtown Paris out to the modern suburb of St. Quentin En Yvelines.
Man, these people take this ride seriously. There must be 20 motorcycle police and an equal number of cars full of officials ready to escort us. They Can't really shut down the streets of Paris on a Monday afternoon for a bike ride - can they? Not only do they do it but the people along the streets don't seem to mind. In fact they're yelling and cheering us on. "Bon Route!" "Bon Courage!" "Bon PBP!" Wow - this is kind of exciting. I mean it's the hundredth anniversary of PBP and everything, but these people are treating it like it's the Tour de France.
We arrive at the official start line to find a complete sports arena dedicated to the event. The infield of the track is filled with at least a 1,000 bike racks each with PBP logo attached. Banners and signs abound. Support personnel answer questions like they have been doing this for years.
What's this? Friends are starting to talk to me like I'm going to do this ride or something. They must have me confused with someone else. I mean I've done some crazy things before but that's all behind me now.
The wind has been blowing from the East for a couple of days. The thought of a tailwind out to Brest has some appeal. I could catch the wind out to the coast and take the train back. I have done half the PBP distance before, I have gotten my STP time below 10 hours, Cannonball in less than 16 hours. I might be able to just finish PBP if I take my time. Oh boy, the stomach is starting at revolt against such a proposition. It must be smarter than the rest of me.
August, 1991 - Paris-Brest-Paris - St. Quentin En Yvelines, France The toughest ride I have ever done. 90 hours are allowed to ride 1218K (762 miles) with over 30,000 feet of elevation gain. 3,300 riders from 26 countries begin the ride at three different start times depending on if they think they can finish in under 80, 84; or 90 hours. I choose the 10Pm start that allows for 90 hours. 2100 other riders choose the same time.
An hour and a half before the start we begin to line up. The nervous anxiety of before turns into excitement. The streets are lined with spectators and the riders are ready to begin something they have been preparing for at least two years. I guess there is no getting out of this now, I'm jammed between too many people.
At last the shot is fired and we head off toward the coast. This is it. It's really happening, I'm really here. It's a beautiful, warm summer night, the moon is full, and the people are cheering us on. The adrenaline is really flowing. However, the riders around us are restrained and the pace is relaxed. I'm hot used to this relaxed pace at the beginning of a ride. Neither are some of the other Americans. An American couple on a tandem slips by the pack and a few of us tag along. The French and Italians yell advice to us which we don't understand. They seem to be saying it's a long, long ride to be going any faster. I look around at the riders that are with me and they all seem to be American. Maybe we don't understand what's ahead of us?
Up and down the rolling hills of the French countryside and through the small French villages. Three or four in the morning - it doesn't matter, the French people are out cheering us on. The moonlight makes the wheat fields and sunflowers light up. It all looks like a reverse negative of a surrealistic painting.
We find ourselves climbing up, and up to Mortage au Perche (literally on a perch) where we arrive at the first control which is like a small city. There are a restaurant, bike shop, first aid station, massages, message center, and bar all available. It is 3:00 AM and the place is bustling with friendly volunteers. I see many of the riders sitting down to huge plates of great looking food with bottles of wine and beer in front of them. It's not my sleep deprived imagination. I go to the bar for water where I see a choice of two different waters, a couple different kinds of pop, and about 20 selections of beer and Wine. The secret to surviving this ride must be to numb yourself with alcohol and stay awake with bowls of cafe au lait. It doesn't sound like a bad riding philosophy. However, I told myself before the ride I would stick to what I was use to. Which is a camelback full of water, and three bottles of Ultra-energy.
I have somehow gotten lost from my friends during the night and I am pretty much alone. The sun starts to rise and it begins to look like a Monet painting. The views are stunning, there is no traffic, and the roads are excellent. A pretty French girl yells for me to stop. Any change to stop is welcome, so I do. She makes me a cup of cafe-au-lait (maybe she knew I was from Seattle). Like many encounters with French people along the ride no English is spoken yet it becames easy to understand each other. No money is accepted and I am off again. It doesn't get better than this. At this monument I knew I was going to finish this ride no matter what.
The kindness and respect I felt during this ride was overwhelming. The French take this ride very seriously and I begin feeling a strong responsibility to finish the ride. I have never ridden with such a feeling. A friend from Vancouver was able to hang on with the leaders all the way to Brest were he decided he was too beat to continue. The officials told him to go sleep and then decide if he still wanted to quit. They told him to go back and get more sleep. Three more hours and he still wanted to quit. The officials then proceeded to lecture him on the sprit of the ride and the dishonor he would bring upon himself and the French people if he didn't finish the ride. He finally took their "advice" and finished the ride.
On through Villaines La Juhel where we are given a gift of a compact disc. The town is famous for the electronic music developed here. Another outstanding control point where we are treated very well. A Quick 15 minutes of getting our cards stamped, water and ultra fillups, and fast bathroom stop.
PBP officials take their jobs very seriously. Many of them are out night and day along the course looking for violations. Everything from riding without lights on (something that can be done with full moon and crystal clear skies) to penalizing riders with sag support away from the control locations. At the beginning of the ride we were given a neck satchel that included a photo ID with a magnetic strip that we run through the timers at all of the controls, and a passport of sorts where we get the official stamps from each control. This information was downloaded in real time to a nationwide computer system that allowed your friends to determine your location to the nearest control from anywhere there was a terminal (hotels typically). They could also call a special phone number to get information.
The heat during the next day became almost unbearable. At the top of a difficult hill I stopped at a Brassiere (bar) and downed three Perrier's to settle my stomach. Others around didn't look much better. Soon after leaving the bar I arrived at a secret control, one of many along the rout setup to make sure people stay on the required route. Cards were stamped, numbers recorded, and on our way we were sent. On through the day I rode using the control at loudeac (450 K) as my goal since my wife was waiting there with a fresh change of cloths, some food, and much needed emotional support. Upon arriving at the Loudeac control I was surprised to hear less than 25 people from my timed group had made it this far. I guess the dinner and wine stops take their toll. However, it was my turn to take my time. My friends began rolling in about a half an hour later and we decided to take it a little easier on the pace. Of course that was only after we hung around the control for a couple of hours. Oh well, by now it was beginning to cool off.
The toughest climbs of the ride are all between loudeac and Brest on the coast. Long, steep rollers between the villages kept us straining. Train schedules start creeping up in my mind and wonder how long the train ride back to Paris would take. Maybe there is a high speed TGV train. It is late at night again out along a quiet country road. I see lights ahead. It's a farmer using his tractor to light up the road. He is handing out fresh peaches to any riders that wander by.
Flashing lights from the lead officials car pop over the hill and soon after we see the race leader Scott Dickson (1957 PBP winner), and three other Americans (two on a tandem) heeding back toward Paris. I begin my stop watch and stop it when we see the chasing pack 13 minuets later. It looks like Scott has put a good lead on his competitors.
At Carhaix my friends and I decide to stop and have a French dinner and get a couple hours of sleep. The dinner was excellent although we didn't have any beer or wine to wash it down with. We would have felt bad depriving our French compatriots of a dietary necessity. Entering into the sleeping hall we were surprised to find cots and warm blankets. Each of the 200 or so beds was numbered so the staff could awaken us at our desired time. In our case, 2 1/2 hours later. The sound of 200 cyclists, all of which snore (I guarantee it) quickly put me in the mood for sleep.
At 4:00 am off go again on the way to Brest to the infamous radio tower climb (2,500 ft or so). There seems to be little traffic on the road during the day, let alone at night. Yet the villages still have their diehard representatives out in force. Somewhere out here I find myself riding along back country road in Northern California. We arrive at a highway interchange and I find myself complaining to my friend that there never used to be a highway here before. He points out we have never been here before. Oh that's right - this is France. Five minutes later I'm again disappointed they've put a highway along my favorite bike route. Sleep deprivation is scary! Why am I doing this ride? Brest becomes a difficult goal that finally arrives at dawn. After checking in at the control my friend and I slip up to the massage tables where we each get a free massage. We both are asleep in less than a minute. After the massage I am woken up and told to get back on my bike. I quietly suggest that they take my place but that suggestion falls upon French hearing ears. After a bowl of cafe au lait I'm ready for any thing and back toward Paris we head. However, our friendly tailwind has turned into a voracious headwind. Yuck! This is going to be a long ride home. Sadistically I take pleasure in seeing others heading toward Brest as we are leaving It.
By the return to loudeac I have used a small jar of Vaseline to reduce the chamois friction prevalent on such a long ride. My friend has such a bad case that we stop at a small town Peugeot repair shop where I borrow a razor knife. In the middle of the shop my friend starts hacking away at his seat trying to reduce the pressure on his crotch. The mechanics look at us as if we just arrived from Mars. Yet they're quick to provide help, and out comes the duct tape.
Once again my wife is here with a change of clothes, a great dinner and lots moral support. After my friend is finished with his blood curdling screams from the treatment of his pressure areas we are ready to hit the road again. This time we are both in high spirits. The wind seems to have shifted and we are ready to roll all the way (450 K) into Paris. For 50 K we are flying. Geared out, wishing we had 54 tooth chain rings. People are cheering at us in the villages, other riders look like they are at a stand still when we go by. Wow! This is going to be easy into Paris! By the time Tintineac arrives we are back to our survival pace barely able to continue. It is three in the morning and along the side of the road, before the control, I see a table set with fine china and linen awaiting some fortunate European riders. Well at least I have my ultra energy.
Dreams of the Fougeres castle where we can catch some sleep keeps us going through the night. However, the great fade comes about 25 K out from the control. I begin to see other riders under trees and in ditches asleep. I am envious. 10 K from the control I wobble over to the other side of the road where a stone cemetery fence needs some support. Here I sit on my bike, leaning against the fence catching five minutes of sleep. It is late at night and the wind is blowing in our face. Just get me to Fougeres.
At last we are here. My friend and I stagger to the control table for our time stamps. Minutes later we fall asleep on the floor ten feet inside the open front door. Fortunately, my friend, Kevin, has just set his alarm for 60 minutes. An hour later we wake up to the chattering of our own teeth. It takes two bowls of cafe before either of us can talk without stuttering. After we achieve some form of consciousness we realize that had we walked ten feet further before falling asleep we would have had a warm cot and blankets available. Oh well, we would have just slept longer.
We leave with the prospect of riding 300 K to the finish. The only problem is that my seat is complaining to me so loud that I have started doing weird things with my ankles to compensate. This leads to a painful left tendon. At least the pain keeps me awake.
Zipping through a small French village at six AM in dire need of coffee my friend yells out in desperation "Cafe!?" (nearly the only French he knows). An older French woman yells out from her house to come in. Here we are treated to huge bowls of cafe au lait. When she and her husband find out we are Americans they break out the World War II photos and show us with pride and gratitude where the Americans landed on Normandy Beach. They wake up their son to meet us and we are humbled by their treatment of two perfect strangers. We see their son's collection of trophies from bicycle races displayed in his bedroom. Another perfect moment. Pain has no meaning and we know we will finish this ride.
By the time we arrive back in Villaines La Juhel my Achilles tendon needs some attention. A doctor motions for me to sit on the table where they have a masseur massage the back of my calf. After taping it up tight and giving me some anti-swelling medication I'm ready to continue. Another beautiful French day with howling headwinds. We are on our way back to Mortagne au Perche and the winds are defeating me mentally. It seems as if each hill is a mountain pass. 25 K out from the control I decide to take a break alongside the road where I try and catch a cat nap. The only problem is that every car that passes by stops to make sure I'm okay. The only smart thing left is to continue on to the control. Ten K down the road and I hear a spoke nipple break and wobble begins in my rear wheel. Oh well, I can struggle into the control and have it repaired�bang. Five K from the control and another spoke goes. The wheel has collapsed against the chain stays. Damn alloy nipples! I begin the long slow walk; to the control when English speaking Frenchman I rode with the night before shows up. He offers to ride along and talk with me all the way to the control. After a short walk a police van with three uniformed gentleman pulls up and they ask if they can help. My French friend describes the situation to them and they agree to drive me to the control at breakneck speed for my wheel repair. Probably the scariest part of the whole ride was the 4 K I traveled in that van.
After arranging for the replacement of all my alloy spoke nipples with nickel ones, I go and grab a great French meal with two liters of Perrier water to wash it down. My French friend arrives and I thank him for all the help. I ask if the Gendarmes (police) were there to help with the ride, and my friend laughs at me. It seams that the people that picked me up weren't police after all but were employees of a mortuary service. The van we rode in was a hearse of sorts. Looking back it all seems perfectly appropriate.
After falling asleep on a comfortable mattress for two hours (unplanned) I'm off back; tracking to my mortuary pickup point and then on to the Nogent le Roi - my last stop before Paris. Somewhere out here my crotch refuses any attempt at sitting on the bike seat and I am forced to stand most of the way to Paris. I never thought I would be wishing for hills at this point in the ride but I was, and there were.
Finally just 50 K to finish the ride! Unfortunately in my delirium I backtrack the course five or six miles before I realize I had made a wrong turn. I'm still not sure where to go until I am back at the control where they set me straight. Another beautiful French night with a full, bright moon. I get in with a group of five or six French riders and we zip through the tree lined roads on our way back home. The wind is still blowing in our faces but we no longer notice because Paris is on the horizon.
One of the French riders and I take off from the others. The adrenaline is flowing, my legs feel as if they are fresh, and I forget of the pain in my tendons and crotch. My poor French and his few English words are used to build a friendship that I won't easily forget. We are all alone zipping through more frequent French villages on our way toward the finish line. As we approach the finish more and more people are out cheering us on. The pace quickens and we cross the finish line with hands raised together like Greg Lemond and Bernard Hinault at the end of the Tour de France. Another special moment. After 74 hours 50 minutes from the start I have finished PBP. Four nights have passed with less than 5 1/2 hours of sleep and I can't quit talking about the experience. My wife finally gives me a couple of beers and some pizza to calm me down.
The hardest thing I have ever done? Undoubtedly. Will I ever do it again! In a minute! Maybe I have finally learned to never say never. This was not just a bike ride but a cultural, life enriching experience. The next PBP will be held 4 years from now in August, 1995 and I plan to be there. How about you?
Eight riders from Seattle entered PBP 1991 and as far as I know all finished. This compares favorably to the 20 % overall abandonment rate.
Super Brevet Scandinavia or "The great ferry race" or "Daylight 1200"
Bengt Sandborgh - Stockholm, Sweden
The second edition of the SBS was held July 12 to 15. Start in Frederikshavn, Denmark and finish in Kristiansand, Norway, a +1200 km Brevet.
We where 45 starters most of which had chosen to do the race in a co-operative fashion. That means we had: Pre-booked accommodation after each day with dinner and breakfast. Baggage shuttle between overnight places. Everyone re-started at the same time every morning. But the Brevet was still according to ACP rules with a maximum time of 90 hours.
The first day (355 km) will go down in history as "The big ferry race" as we had 3 ferry crossings. We where making very good progress down the eastern coast of Jylland as we had a light tailwind. The first two ferries were across narrow inlets on the coast (ride time app. 15 min. each). Of course we manages to miss every ferry with a couple of minutes. During the second waiting time we had time to shop for food and refill our water.
When we came ashore from the second ferry we had, according to the route sheet, 67 km to the next ferry. That ferry departed every hour on the hour. If we rode the 67 km in 2 hours we could make the 2 pm ferry. The av. speed so far was slightly over 35 kph so it looked as we might would make it. But the route became more hilly and we made a wrong turn in a village so the time was running out. When we had made the 67 km we had 2 minutes to spare but here we found out that the ferry terminal was another 4 km further. Foul language and disappointment! But I said: Let's press on. It might be delayed or something. When we saw the terminal the ferry was still in and cars was driving aboard. At the check-in point our baggage van was parked and the driver was inside the terminal. As he was supposed to buy our tickets we assumed he had already done that so we rode straight through. An official stopped us and told us to wait. He talked a lot on his walkie-talkie and I heard he talked about cyclists. Danish and Swedish is related but it's quite difficult to understand when they are talking fast. After a while we got the impression that it was OK for us to ride aboard and we went up the ramp. Someone was shouting "stop, stop". But all 16 of us thought "Is he meaning me? NO!" and rode on. Before we had stowed our bikes the ramp went up and the ship sailed! A nice dinner in the restaurant during the crossing (40 min) and we where beginning to feel good again. I don't think I have ever ridden as hard as we did after the wrong turn when we where trying to catch up lost time!
Safely ashore on the island of Sjalland we had 170 km to Helsingor and the first overnight stop. As the time was only 3 pm we felt rather good about ourselves. Riders who had given their best to catch the ferry was beginning to drop out of the group. We arrived at the Helsingor Youth Hostel at 9.30 pm. Now we were only 5 guys in the first group. But where is the van? A phone call to the drivers cell phone told us that he was delayed and was not due for another hour. We took a shower anyway, who needs soap? After dinner the van arrived, we changed and went to bed. It was not easy to fall asleep. My heart was pounding and I was all keyed up. 355 km on 11 hours (running time) takes it's toll. I could hear the soft clicking of riders arriving for a long time. During breakfast the next morning we heard the full story of the chaos of the last ferry. Because one of the two ferries servicing the route had broken down half of the departures had been canceled. And as a result of this all reservations had been annulled. We were indeed very lucky (and bold) to have managed to get on the 2 pm ferry. The last riders had started to ride the last leg 7 pm. One of our club mates had arrived 4 am and she was not last. The van had not been able to get a place at all and had to be driven a long way around to take another ferry.
During breakfast one rider approached me and said: Don't you have a red Cannondale? You have a flat front tire. I quickly changed the tube and checked the tire for pieces of glass etc. Nothing. Strange, as it was clearly a piercing puncture. We started the second day (319 km) by gently rolling down to the ferry terminal to catch the 7:11 am ferry to Helsingborg and Sweden. The boat ride is short (20 min), we are soon on our way to the first checkpoint. As usual the group thinned out after the first hills and we were soon about the same group as yesterday. The first control was at Hishult. A very small village as it turned out. We were all looking for an open shop or gas station to get our cards stamped. We saw a shop and turned sharp right into a smaller road to get there. In the turn it felt as my front fork was broken and I was sure I was going to crash. I managed to stay upright and found out what the problem was. Front tire puncture again! I gave my Brevetcard to one of my friends and fixed the flat. The shop was closed so the card was finally signed by a man who was having morning coffee with his family in his garden. I pretty sure they where sick with crazy cyclists by the end of the day! Now we where riding in Smaland. Lots of big woods and very far between houses.
The group had by now thinned down to 8. One Dane, one Frenchman, 2 Norwegians and 4 Swedes. We made up a great team, everyone about the same strength. In the afternoon the route started to get more hilly with several long dragging climbs. This surprised me a little. It's amazing how harder hills get if you don't expect them! Finally we arrived at the overnight checkpoint. First again. Today's statistics: 319 km on 10.48 h (rolling). Rather slow compared to yesterday but still OK. The dinner at a nearby restaurant really tasted good. Before I went to bed I patched up my 2 spare tubes. The 3rd day started with a really big breakfast at the same restaurant as the day before. It's amazing how much food 40 hungry Randonneurs can shovel in! Today we had 292 km to cope with. The ride was rather uneventful, except I had a third front flat! I really should have bought a new front tire. In the afternoon we crossed the border into Norway. The first checkpoint in Norway was at Halden. We had a rather long rest at a gas station. The route sheet for the Norwegian bit was very thorough, clearly written by someone who had test ridden the route several time. It said "Long hard climb for 2 km out of Halden". When we had almost made it to the top, Hakan cried out "Hell! I left my camelback at the gas station!" Our laughter followed him down the hill! In the evening we had a ferry crossing again over the Fjord of Oslo. The final checkpoint for the day was a Camping Park where several cabins had been booked. Today's statistics: 292 km on 9:49 h (rolling). The last day was rather different from the first 3. Today we mostly rode on the heavily trafficked E18 road. On the first edition of SBS, the last day was on a Sunday. Very much traffic with people going home from their country cottages. This year it was Tuesday. Very heavy traffic with lorries. I don't know which is best. Norway is the most mountainous of the Scandinavian countries and we had several hard climbs during the day. We also had the only rain for the whole Brevet, a small shower about 20 min. long. It was really good to reach the finish in Kristiansand. We had 268 km and 9.38h for the day. For the total Brevet: 1235 km on 41:16 h rolling. Total time 82:30 hours.
Super Brevet Scandinavia is a nice ride through 3 countries. The flat farmlands of Denmark, the big forests of Sweden and the mountains and fjords of Norway. One problem with 3 countries is with the currencies, your wallet soon became a mess of different coins and bills. For a Randonneur the "Euro", a common European currency is a great idea! The ride lacked perhaps an overall responsible person. Now one people was responsible for each country. This can explain the lack of "marketing" for this ride. The route sheet was clearly better for some parts (i.e. Norway).
For you technically interested here is what I rode:
Frame: Cannondale 2.8
Group: Shimano DuraAce 9-speed
Gearing: 12/23 39/53
Wheels: Hope hubs. Mavic Reflex rims, 32 DT Revolution spokes, alloy nipples. Conti GrandPrix 23 mm
Pedals: Shimano PD-747
Shoes: Shimano SH-A100
Handlebar: 3TTT Forma SL, Two layers of "Cork Ribbon" tape
Saddle: Turbomatic Titanium
Lights: never needed!
The new Dura Ace group is a dream. It works flawlessly. Shifts crisp and accurate every time. Several of the Campagnolo Ergopower riders complained about sore right thumbs after the ride. The little button you use to rear up-shifts is perhaps a little hard to push for so long rides.
Only 2 years to Paris!
Biography of Bengt Sandborgh
Bengt has been cycling for 17 years. It all started when he and his wife to be bought 10-speeds and went on holiday to Scotland. With little experience to draw on they each strapped on 40+ Lbs of camping equipment and quickly found their low gear of 45X24 hardly enough, especially when negotiating the Scottish highland. The trip was a great learning experience and they never looked back. In 1988 Bengt entered the "Vatternrundan", a 300 Km loop around Sweden's second largest lake. Initially the distance appeared formidable but accompanied by 14,000 other entrants he found his niche. Looking for an even greater challenge Bengt qualified for and entered PBP in 1995. Riding comfortably he finished in 66h 44m and even slept 6.5 hrs the last night. Excited about the next PBP he say's in a couple of months you can ask "are you coming to Paris next year?"
Bengt is 39 years old. He and his wife have 2 children, a son aged 9, a daughter aged 7 and a Golden Retriever. He lives just outside Stockholm on the island of Lidingo and bicycle commutes 10 Km year round to his job as IS-manager for a firm of Civil Engineering consultants.
1996 Inaugural Rocky Mountain 1200
John Wagner
How does the RM 1200 compare to PBP?
* PBP is a rich cultural/social extravaganza, the RM 1200 is a rugged wilderness experience. I missed the French boulangeries, the cheering roadside throngs and tres-chic ladies.
* I found the RM 1200 route physically more challenging and with the remoteness of the Spartan facilities, thoughtful preparation and planning is essential. I wouldn't try sleeping in a ditch, vis-a-vie PBP, lest getting stepped on by migrating Elk or poked at by a curious Bear.
* PBP had over 3,000 participants. The RM 1200 had 12.
* I spent a lot of time on PBP bumbling around the controls, looking for stuff and conversing with new acquaintances. On the RM 1200 this was not a problem, most of what was available was within a 30' radius and all the faces were familiar.
* The PBP route takes you through quaint rural towns, steeped in history and tradition. The RM 1200 has some of the most spectacular wilderness scenery you'll ever encounter.
Who participated?
Support was personal and terrific, consisting of: Ted Milner - Director Sportif, Harold Bridge, Carol Hinde, Sharon Street, John Sheilbourn, John Jamieson and Gordy Cook - sweep.
All controls were manned and provisioned with water, cookies and bananas. Youth Hostels at Jasper and Castle Mountain proved indispensable for showers and sleeping with kitchen privileges for breakfast. Motels were used at Golden, Revelstoke and Falkland.
Ted and Harold leapfrogged each other to the next control as Gordy arrived. The Gap between the lead and trailing groups was never more than about 6 hours.
Riders.
From B.C.: Bill Kitchen, Real Prefontaine, Manfred Kuchenmuller, Roger Street, John Bates, Stephen Hinde, Brian Buday and the glamorous and curvaceous star of French film Karen Smith.
From Saskatchewan: Grant McLeod and Glen Smith. Dubbed "The Flat Landers."
From Seattle: Ron Himschoot and John Wagner.
Note: Manfred, Bill, John B. and Real formed a confederation to ride together, were later joined by Grant and Glen, finishing together with the same time of 72h12.
The route.
The 1200 km route was a triangular loop starting in Kamloops heading north on Hwy. 5 with controls at Clearwater (126K), Blue River (233K), Tete Jaune Cache (342K) then on to Jasper (448K.)
From Jasper we rode the scenic and breathtaking Icefields Parkway to Castle Mountain (706K, just south of Lake Louise) with an intermediate control at Rampart Creek (590K).
The final leg heads west on Hwy. 1 with controls at Golden (813K), Revelstoke (963K), Sicamous (1029K) the 1000 km finish, Falkland (1121K) and the Grande Finish in Kamloops (1201K.) Total elevation gain was something over 28,000' which is deceptive because much of the route is relatively flat which means when you did elevate, it came in mega doses.
The route was a pleasure to ride (now that it's over) with safe shoulders, light motor vehicle traffic and "Super Natural" scenery. The only nerve racking section was around Golden on Hwy. 1 with high speed truck traffic on the hot, hot, hot third day.
Riding the route.
I have this internal mechanism that allows me to nod off by just closing my eyes for a few minutes then wake up fully alert, akin to a light switch. This greatly facilitates power napping. The plan was to get a good night's rest before the 4 AM start then ride the first two days before sleeping, using power napping where needed. Ron and I shared a motel room about a mile from the start. We retired about 10 PM but I had so many misgivings about my accumulated injuries and puny training that I awoke after the first hour of sleep to toss and turn the rest of the night away serenaded by Ron's snoring, truck traffic on Hwy. 1 and continuous train traffic. A first night sleep break in Jasper now had a high priority.
Kamloops is hot, dry and windy during the summer months. High 90's is common with 100+ not uncommon with rip roaring winds all too customary. On this occasion we were blessed by low 90's and little wind but the alternatives haunted us. Greeted by a cool clear morning everyone was in great sprits for the start. Good road took us north up Hwy. 5 towards Jasper. The first 330K were a combination of rolling hills and an ever present incline as we skirted the Stegosaurus-like spine of the Rockies. I was the first to pee, so lost contact with the group; Ron seconded the refreshing pause. Karen, Stephen and Brian were on the same schedule a little further up the road so the five of us rode together until Stephen flatted and Ron and I pushed on. These three groups, the confederation and flat landers up front, Ron and I followed by Karen, Stephen and Brian, rode in respective groups for the rest of the ride.
A little after Clearwater, a 20K section was just starting to be re-paved and the ground-up surface grabbed your attention. Now following the lower Thompson river, little roadside rest areas made for pleasant stretch breaks. By the Blue River control, with the temperature rising, we met Roger who had slowed his pace due to fractures in his rear rim, which were to worsen as the ride progressed and eventually force his retirement. We also learned that Brian had hit a stone, veered into a ditch bending the frame of his Pinarello. Shaken, not stirred Brian was OK. Harold commented that the "Bloody Italians can't build a proper rando bike" and gave Brian his mount. The ill fitting beast eventually did him in by the 600 km mark. The Terry Fox rest area (Tete Jaune Cache) control marked our entry into the Rocky Mountains and started right off with the Yellowhead Pass (3,700'.) This came after accumulating 7,200' of rolling hills. The next 220K the terrain was basically undulating up to Jasper and then south onto the famed Icefields Parkway where 10,000+' snow capped peaks line both sides of this majestic boulevard. Peaks with names like Edith Cavell, Kitchner, Ten Peaks, Endless Chain honor fallen heroes, early explorers and state the obvious. But we were down in the valley with romantic sounding places like Mosquito Creek and Graveyard Flats. This national park is home to bear, elk, moose, big horn sheep, Mt. goat and sundry other critters - none of which fear someone wearing tight pants and riding a skinny tire bicycle.
Someplace outside of Jasper at about midnight we were standing over our bikes deliberating over some monumental decision when I mistakenly placed my forehead on the bars, closed my eyes. After picking myself off the ground, we were at the Jasper hostel control an hour later and dead asleep within minutes of arrival. Getting to this state of nirvana entailed negotiating "Ted's Surprise", a 2K 11 percent climb up Whistler's Mt. Road to the hostel. I would challenge anyone to whistle while negotiating this hill on a bicycle. Ron, who rides strong when you can coax him onto the bike, revels in his long sleep breaks, long sit down meals and long off bike breaks got little argument from me about sleeping for 5 hours.
Long ago I renounced bananas and sweets (cookies and Power bars) having succumbed to the palatability of real table food. I catch a lot of flak about my non traditional eating habits. For this adventure I stuffed my pockets with turkey sandwiches and bagel hot dogs and carried tea w/lemon in my water bottle. In the morning the hostel was buzzing with trekkers, young and old. A few were curious about our cycling pastime. After I downed a couple of excellent micro-waved bagel dogs we were on our way. Descending rather quickly we had only a quick exchange of waves with Karen, Stephen and Brian on their way up to the hostel. I think Karen may have been whistling, judging by the ease of her rapid ascent. Later we learned they spent the night stacked in Gordo's van at the Terry Fox control. Passing on breakfast at Becker's, a known gourmet restaurant in Jasper, we did take a protracted lunch at Sunwapata Falls bus stop on the Icefields parkway. We ate mounds of home made stew and talked with a couple of adventurous young ladies from Quebec City. They were bicycle day tripping the parkway while their boy friends held down their stash of beer back at camp. We had to pass on the invite for a cold one. We next encountered a black bear sauntering down the highway. Since I was carrying a camera I thought to ask Ron to get a little closer for a picture but decided this idea was going nowhere after we discussed the speed with which these hulks can move, especially if he was foraging lunch. I think Ron was reaching a bit when he commented that "due to their anatomy bears can't run down hill very fast", neglecting the fact we were currently climbing.
All too shortly we were suffering up Sunwapata Pass (6,600') in the heat of mid-day. Powering up this mother in the big chain ring was just not an option. It was more like watching a movie of the bad guys getting blown away in ultra slow motion, the only difference was not as much blood and this was real. Today's test seemed to be how slow could you go without falling over? I was reduced to a litany of cursing and steering serpentines up the bugger. Years ago while touring here I descended this brute at 55 mph. Our reward for this torture was a teeth chattering wash board descent to Carol Hinde's Rampart Creek control where we debated two different descending techniques. Fast and out of control, yes, or slow, prolonged agony. All of this paled by comparison to the Bow Summit (6,700') a few hours later. At about a 9 percent incline, Bow knows pain and it came in several measures as we languished up false summit after false summit, after false summit, enough to make you want to cry. I tried reciting a Tom Houser (a wise old cycling sage) adage "Either I've done tougher or am setting a new PR" but Tom, how many PR's are you entitled too in one day? A terrific 30K decent took us into the beautiful Lake Louise area at dusk.
Food brokers were few and far apart and at their best mediocre. Between too many pain pills and the days' heat, in the extreme heat I can not eat, my stomach was on strike for better working conditions. Ron and I pulled into sleepy Lake Louise village at about 9:30 PM with a hunger in our bellies. We found what appeared to be the only open restaurant. The door listed "Closing 11 PM", Ah! we're in fat city until we were informed that 1.) we were now on Alberta time (1 hour later) and 2.) due to slow business the chefs were sent home early. With new motivation we found Freddy's cantina in the basement of some fancy pants hotel. Spaghetti and Lasagna brought our blood sugar up for a spooky 23K night ride through the forest to the Castle Mountain control. It was 1 AM Saturday when we woke John S. to sign us in. Three hours sleep and more bagel dogs were sufficient for the push to Golden. It must have rained while we snoozed, for the road was newly wet and the mountain air fresh, crisp and clear. What a fantastic day and we're heading for home.
An easy climb to Kicking Horse Pass (5,300') rewards you with marvelously long smooth and steep decent to the town of Field, aptly named for it's place at one end of a long flat valley. In my touring days we called this pass "Kicking Ass" when approaching from the opposite direction. The next test was Rogers Pass via Golden and getting there is a little like riding a roller coaster with a 60K descent from the pass summit into Revelstoke. At Golden we met Karen, Steven and Brian who had abandoned at 600 km. Roger followed suit at Lake Louise with his unsafe at any speed wheel. Ron and I were now making history as the slowest finishers in the history of this ride but we were still in it.
It was about 3PM, traditionally the hottest time of day and I was standing in a glacier fed mountain stream along the road about 2/3rds the way up Rogers Pass (4,300'). Pouring ice cold water over my body I watched it vaporize into mist as it hit my sizzling skin. Oh! what joy the simplest of things in life can be. About 3 hours later, at Revelstoke, control meister Harold casually mentioned it was reported to be 104 degrees. Waiting for Ron in the wonderfully air conditioned Rogers Pass gas station, I consumed a double scoop of blueberry ice cream and a bowl of cold soup, yet another culinary moment to remember.
From Revelstoke the remaining 240K was pretty unspectacular, rolling chip seal. I covered most of this section at 90 KPH from the passenger seat in Harold's truck. Completing a 1000 km brevet (in 65h) is all I needed to qualify for Super Randonneur 5000 status. Having had more fun than one person deserves in three days I was willing to leave something for next year. With a good nights sleep I was ready for the 6 hour drive back to Seattle and work on Monday. Ron rode alone into the night and finished the full 1200 km with a time of 78h48.
PS When you stop taking the little blue and white pills, pain and swelling result, funny how that works.
Final thoughts.
We started this with a group dinner on the eve of the event at Pete's Pasta in Kamloops excited and not knowing what lay ahead for us on this first ever RM 1200. Four days later we lounged pool side discussing our experiences, the party graciously hosted by local randonneurs Richard and Fearon Blair at their mountain top home over looking Kamloops. What an exceptional group of supporters and riders. I am both honored and proud to have been part of it.
Harold noted this rides elevation gain was something close to 29,028 which is that of Mt. Everest, Carol immediately chimed in with the "Neverest 1200". I second that.
This year my preparations were geared for Boston Montreal Boston in late August so I was caught short by this early July brevet. The previous week I was knocked off my motorcycle by a Buick and so was nursing an injured shoulder. Two weeks prior I pulled a calf muscle and was still concerned about an aggravated Achilles. A successful 600 km in June bolstered some false confidence about not bicycle commuting, riding hills or doing long distances. Wisdom (i.e. old age) don't quite cut it when a tough butt and a strong body are required. I can't decide if the RM 1200 is actually tougher than PBP or if it just felt that way but preparation for next years RM 1200 will start early. In the end it's all moot, the participation and experience (the journey not the destination) are what matter or to paraphrase F. Nietzsche
"That, that doesn't kill you makes you stronger."
Congratulation and many thanks to Ted Milner for all his hard work and many hours put into this special ride and Thank you supporters for your unconditional support, encouragement and friendship.
Voila!
1997 Rocky Mountain 1200
Ken Carter
Driving from Seattle to Kamloops, B. C. for a bike ride seemed like a long distance to travel. Dave Johnson, Russ Carter (my dad) and I drove eight hours up into the heartland of Canada. A flat tire at Dave's house led to a stop at Les Schwab for a new tire. Russ had no desire to start a 1500 mile journey with no spare. Dave and I agreed and as we sat waiting for the tire to be replaced, we joked of ways to back out of going through with the 1200 km bike trip that had been on my biking schedule for months. The drive up to Kamloops was quite pleasant with good roads and the weather sunnier the higher we climbed up the open rolling hills of the Coquilhalla Highway. Resurfacing of the highway caused traffic to backup and gave us a chance to see other vans with bicycles heading the same direction. We arrived in Kamloops and drove straight to the start line for the bike inspection. The check-in area for the inspection was a Husky Gas/Grocery store on Highway 5 a couple of miles from downtown. Several riders were already standing around the picnic table being used by Ted Milner, the ride organizer, and others who were handing out route sheets, control cards, maps and taking money for food and lodging. The meal plan for $20 was a bargain considering what any other traveler would have to pay for six meals. I paid for a full meal package just to be safe and two nights lodging. My hopes were to get to Jasper the first night and to Golden the following night, finishing the 1200 kms on Sunday morning. I had based my plan on the simple idea of breaking the 1200 kms into three legs of 400 kms. Sleeping for a couple of hours and getting up to do another 400 kms until finishing. There was no previous experience I had on a ride of this length or for climbing the 25,000 to 30,000 total elevation it was rumored to be. There was a warning by John Wagner who had ridden the route in '96 that reaching Golden would be tough for anyone by the second night. This led me to the idea that only if everything went well could it be done. No mechanical problems, flats, lack of food or water and the weather would have to be warm and dry enough to travel at night. The weather was to be rain for three days.
It was a quick bike inspection done by Harold Bridges. The only comment he made about the bike was the brakes were just okay. This was due to my lack of wanting to replace the pads. I was trying to get the most out of the original Shimano pads that even I couldn't believe had lasted four years. Several people were starting to show up at the check-in table. Ron Himshoot and Don Harkleroad both from Seattle. Ron was returning from riding in '96. He had also briefed me on this ride during the Expo Bike Fair in February. As I recall him saying only 12 had started the ride and 7 finished. This was a small turnout for such a big ride. It was believed that some of the riders for this year had heard of the ride while participating at Boston-Montreal-Boston in 1996, so the turnout was expected to be larger, giving the riders a year to plan and train.
While discussing the meal plan with Ted he mentioned that 31 riders were scheduled to start Thursday morning. This included Ken Krichman also from the Seattle area. Ken had decided just two weeks prior to the 1200 km to do the ride. He was under a time crunch to locate someone to cover his medical practice while doing the ride. This I only learned after bumping into him at Gregg's bike shop only a week prior to the ride. We had discussed the options of equipment and clothing for over an hour in the shop. After the bike inspection I saw Ken Bonner appear as we were loading our bikes back onto the Jeep. This was an opportunity to chat or hear what he's been up to. It's hard to get much time to talk let alone see Ken unless it's before a ride. The discussion touched upon his training and equipment including the new shock absorber seat post that he is now using. He mentioned that it worked and that it was especially useful during these long rides. We eventually got to our motel and started unpacking our gear and preparing for tomorrow's 4:00am start. I blended my liquid food and filled 14 water bottles as Dave and Russ relaxed and watched TV. The liquid food consisted of Met-Rx as the powder base mixed in with Science Foods sport drinks. Big Time and Super Turbo Tea both have high percentages of Carbo and Protein, giving the water bottles anywhere from 900 to 1000 calories each.
Thursday morning at 3:20 was a rude awakening for two reasons. It was raining and our wake up call never came. One of us had gotten up to check the time due to the usual nervous night sleep before a big ride. As we rushed to load our bikes up in the rain, I continued cussing under my breath at the front desk person. We decided to drive straight to a USA Gas/Grocery store that Don and Ron had told us would offer a warm breakfast at 3:30 in the morning. When we got there Don and Ron had already rode their bikes the 2-3 miles to get here. It was an effort that didn't give us the breakfast we were all hoping for. Unfortunately, someone forgot to ask if the grill would be turned on this early in the morning. The grill wasn't on so we all had coffee, hot chocolate and muffins instead. Not very satisfying but it will have to do. By 3:50 Dave, Russ and I drove up to the Husky Station where dozens of cars and vans were parked. Most of the riders were already unloaded and were adjusting packs, lights or putting on rain gear. It was raining steadily now and was to continue for several hours. At a little before 4:00, Ted and Harold had all the riders gather together under the canopy for a photo session. The group then slowly rode out Highway 5 north to Clearwater. The pace was at 17-18mph which Manfred Kuchenmueller, another B.C Randonneur extraordinaire, mentioned was fast for a 1200 km ride. Everyone seemed to stay together and chatted as the excitement of beginning the ride was finally here. There was a German by the name of Michael Wiegand who was easy to talk with. He does many brevets in Europe and was touring the U.S. by motor home prior to riding in this event. He had a front light driven by a generator in a huge front hub. Quite a commonly used design in Europe for riding through the nights.
The climb to the first control at Clearwater was made-up of a few rolling hills but mostly a gradual climb along the North Thompson River. It rained for 3 to 4 hours until we reached the store at Clearwater. As I entered each of the first 3 Control Points, Ken Bonner would be jumping on his bike and merging back onto the highway. Several times I could see the remnants of his food that he was stuffing into his pockets. Half a poor boy sandwich, orange peels, banana peels. The wildlife will be blessed with food today. Sometime after leaving the Clearwater control I had my first sighting of wildlife. A bear ran across the road ahead of me and sprinted up a steep hillside before stopping. It just stared down at the road as I rode by. The motel room at Tete Jaune Cache was the last time I saw Ken. The menu at this control was vegetable lasagna. The first warm meal after 338kms was superb. The Canadian group of Peter Stary, Stuart Wood and John Bates came into the small parking lot ready to eat. We reacquainted again and the four of us continued eating a second helping of juice and lasagna. At this point Ken Bonner was leading the ride by about 20 minutes. Peter and his group left next as I talked with Dave Johnson and other riders who were just coming in. The sun was out with broken skies so we finally were enjoying the beautiful surroundings of mountains on either side of us. The peaks of the Rocky mountains could be seen as the riders headed east leaving the small town behind. Dave and I climbed gradually out of the N. Thompson River valley into the first and largest national park we would enter, Jasper National Park. Here we would encounter our first of five major mountain passes to climb. The entrance to the park was marked by two large stone gateways with a huge white mtn goat that represented the doorway to the wilderness. The mountains got steeper and the road we were riding on had a wide ten foot shoulder similar to newly paved asphalt. The experience of smooth pavement ahead let us enjoy the beautiful clean air and distant waterfalls coming down between the ridges. I was excited to see what wildlife we would find now that the traffic had dropped considerably after leaving Highway 5. We crossed over Yellowhead pass somewhere before going through the Jasper Park toll booth. The pass was so undistinguished compared to the surroundings we were in that I don't remember any sign or crest to mark its existence. Once we started a gradual descent towards Jasper we ran across a couple of cars stopped on the side of the road ahead of us. It appeared they were taking photos of two or three large animals only ten feet away from them. Dave and I slowed down before reaching the cars. I decided to stop as a precaution to make sure the animals weren't moose. The stories I've hear about wildlife made my heart speed up on the thought of seeing a moose charge one of the tourists standing in the road. The animals came into focus as we stood staring, and we soon realized it was elk and rode on by. The sun was setting quickly now as we came into Jasper. We came across several more elk standing in the road holding up semi's and cars in both directions. This was a hunters delight to be able to just stand and watch the elk do whatever they wanted. Upon arriving at the control point we were told to bring our bikes into the building. It appeared to be a recreation hall with a kitchen at one end of a large room. A men's and women's bathroom with a shower in the men's room only. McCready Center it turned out was the recreation building next to the United Church in downtown Jasper. We quickly ate, showered and then laid mats on the floor with two or three blankets to wrap up in. Our clothes were spread out in hope they would dry during the next six hours while we slept. Getting up at 3:00am we ate more vegetable lasagna and met several people just getting in. Ken Krichman, Ron Himshoot, Don Harkleroad and Karen Smith were a few. Quietly we discussed the previous day's weather conditions while I was waking up and they were trying to warm up. The morning was cool, foggy and dark as we started out towards Sunwapta Pass south on Highway 93. The most memorable segment was a one mile climb at 10%. It came at the end of a long flat that included the irritating rhythm of crossing cracks that were perpendicular to the road. They were ten to fifteen feet apart and at times the gaps were two to three inches wide. Our wheels were taking a pounding unlike any I had encountered before. As we climbed the steep grade we passed by a large waterfall rushing down the hillside crashing against rock ledges until passing under the highway. The noise was so loud all other sounds were drowned out. Dave had maintained a steady pace as his climbing ability showed. He was a mile ahead of me as I crept up over the hill. After another ten or so miles we reached Columbia Icefields Center lodge. This was a much welcome sight due to our cold hands and wet feet. We were greeted by Russ and Michael Bingle's father who told us that three other riders were already in the lodge eating. We later learned it was Peter, John and Stuart who had gotten up an hour earlier. Ken Bonner was also ahead due to his short stop at Jasper around 6:00pm. He had eaten and rode on into the evening, going over Sunwapta Pass around midnight. This was too damn cold just thinking of riding at night in close to freezing temperatures in a desolate area. The rules did allow a vehicle support stop on the Sunwapta and Rogers Passes which I used to change clothes. After resting, eating and drying our clothes out for about fifty minutes we continued the last five to eight miles over the summit. It had started snowing as we left the lodge and so no time was wasted. One passing note about the Columbia Icefields. It is a haven for motor homes and huge buses carrying 100's of tourists. While in the lodge we saw the cafeteria fill-up with people and then clear out three times. This cafeteria's capacity was probably 300 and the lodge could handle 1000 people inside with two restaurants and half a dozen shops. The parking lot was large enough to hold a half mile oval race track. This was all interesting to see but too busy for me to want to visit by car. We crested the summit some 40-50 minutes after leaving the Columbia Icefields and started descending into a huge canyon surrounded by sheer rock faces on all sides. The road was rough but the view magnificent. As I watched for cracks in the road and for RV's pulling over into the viewpoints, my speed increased to 40mph. The road did a slow right hand curve that gave the first view of the full depth of the canyon and then a large graceful sweeping curve to the left down past rushing waterfalls and a wide open rocky floor. After six miles of fast descent the road continued straight for several miles hugging the canyon wall to our left and a glacier river of aqua blue runoff on our right. Dave had decided early in the ride that he wasn't going to race down the summits. This didn't hold anyone up since it was never long for him to catch up. It was the long road ahead that would bring us to the next control point where the Saskatchewan River intercepted Highway 93. We talked with the couple who signed our cards and then went into the restaurant to use the bathroom. This was another central location for tourists and buses to stop for a break. It was busier than the lodge by the icefields because it was much smaller. We had now entered into Banff National Park heading south up to Bow Pass. At 6780ft it would be our highest point in the 1200 km ride. The climb was similar to giant stairs as we would ascend for a mile and then flatten out for several miles and then step up again in altitude. The most memorable part of this pass was being able to see the crest from ten miles away. There were two mountains on either side with a saddle between them completely covered with timber. The trees were so uniform that the road became the only contrast to it by cutting right through the middle of the saddle. It was the last three or four miles that the grade increased to seven or eight percent. And as we came to the top, we could see that the summit was no more than a couple hundred yards long. From here Highway 93 had a long gradual grade down to the Trans Canadian Highway. Along this descent we came across what appeared to be remnants of an avalanche. There was a funnel of trees laying down like toothpicks from high above the road near the rock face of a mountain all the way down to the road and across to the other side. What a powerful force it must have been to move so much debris. Once we transitioned onto Highway 1, the traffic became heavy and noisy. The shoulder was wider than before and clean all the way into Lake Louise. Dave decided this was a good stop to find some warmer gloves and I wanted some warm tea. We stopped at an outdoor clothing store and then went to a restaurant to warm up. The sun was out and the temperature was much warmer compared to the cool temperatures on Bow and Sunwapta Passes. The route from there took a frontage road called Highway 1A just parallel to Highway 1. If there was a section on this ride that was the most peaceful it would have to be here. It was like a country road in a forest. There were some homes along the thirty miles to Banff with a few log motels or cottages to stay in for those vacationers who wanted to stay off the fast paced Trans Canada Highway. Traffic was almost non-existent except for an occasional car taking its time to get where ever it was going. This was the only part of the Rocky Mountain 1200 that allowed riders to pass by each other on the out and back between Lake Louise and Banff. Ken Bonner went by with a wave and then a second rider surprised us about half an hour later. We knew Ken had been ahead, but who was this other rider? Based on the finish line statistics I can now say it was probably Brian Leir. The road took us within four miles of the Banff exit off Highway 1 which required us to ride onto an overpass and turn to merge onto Highway 1. At the on ramp we encountered a cattle crossing or Texas crossing to the Canadians. This was an obstacle that just required enough speed to cruise over it without pedaling. So I sped up and had a very bumpy ride for ten feet. After crossing it I then realized how dangerous it was to navigate over. On the next off-ramp coming into Banff we found another Texas crossing. This one had a wire mesh laid over the grates to smooth out the ride and was safe to ride over.
The accommodation used in Banff was a Recreation Center with one large building housing an ice hockey rink, locker rooms and cafe. Outside were tennis courts and a skate board park that was being used as we rode up. The bikes were allowed inside and we climbed the stairs to a mezzanine overlooking the rink. The cafe was on the same floor with three or four tables with benches attached right beside it in the open room. Getting our control cards signed was first on our mind with food, shower and sleep in that order. Lasagna was on the menu with fruit juice or water. The time was around 8:00pm which was just at sunset with very few people using the facilities. In fact the only people other than the riders and support drivers were the cafe operator, control point host and the skate boarders outside. At 3:00am we got up to prepare for our third day of riding. The plan that I submitted to Ted at sign in was for a three day ride with sleeping accommodations at Jasper and Golden. Since the second day's mileage was cut short by 100 miles, we would need to sleep one more night before finishing. Dave and I were on the road at 4:00am Saturday to head west on Highway 1 out of Banff back through Lake Louise over Kicking Horse Pass and down into Golden. The morning start was cool, drizzly and dark. My new $20.00, 10 watt Halogen bulb got wet and exploded just as we got onto Highway 1. Thank god for the backup Vista light mounted next to the Night Rider. Climbing Kicking Horse, the fourth major pass, was miserable. It started raining after leaving Lake Louise, three hours into the day's ride. It was 7:00am and I was wet already. The only way to keep warm was to keep climbing. That was okay until we crested the pass and the highway flattened out. It was at this point in the ride that we decided this was not fun anymore. I couldn't make it to Golden without getting severely chilled, so I suggested we stop for breakfast. There was a restaurant across from Wapta Lake that was convenient and available. The stares from the people looking outside as we rode up showed a bit of surprise. Here were two bike riders out on the open road getting drenched by the continuous downpour. I could still joke about how wet I was, but they were warm and we weren't happy and we looked like it. This stop we soon found was not going to satisfy our need to dry our clothes. After breakfast we asked for the nearest Laundromat which happened to be in the next town called Field. It was still raining as we descended down the pass onto the long flat smooth highway. The directions I got from the tourist information center led us across the river into what looked like a neighborhood street. There were only three or four streets that made up the city of Field which paralleled the river along Highway 1. At the end of one street was a newly built hotel. We found the laundry room downstairs and stripped as far as we could without embarrassing the hotel employees who kept walking in and out of the room. After 30 minutes we were back on the bikes racing to pass those riders we saw going past the turnoff to Field. The warmth from the clothes gave me new life as we continued to enjoy a flat smooth shoulder toward Golden. There were several long straits that gave us a chance to see the riders ahead of us. It wasn't raining anymore as we proceeded to pass the riders and started a long gradual ascent. There was more climbing with a short six or seven percent grade which twisted through several rocky cliffs where slides had occurred recently. Upon reaching the crest the rain clouds had lifted and a panoramic view of a huge valley down below opened up where Golden could be seen along the Columbia River. We descended at a fast pace due to the 8% grade most of the way down to the valley floor. Here the route led us over the river to the west side where the Recreational Complex was located. The control point was a short stop to get a signature and eat a warm plate of pasta. The afternoon was warm and sunny compared to the morning weather we left in Lake Louise. Our pace was a bit relaxed as we crossed back over the Columbia and picked up Highway 1 again and headed northwest. There was one more major pass to cross over and to get there we had to climb a mountain ridge that could be considered a pass by itself. It was a long slow grind for several miles on a wide open road. The climb gave us another panoramic view of the valley behind us. The mountain range surrounding Golden is at a relatively low altitude with round smooth ridges covered by heavy forest. The amount of traffic on the road was not bad until we started descending into a canyon and it started backing up. There had been a large slide across the road and the crew had torn up the four lanes for traffic and turned it into two lanes of dirt. This was the only time during the ride we had to ride on compact dirt through traffic cones separating the on coming traffic from our lane. It wasn't bad, except the traffic wanted to do 45 mph over the rough washboard road while we could only do 15 mph. Cars, trucks and buses would pass by either forcing us out of our lane or by going into the on coming lane and do a slalom course between the traffic cones. This was ridiculous to see cars accelerating sideways to get ahead. The construction lasted a couple of hundred yards to the bridge that crossed Beaver River. It was here that we came to the entrance to Glacier National Park. The ridge we had just come down from had given us a view of the road going up immediately from the valley in a long straight climb for three or four miles. And then turn right up a canyon with extremely steep sloping hillsides. Some of these slopes were clear-cut which was the first time after three days of riding we had come across any form of logging. The climb started immediately from Beaver River and was another slow grind. The traffic was heavy due to the construction and several semis carrying heavy loads added to the problem. It was our bad luck to get a truck filled with cattle that left a trail of liquid waste pouring out the back of the truck for a mile as we reached the first of several tunnels. We dared not cross the line of waste so we had to stay near the narrow shoulder. It was the smell that was horrendous. After climbing two or three miles sucking in fresh cool air, the odor was enough to cause a sudden change in my breathing. My head dropped almost to my top tube and words were quickly exchanged between Dave and I.
The first of several tunnels were under construction for road resurfacing. We stopped before entering them and took a photo opportunity of the cathedral like rock faces jutting up into the sky. The purpose of the tunnels was because of the narrowness of the canyon. Land slides had come down over the roof with vegetation and a creek filled with water running down over the top. Views of hundreds of trees knocked over in recent snow and rock slides were evident on the southern hillside. After the fourth or fifth tunnel the road crested ahead and we gradually descended to a Best Western hotel and truck stop. A brief run to the bathroom and we continued on. Passing a sign showing 27 kms downhill, my eyes opened in disbelief. The sign was a bikers dream come true. It was heavily overcast and a slight amount of precipitation could be seen on the road. We were concerned about getting down the pass before any storm came in and arrive at Revelstoke at a reasonable hour. Our clothes became wet and cold with the rain and constant 30-40 mph downhills. Several more tunnels were passed through and once in awhile a flat or slight incline forced us to pedal and helped ease the coldness of our hands and feet. The canyon widened as we descended and views of waterfalls in the gorges coming off the mountains gave me thoughts of utopia as the coasting for miles of road removed all worries. Dave was taking a leisure pace behind me a mile or two and would always come up to pass words back and forth during the slower sections. The afternoon was going by quickly and we had no need to stop and rest. But our schedule of arriving in Revelstoke was getting closer to 8:00 or later. The 8:00 time frame had been the same time we had finished the previous two days coming into Jasper and Banff. I was enjoying some consistency in this schedule, even though there was another day added before we would be finishing. The weather had caused this unexpected change in plans that were made more than a month ago. I talked to Dave as we pedaled up a small incline that believe it or not, broke the boredom of coasting. Hey, are we on schedule to reach Revelstoke by 8:00? Dave said no! Not at this current pace. Then we began descending at 30-35 mph for three to four miles again and rolled out onto a long straight. We could pedal again and I asked Dave again with a big smile. How about our schedule now? Dave responded with we just might make it. I was just giddy over the constant downhill stretches of road with little traffic. There were several more tunnels going down with two lanes of road and a wide shoulder going through each. No need to slow down while going through them. Arriving at Revelstoke at the first turn signal since Golden 150 kms back, we stopped and waited for a green light. Motels, restaurants, traffic and people, we were back in civilization again. How wonderful it was to travel so far to explore the sights of Canada and the wilderness of its National Parks.
The control point was at Revelstoke Lodge. A hotel room being used to sign cards, feed the riders and give updates to the riders on dropouts and weather conditions. Only seven people had dropped out at this point. The last person was Ken Bonner who stopped at this control point. Word has it that he became sick on Rogers Pass and waited a few hours before dropping down into town to finish out at 1000 kms. The other six riders had all dropped before reaching Banff. Probably due to weather, sickness or physical problems. The course was the toughest and longest I had been on to date and there had been plenty of reasons to drop from a ride of this duration. There was a room set aside for riders staying the night. Dave was given a key to the room and after eating went straight to shower and sleep. I went to a separate room rented by Russ that had three beds. He had thought Dave would use one of them but no one communicated this ahead of time. It was a busy two hours before laying down to sleep. Showering was always right after eating on the agenda. Then there was replacing the broken bulb on the Night Rider, the bike and chain needed cleaning and batteries to be replaced. Russ did a trip to the store for batteries and one large coke. I finished the bike cleaning and hung up the wet clothes where ever a ledge or hanger could be found. Then slipped into bed and talked myself to sleep discussing the day's adventures. At 3:00am, Russ and I got up to a dry morning. We had already decided to go for breakfast at a Denny's located near the intersection we stopped at the night before. Dave it turned out had an eventful nights sleep in his room. It seems Manfred Kuchenmuller and some other riders had been late in arriving at Revelstoke. They were quite loud as they cleaned up in the same room Dave was trying to sleep in. He wasn't at all happy over defending his space on the bed and sleep time was minimal for him. We all three met in the restaurant including Mike Bingle and his father. Mike and I had met at a Portland 300 km Brevet two years ago. We had crossed paths earlier in this ride and were now keeping about the same pace. We all sat together and ordered a breakfast for the first time on the ride. This was a good sign for the start of our last day of riding. There were 200 kms to go with no rain and a full breakfast under our belts. The route would now lead us through some meadows and low lying mountains. Some flooding had occurred between Revelstoke and Salmon Arm, the next control point. Eagle River was high and at several points we found creeks carrying so much water down the hill that the noise would drown out a person speaking. There was an easy pace that kept us moving yet not stopping until the sun was in full force. We came riding into Salmon Arm without jackets and a high sun. Mike, Dave and I stopped at the Orchard Motel as several other riders were eating and milling around. To our delight it was so warm we could now strip down to jerseys and shorts for the final leg into Kamloops. Manfred, Real Prefontaine and a couple more riders had left Revelstoke a couple hours ahead of us. Their pace had kept them behind us during the earlier portion of the ride until Revelstoke. Now that we were within a day's ride of finishing, most of the other riders were minimizing sleep in order to finish in a respectable period of time. Peter, Stuart and John who were two to three hours ahead of us at Banff had stretched their time to six hours by the time we finished. And so it was apparent that Manfred and his group were shortening their stops as they pulled out ahead of us in Salmon Arm. Mike, Dave and I pulled away from the control point 15-20 minutes following Manfred. We were happy that there was only 105 kms remaining in the ride and just as important was the weather was perfect for riding. Our energy level was rejuvenated as we picked up our pace between 18-20mph. We caught up to Manfred and rode together through one of the small communities along the South Thompson River. The topics we discussed included exchanging/sharing brevet locations between the B.C. Randonneurs and Seattle Randonneurs. This would add some variety to each club's classic routes used for the brevets and get the clubs to ride together more often. I agreed and made some other small talk before moving ahead to catch up with Dave and Mike. Our pace quickened as we came into an ever widening valley with small hills now surrounding us. The road was now smoother with a shoulder that allowed the three of us to keep a pace line. I have to admit that as we got closer to Kamloops the opportunity to use the pace line became exciting as the adrenaline took over and the pace became a little high for us to hold. Dave made a comment that we were doing pretty damn good if we are using our top gear after going 1100 kms. We all were stretching ourselves to release the excitement that had built up over four days of riding. It was just outside Kamloops that we came across the fields with black mesh screens over hundred of acres. The same setup can be seen on the route out of Kamloops on the North Thompson River. The crops were Ginseng plants that were being distributed out of Canada for the world market. I've been buying Siberian Ginseng lately and notice that the location noted on the bottle was from Burnaby, B.C.
The climatic finish at the park was very subdued. Brian Leier, Stuart Wood, John Bates and Peter Stary all were standing in the parking lot and clapped as we rode up to the picnic table. We had finished in 81 hours 25 minutes and it felt great. We left our control cards at the table and congratulated the other riders on a job well done. Peter and I agreed to pass any stories our club members wrote to the other club's editor so that each organization could read about the ride. As we loaded our bikes on the jeep, Manfred and his group came riding in and we all cheered for their arrival. Philippe Duberson of France was one entrant who rode with them who needed a translator since he couldn't speak a word of English. I spoke to him at the start of the ride and always got a nod but no words. It became apparent now at the finish that the group riding with him was translating to him congratulations. It was a memorable ride through Canada that I would gladly do again, as long as the weather forecast doesn't include rain for three days and nights. I enjoyed riding with Mike and appreciated Dave's company and the many stories he told. I'm also grateful to my father Russ for his dedicated support as he also endured the same sleeping accommodations that the riders went through. Ted Milner and all the volunteers put on a great ride considering the length and duration of conditions. I hope you get a chance to do the route next year Ted.
Last Updated: 12-31-95