BONUS!  What does it take to train for PBP? We have a 9-page excerpt from the UltraMarathon Cycling Association Handbook that explains the basics, using PBP's North American cousin, Boston-Montreal-Boston, as the example. Both 1,200-km events occur in August. If you're interested in long-distance cycling, we encourage you to join the UMCA.  We're life members!

 

Paris-Brest-Paris '99

775 Miles, 63 Hours, 1 Roll of Tums

By Ed Pavelka

Paris-Brest-Paris, first held in 1891, is cycling's oldest event. In August of 1999, some 400 Americans rode in the final PBP of the 20th century. I was among them. If you're interested in learning what it's like to ride PBP, here's one guy's tale of hurt, pain and agony -- and that was just my digestive tract! We warn you: This is not going to be pretty.

I'm writing this in my hotel room in the suburbs of Paris. It's been 36 hours since I finished Paris-Brest-Paris with around 3,200 other riders from two dozen countries. I'm sitting on a pillow. The course ran long this year at about 775 miles (it was billed as 746), and they might also have put in a couple of extra hills. Total elevation gain was 36,200 feet, much of it in hundreds of "see-the-tops" with only a few extended climbs.

My game plan was executed to perfection:

I started, and I finished. In between, however, things got a little crazy. (Don't they always in Paris-Brest-Paris?)

I rolled out in the 5 a.m. group with two buddies, Robert Ames and Harv Kulka, and about 800 other riders. We had to complete the out-and-back course within 84 hours to be counted as official finishers. Robert, Harv and I stuck together for more than an hour until I got too nervous in the big pack on a narrow, bumpy road and let everyone go.

During this pit stop I reviewed my simple strategy -- ride to the turnaround at Brest, sleep, then ride back to Paris. Two 375-mile legs. That's how I did it in '91, my other PBP. However, by the time I reached the Loudeac checkpoint at 275 miles, I was way off that pace and thinking about Plan B (or even C or D). The main reason was the unexpected heat and humidity. Despite all of the torrid-temperature training I'd done in the East's sizzling summer of '99, I still folded like a cheap tent.

Some Like It Hot (Not!)

Instead of the predicted cloudy skies and low 70s, it was sunny and hi 80s. I ate a big meal at the first checkpoint (of 16) around noon, the heat hit, and 50 miles later at the next stop it felt like not a bite had digested. Once again, nutrition was threatening to be the toughest challenge in long-distance cycling.

And so it went -- and the slower I went -- to Loudeac, where the midnight offer of a bed in an old hotel was too appealing to resist (thanks Josh & Doreen). I got a shower and slept from 1:30 to 4:30 a.m. I was 100 miles short of Brest, my first-day goal, but had I kept riding I would have gotten there after daybreak and some six hours behind my '91 pace. So I went to bed and slept great.

The second day, predicted to be hotter, was actually cloudy, low 60s and calm, with a couple of stray showers. In other words, great riding weather. I felt so much better, even though the 100 miles to Brest and 100 back to Loudeac were the hilliest on the course.

With endorphins flowing, I made it my goal to reach Paris without a second sleep break. There were several reasons, all of which actually seemed to make sense at the time:

1. I didn't train eight months for PBP so I could come to the event and sleep.

2. I didn't spend all of the $$ for this trip so I could come to the event and sleep.

3. This would give me the chance for another stupid PR -- 500 miles without a sleep break.

4. A full moon a promised some spectacular night riding.

If there were any other reasons, I'm sure they were just as intelligent.

The sky cleared near dusk, the glowing moon rose, a light tailwind kicked up, and the placid country roads of Brittany were a joy to ride. It was truly a night in white satin. Some riders said they saw the most spectacular meteor streak through the sky.

Even in the wee hours, when gliding through ancient villages, there were people up to clap and cheer each small group or lonely individual. You get this encouragement all day during PBP and appreciate it very much. At 3 a.m. it can actually bring a tear to your eye.

The Flavor of Advil

At just about midnight, though, the clock tolled and this fairy tale began a wretched chapter (literally). That's when the first hiccup came, the start of more than a dozen hours of indigestion, heartburn, acid reflux -- you name it and it was happening between my esophagus and mouth.

This marked the end of eating without pain, and even swallowing water was difficult. About half of each swig came back with the next hiccup. Worse, it tasted like ibuprofen, of which I'd consumed about six in the previous 40 hours. Now, if you want to sample something really vile, suck on an Advil during your next ride.

Pepcid AC didn't work. It got so bad that I sought help in the medical emergency room at the Villaines la Juhel checkpoint with 160 miles remaining. They said, "Here, take this, go eat, come back, take more, then ride." Didn't work.

I had this same problem at PBP '91 and during several very long rides since then. I attribute it to consuming such a variety and quantity of food and drink, followed immediately by more exertion in the bent-over riding position.

I was hardly the only sufferer. Every rider I asked could talk about some type of gastric problem. It may seem surprising, but eating is the hardest thing to do successfully on an ultramarathon ride.

Finally, on one extended climb after the next-to-last checkpoint, Mortagne au Perche, I was hiccupping fiery acid every 15 or 20 seconds and drooling like Hannibal Lector in a nudist colony. Even breathing was becoming difficult. Fortunately, no rider was near enough to be bothered by my groaning. My legs felt good, my head was OK, there were only 85 miles to go. I wanted to get it on. It was extremely annoying that I couldn't.

Miracle Cure

Was there any way this ride could be saved? I suddenly remembered the scruffy roll of Tums that I'd been carrying for months in my emergency medical stash. (An ultramarathon rider named Dan McGehee had turned me on to Tums for quick leg cramp relief.). Yeah, but are Tums strong enough to calm this volcano? With nothing to lose, I stopped, found the roll, ate two, ate two more, then said what the hell and downed them all.

All right! Within 10 minutes the burning subsided for the first time in about 14 hours. That's the good news. The bad news is that without so much discomfort, I began to feel sleepy on France's warm, sunny, peaceful back roads. Real sleepy.

I noticed riders here and there dozing under trees. That seemed like a mighty fine idea. A small group that I'd caught was going about 14 mph, but I didn't have the energy or alertness to pass. Instead, I settled in about 20 feet behind and took a few short naps, complete with instant dreams -- or hallucinations. I don't know which, but it was pretty fascinating. I realized I was wasting time. I didn't care.

Nearing the next village, a car horn snapped me back as I drifted unconsciously across the centerline. Now I had to wake up or risk missing a course arrow. The group dissipated in the streets, so I found myself alone as I reached the open road again, somewhat refreshed, feeling a tailwind, burp-free, and with just 60 miles to go. I checked my watch. I wondered if I could reach the finish before nightfall.

Magical Finish

At this point I'd ridden more than 700 miles on three hours of sleep. But suddenly everything was working so well that it seemed like I was just three hours into PBP instead of three hours from its end.

This was the same magic I'd felt while charging through Georgia's rolling hill on the final evening of the '96 Team Race Across America. Where it comes from, I don't know. But the harder I pushed toward Paris, the stronger I felt. I even big-ringed one climb, thinking I was on the 42. (Maybe I wasn't so awake after all.) I felt so excellent that it put a positive light on the whole of PBP '99. It would have been marginal had those Tums not worked and I stayed slow and miserable to the end.

I dared not eat on this final stretch but did two energy gels with a little water, enough to fuel me to a finish right at sunset. My time was some six hours slower than the 57:35 I put up '91. So much for my theory that the difference between being 45 and 53 wouldn't matter. I figure I was on the bike for 47:30, with a total of about 16 hours spent at the 16 checkpoints and the hotel. My how time flies when you're wasting it.

Paris-Brest-Paris is a long, hard, storied ride. The ghosts are out there. It's held only once every four years, maybe because it takes a while to forget the hardships and want to come back. Right now I don't know if I'll come back. I like to keep doing new rides, and I've actually broken this little rule by riding PBP twice. I gave it my best shot both times, and it has given me more in return than I expected. I don't think I'll ever forget my experiences, particularly if I ever taste ibuprofen again.
 

---

If you're intrigued by Paris-Brest-Paris or its 750-mile North American counterpart, Boston-Montreal-Boston, first get your head examined. If that doesn't work, go ahead and find out more by visiting Randonneurs USA, the qualifying organization for American riders.

You can learn lots of what Ed Pavelka knows about riding PBP and other  endurance events by reading his Complete Book of Long-Distance Cycling, co-authored with Ed Burke, Ph.D. A portion of profits is earmarked for nutritional counseling.

The next PBP is scheduled for August of 2007.