PBP 2007 Fini

George Carlin says, "Sometimes you leave your house (a place to keep your stuff) to go on vacation. And you gotta take some of your stuff with you." A biking vacation is a great time to detach yourself from "stuff". Packing became a series of filtering actions as I pruned out the less important: first that stuff that I could not find, then that stuff I didn't really need—the final pruning leaving a few inner tubes and all medications in Byron's garage. Ravi had dropped me off at Byron's place on Wednesday morning so that Gilbert could make just one stop to pick up both of us on the way to the airport. Now, I met Byron's cats while Susan drove the pickup down from Yanceyville with two bikes plus Gilbert in the bed—organizing gear into his luggage, as the rest of the world went about their Wednesday morning-in-August routine. Ah, the first day of vacation—the escape from the normal routine, into something less, yet more, important—where we escape the "stress" of our work lives by launching into a vague yet tight plan through very foreign actions, people and places. We had air tickets into Brussels and out from Paris, a notion of train routes from Brussels to De Panne and from Dunkirk to Paris and biking in between Belgium and France. Traveling without taxis or buses, using differing countries for arrival and departure meant that all of our gear for PBP and the two weeks had to fit on the bikes, and no Trico iron-horse bike crates for us.

At the airport, a Belgium coke machine celebrates Mannekin Pis, Adolphe Sax, Frites and Eddy Merckx!

Bruxelles is the capitol of the European Union, but the airport isn't as big as Charles de Gaulle International. We find a waiting lounge by the parking deck with only one sleeping guy on the benches and begin unboxing and reassembling the bikes—or Byron and Gilbert begin assembling in front of the "Manneken Pis" coke machine. Motor nerve and muscle loss in my hands has left me incapable of handling mechanical tasks, so I make a run to fetch coffee in an attempt to be useful. Some guy hits me up for a few euros bus fare; the loan is made—hey, I could easily end up in a similar situation—I'll probably never hear from him again, but it could be a good story if I do. We start to head out and a local guy on a mountain bike rides up and welcomes us to his country. The road out of the airport tries to funnel traffic onto the "A" road ("A" roads are like our Interstates; "N" roads are national highways; "D" roads are what you want for biking). Thanks to Google maps and bikely we find the access road that gets us to the N21 into Belgium. The N21 has special traffic lights for bicycles and we follow it into town as the weather turns from cool and windy to cool and wet we take brief refuge in a tall old tram garage. We'd thought we'd enjoy a De Koninck and chocolates while in town but we felt pressed by the schedule to keep moving.

Gilbert readying the Moulton at the Brussels Noord rail station

From Bruxelles, high speed trains run straight west to Paris, but getting a bike onto those trains is questionable at best. At Ivo Miesen's suggestion we took a regional train north to De Panne, to bike west across the border into France to stay at the hostel, or F-1 hôtel in Dunkerque. Settled in with our bikes and tickets on the northbound platform at Gare Noord, Byron treated us to drinks from the vending machine. "Sodas were €1.30 and beer was €1.20. Here's a beer." Not finding any special cars or racks for bikes aboard the train, we lashed them to the floor-to-ceiling poles with toe-straps.

Byron on the road from De Panne Belgium to Dunkerque France

The De Panne station is southwest of the city, so we did not see De Panne proper, but there we catch the scent of a festive spirit on the air. Clean, yellow and green trams met the arriving train and a stiff sea breeze carried faint sounds of carnival rides and children laughing. We found the road west along the canal and biked across the border into France (the France-Belgium border marked only by an abandoned guard's kiosk and a merchant across the road with a Belgian flag on the east side of his store and French flag on the west) before we realized we were on the wrong side of the canal, biking on the shoulderless N1 road. We crossed the canal into Bray-Dunes at the first opportunity, stopping for re-nourishment at a grocery—big chunk of Gouda, some "Yop" yogurt energy drinks and a few peaches. Byron enjoys fresh peaches and declared these the best he'd had in his life. The road on the north side is much more pleasant for biking—calmer traffic through villages like Zuydcoote and Leffrinckoucke.

One of the fast trains at the Dunkerque Gare

Dodging black clouds, and fighting head-winds all the way to Dunkirk, we decided to forgo scouting the train station, turned north at the canal and rode to the sea. After admiring the shore and the drama of the storms on the North Sea we circled the area several times somehow overlooking the hostel until Gilbert pointed out the signs for "Auberge" (I thought that meant "eggplant"?). The waiter at dinner tolerated our attempts at French and offered, "In France we have a saying — Bon appétit." Four bunks and a sink to a room, showers and toilets down the hall, and a whole empty garage underneath to park our bikes. After breakfast with bowls of coffee we headed south for the train station and bought tickets to Paris. Surprisingly they routed us through Lille which we had avoided from Brussels on the understanding that those trains did not accept bicycles. Trains in France, all electric on smooth rails, are incredibly quiet and the passengers do not make a sound — it feels like being in a library.

Byron pauses at the Louvre

Arriving in Paris at Gare Nord we bike to Montparnasse briefly losing Gilbert, and entertaining motorists with the recumbent—"Did you buy that in Paris," they asked? At Montparnasse we again board a train for Plaisir hoping to stay a few minutes ahead of the evening commuter rush as our bikes partially block the train doors. After wrestling Byron's bike free from the clutches of an automatic door, the attendant in Plaisir instructs us to take our bikes around the station. we head downhill into southwest Plaisir pausing once to ask directions of two guys on the street. One says "droit", the other "gauche", so we go straight to the bottom, turn left, climb through the woods and cross the D30 toward Gaitines.

At the Hôtel Formlu-1, Plaisir

Arriving at the F1 we find we are staying with the German and Muscovite randonneurs. A huge bus pulls up from Germany towing a enormous bicycle trailer — "There are four-hundred cyclists coming from Germany for PBP," they tell us. "A few of us will stay at this hotel."

Typical French town. Typical, and gorgeous!

Saturday, we biked across Parc Etang—past countless large rabbits, through a herd of goats that arranged themselves single-file when we approached—to Hôtel Camponiel seeking to join the Davis group pre-ride. We rode with the Seattle group. Gilbert, having just installed a brand new Rohloff hub on his Moulton, and spending all his time working on my bike, had not yet installed shifters and was enjoying the hills riding the most expensive single speed hub in the world! In the commune Monfort L'Amaury our group sat on the stone church steps enjoying treats from the patisserie and basking in the pleasantness of life in an ancient French village, then climbed the hill to the ruins of the one-thousand and eleven year-old castle overlooking the surrounding countryside and the Forrest de Rambouillet.

Champion marathon Muscovite, and champion of Justice Restoration, Janet Molokova!
(Photo by Ivo Miesen)

After the pre-ride we joined Jake and Emily in searching out a bike shop to replace parts lost by the airlines. Buying a topo-map at Mondo Velo, we discovered the ridge between Maurepas and Plaisir. Byron had picked up a bit of a sore throat on the plane so we sought out a pharmacy and grocery in Plaisir — more Yop! Back at the F1, Janet Molokova and team Karavan came streaming in excitedly. Gilbert pointed to the broomstick on the back of one bike, "Some secret Russian cycling technology," he asked?

Byron at the 1011-year-old castle ruins at Monfort L'Amaury

At registration, I met RUSA president Mark Thomas and DC RBA John Ellis, picked up my packet, PBP Jersey, an FFCT polo shirt and marveled at the table advertising a "Paris to Peking" ride.

The Moulton Man!

The final reel finished after midnight, and we had just set out to bike back to Plaisir, when Gilbert doubled back realizing he'd left his musette bag at the bar. Luckily it was retrieved, but unfortunately for us Parc Etang was locked down for the night. "I'm sure there's a way around," Gilbert said confidently pulling out toward Montigny. "Yeah," I agreed, "we'll just wheel on over to Elancourt and then pop over that ridge—should be a beautiful, if cool and rainy, night for some 2:00a.m. ridge climbing on that single-speed Rohloff!"

Some folks queue up early

Monday—Day One, or rather, Night One, PBP starts in waves around 10pm. We should sleep a lot before the ride, but who's sleepy? We head over to Hôtel Moncure to set up bag drops, then hang out at the start, check out bikes, meet folks, etc…. Somebody's making crêpes—choice of nutella or sucre, none savory. A Norwegian randonneur invites us to their "Viking Ride". He says American randonneurs are fun to have along because they're always cheerful. Gilbert and I step out to find a payphone. When we get back, it's about an hour until start, so I check in with some officials…

Pre-ride entertainment

Apparently all the other «velo bizarres» are already queued up for the start, but after a cursory bike inspection I get in line and we're still waiting a good half-hour. Jim Wilson and Barbara are there, as is "Johnny Onion"—a British guy dressed up in retro French gear—beret, striped shirt, knickers, on an ancient bike with a string of onions hanging along his push-rod brakes and a two-speed shiftless dérailleur—for the climbing gear, one pedals backwards!

Gainesville RBA Jim Wilson & Barbara start with the "velo bizarres"

A firework signals our start, air horns blare and in the evening drizzle we take off. Even with the rain, there's sizable crowds gathered along the roads and standing on the overpasses to applaud and cheer us on. Flat tire start right away—I don't know what it is about rain and flats—One theory is that rain repositions glass particles that are already on the road, but surely there's not much broken glass on French roads (they don't have as many convenience stores, for one thing). Another theory is that water exposure softens tire rubber, but our tires are not that soaked (yet!). Recognizing the first part of the route from the pre-ride, and from 2003, gives 2007 a very different feel. This year, there's not the same sense of dashing off madly into darkness. At Tremblay-les-Village (70km) there is the patisserie with the cycling mannequin on the roof. It's around midnight and the owners are outside handing out bottles of water and treats. There's no cyclists stopped there now, so I stop so as to not seem ungracious.

Châteauneuf-en-Thymerais

At Châteauneuf-en-Thymerais we find the Bar of which Jean Paul BATTU spoke—owners Annick and Fred had posted to a cycling forum:

"Good evening, we will take part in Paris Brest Paris by remaining open in the night from the 20 to August 21 to accommodate you at Châteauneuf-en-Thymerais (the Eure and Loir) - Stage 1 (approximately 80 km from the departure). We wish you all (organizing and participating) a very good Paris-Brest-Paris 2007! We greet in the passing the participants whom we met at the time of your rides…"

Châteauneuf-en-Thymerais
(Photo by Ivo Miesen)

"Today I once again experienced the excellent functioning of an institute in the French speaking world, the Café des Sports. A Café des Sports is usually located in the centre of a village or a town and is the focal point for the sports enthusiasts of the area. Here they assemble to watch matches, discuss matches and drown the sadness of the loss of their favorites with a few beers. At the end of the afternoon I entered the small market town of Welkenraedt, in eastern Belgium. I was reccing one of the brevets I organize next year. While looking for a suitable control spot I rode to the central square. And there I spotted a Café des Sports, still open despite Christmas. So I entered and ordered a tea. When the barman brought me the tea I told him that I was reccing a ride for next year and looking for a control spot. I asked him if I could use his pub for that. He immediately agreed and enjoyed it. Not much later his colleague came in who was even more enthusiastic about it. And best of all, they are open from 5am, due to the Sunday market in town. If you spend some time touring in France or Wallonia before or after PBP, just take a break in a Café des Sports sometime during your trip. You'll be sure of a warm reception."

Mortagne-au-Perche
The sandwhich grilling stand

We climb the hill into Mortagne-au-Perche (140km) and there, amid the stone buildings, a sandwich grilling stand has been established roadside—busily grilling under a string of Christmas lights way past 2am. The temporary structure and lights lent an air perhaps light at a Christmas-tree farm—it's cold, wet, dark, you've maybe scraped your knuckles on the bow-saw, but it's the perfect place to be right now. The control is a half-kilometer further up the road (we should write up some control notes for newbies in 2011). The real control, just past the grill, is only a "Contrôle ravitaillement"—food/bathroom stop, no time control. At the control cafeteria I round up a yogurt, fruit salad, mineral water, cheese and a big plate of hot pasta. Portions are generous. It's maybe 4am, yet the control staff is bright-eyed and helpful. Several kids about 10 years old, bus the tables for us. After a bathroom break, heading for the door, but just inside the lobby (Brrrrrrrrrrr!) a sudden deep chill almost pushes me back into the cafeteria. How odd—yes, it was wet, but I don't recall even being cold when riding, yet now I'm freezing! Forcing myself out, onto the bike and down the road, curse the downhills heading out of Mortagne-au-Perche—I need some climbs to warm back up!

Villaines-la-Juhel—my favorite!

Just after 8am, we arrive at the first time-control checkpoint, Villaines-la-Juhel (222km)—my favorite control. Though we pass through countless thousand-year-old French towns, most of the controls are in larger and more modern communes. Villaines-la-Juhel is a beautiful example of the former (the only control town NOT located on a national road), and though its population barely tops three-thousand, you'd swear every single inhabitant must be volunteering or just cheering the cyclists on at the control. Serving as both the 222km and 1002km control, Villaines-la-Juhel opens on Tuesday at 3am and closes at 11pm on Thursday. In 2003 I passed through Tuesday morning and very late on Thursday, yet the volunteers and onlookers always greeted us with the greatest hospitality.

Villaines-la-Juhel
(Photo by Jean-Julien Kraemer)

In Villaines I saw Gainesville RBA Jim Wilson, met up with Jerry and Branson just after checking in (somebody lay down and closed their eyes and was immediately roused by an official who directed us toward the dorms) and ran into J.D. who suggested a brief nap—what a great idea! If we sleep for one hour, when we wake up it will still be morning and we can trick our minds into starting a new day! Volunteers bring us blankets, we hang our rain-soaked clothes, and they write our wake-up times on little slips of paper and tape those to the floor at the foot our mattresses.

Yield when entering a roundabout—Lots of them in France.

Approaching Fougères (310km), I pull out to get water from two boys standing by the road. They pour their whole bottle into my camel-back, then one jumps on his bike with the empty, thrashing furiously at the pedals to get home and back with the refill. Just outside of the control I met up with Ivo Miesen. "And is that the Pentax with which you've taken so many stunning photos of the Ukraine and Caucuses," I asked? Ivo checks the viewfinder, "Yes, and I've already taken 400 on PBP." Overall, there seems to be fewer photos of PBP-2007 on the web than PBP-2003. Probably the rain kept many cameras packed in their cases.

Villaines-la-Juhel by night.

It's a blast seeing the returning fast group on PBP. It's before midnight on some cold dark stretch of road approaching Loudéac and suddenly there's a bunch of bright headlights moving together, but bobbing just a bit, in two parallel well-ordered pace lines. Seeing only the lights in the darkness, with low mounted lights on the bike and high mounted headlamps, one has to imagine the structure supporting these points of light—and it all looks like some kind of ghost train coming down the highway in the opposite direction. There's a couple of groups like that, then individual riders. Are these poor lonely souls who, after 800km of working within the fast group, have fallen off the back, now struggling to get back on? Or hardy individuals hammering through the night, doing the ride at top speed without the benefit of drafting? Either way, they are 350km ahead of me.

J.D. Stewart
(Photo by Maindru Photo)

Just then, a familiar face— J.D. Stewart, who is also game for striking out toward Carhaix and grabbing an hour's sleep there. Great! Let's catch another hour's snooze at Carhaix—we should be there around dawn, perfect! "Wes, Byron and them are getting ready to get up. They're over there in the back of that truck," J.D. informs me. Great, I'll go throw the doors open and yell something in faux French about trespassing and les Gendarmes, but I blew it—didn't get the flashlight shining into their faces quick enough. The "trespassers" intended to eat here before riding, so J.D. and I set out together, but immediately became separated in the dark—too many bike taillights to figure out which was J.D..

Brest—Seven minutes to spare
Photo by Ed Felker

Approaching Brest, it was clock-watching time—counting down the kms and the minutes. Maybe 20km out, while crossing some cobbles in a town square, a clatter arose as something fell from my bike—no time to look back, I've gotta go! (It turned out to be my sunglasses.) Finally at the Brest control, handing in my card I said, «Je pense que je avons [sic] juste sept minutes.» The volunteer shook his head, held up a thumb and index finger, «Deux heures.» Hunh? None of the many volunteers seemed to be wearing the "translator" shirt, but it wasn't hard to find one willing to attempt. It turned out that we were being granted an extra two hours at the controls. "Has PBP gone soft," Joel Metz questioned? Not too soft, we still have to finish the whole thing in ninety hours.

Crossing the Albert-Louppe bridge to Brest—The l'Iroise bridge is in the background.
Photo by Ed Felker

Jake, Emily, Byron were all at Brest (615km). A couple of Swedish riders had me take their photo, and I'm ready to hit the roa…but now it was too hot! I did not want to sup at Brest, but stepping outside the sun felt intense and threatening to burn the skin, so I ducked back inside and gave le soleil a chance to go down just a bit, then struck out eastward across Brest and briefly met up with another of the young American fixed-gear riders (blue backpack—Spencer?) on a steep downhill approaching Landerneau—a town to which I've felt connected since visiting Guy LEGALL's Cycle shop during PBP-2003 (A "Cycles Guy Legall" water bottle sitting on my bookshelf at work has been sparking PBP memories for four years).

Villaines-la-Juhel

Two bonus hours, clear skies, setting sun, a cool breeze from the east, pleasant surroundings and al fresco dining along the Elorn River necessitated a supper break. I remained cognizant of the time, but this was a luxury for which I was willing to sacrifice sleep. I chose a Galeterie with tables on a wooden deck roadside. The owner sat doing paperwork with a big dog at his feet just outside the door (European dogs don't chase bikes), I took a seat as close to the road as possible, facing into the breeze from the east, watching a steady stream of randonneurs ride by, and ordered a galette (buckwheat crêpe) plate and cidre. The galette lined the plate and on top was served lettuce, tomato, beans, egg, etc… The waitress said a long bicycle ride would be difficult after such a meal, and maybe skipping the cidre would've been wise but I didn't come to France to eat energy bars.

(Photo by Maindru Photo)

The climb back up Roc Trevezal was enjoyable. Riding just behind a small group of Spaniards, one of whom looked like the guy who had been riding a unicycle and breathing fire back at the start two days ago. Could it be? Could he have really put on a show like that, then changed clothes and entered the event? We crested le Roc just after sunset and began the easiest stretch of PBP—mostly downhill all the way to outskirts of Carhaix, maybe 30km. I made good time, but did pull over several times to adjust rubbing fender stays, etc… I pulled over to the right, but I gather that's not the custom in France as I heard several cyclists call out "Très dangereux!" even though I thought I was quite visible with my reflective gear and taillights.

"I must not sleep.
Sleep is the brevet-killer.
Sleep is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fatigue.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fatigue has gone there will be nothing.
Only the brevet will remain."

Drew Buck, aka Johnny Onion on his Retro-Direct two-speed.
(Photo by Karen Smith of BC Randonneur Cycling Club)

A number of kiosks were dolling out hot soup and coffee in villages along the route. Descending one dark and slick section of road in the countryside I moved left to go around a small group of cyclists stopped on the right shoulder and moved too far left—WAY to far. Leaving the left side of the road I slid on wet grass and crashed. Wow, I must be really sleepy to have done that—time to take a break and collect yourself. As best I could tell, the cyclists who'd stopped were French and were looking for…something. I joined the search, figuring doing so would be a good mental exercise. Bikes passed, one-by-one searchers departed, until it was just the one Frenchman and I. I think it was a pair of glasses we were looking for, but they didn't turn up, the stream of cyclists passing had diminished, I wished Monsieur a bonne chance and pushed on.

Villaines-la-Juhel

The sun will be rising as I approach Loudéac. This will be my fourth time riding in to Loudéac, but the first time riding in with daylight. I don't remember if it was raining, but it was definitely wet and misty. By now the clothes I have on and the clothes I'm carrying are all soaked and the big bag on the back of my seat is well mildewed. People talk about one garment or another being the greatest thing for wet weather, but after three days it's all soaked from rain sweat or both, so I'd just as soon go for less bulk.

Villaines-la-Juhel

A long climb up the green side of the hill brings us to the hilltop town Bécherel—famous in the 17^th century for fine linens and hemp, but now known as the city of bookstores. A half dozen kids, about twelve years old, have set up a rest stop for us and they scramble to provide us with coffee and cookies, not a grown-up in sight. One doesn't know what to say when an American couple reflects aloud, "You'll have a girlfriend and a a driver's license the next time we bike through here." They're not accepting tips, but the American insists.

(Photo by Maindru Photo)

From Bécherel it's a fast downhill on the developed side of the hill and then right into Tinténiac (860km). Another control full of roadies breaking down the facilities, but this time the control is closed—doors are locked. "Well, that's it. Use what facilities remain, then find the train station," I tell myself. A trio of French cyclists are arguing about the control—they want to get their cards stamped anyway, as souvenirs. Starting to leave, an official calls me back—they've agreed to stamp our booklets, but no time will be recorded and our mag cards won't be swiped.

Train from Rennes to Paris
with Nickolai

We checked into the Ibis, briefly met another American, a South African and the same two Swedish randonneurs that I'd photographed in Brest. First shower in three days, but no clean clothes. Nikolai needs to call Lazar, but we can't make international calls from the room. The front desk finds a charger that will fit Nikolai's phone and he reaches Irina in Bulgaria. Apparently when he had abandoned in Tinténiac, he phoned Irina who would contact Lazar when he finished so that Lazar could drive Chavdar's car to Tinténiac to pick up Nikolai. Okay, now I get it. The next morning we have a late breakfast and take the TGV to Paris. Other randonneurs spoke of piling into the "PBP refugee train", but we must've been to late for all that—we only saw a couple other bikes. At Montparnasse we need to change to the RER for Trappes. Going for a snack at the station—this place has Yop! I'd hoped to sustain my energy during PBP on Yop, but hadn't found any on the ride. Nikolai says "No Good!" and proceeds to educate me on the European "E number" system for food labeling. E100-E199 are artificial colours, E200-E299 are preservatives, etc… The doctor treating me for my motor nerve problems wants me taking only organic foods. Reluctantly I put the Yop back and grab a bag of mixed nuts ignoring the imagined voice of my doctor saying, "Roasted? Roasting destroys all the nutrients!"

Byron se repose.

I check the room to make sure Gilbert's not waiting there and am about to go back to the desk to inquire about Byron when I open the door and find myself face to face with a wide-eyed Byron standing in the doorway in his wool RUSA jersey and looking like he just dropped out of the sky. It wasn't until later that I realized that this was the moment of his arrival in Trappes. Later, Byron also told me, "On every single brevet at home, my stomach has gotten sick. Here, after four days of riding in the rain, my stomach has never felt better. Green beans and mashed potatoes beats the hell out of sports food and convenience stores."

Packed up, and peddaling to Paris

Gilbert: Welcome to Versailles

Saturday, Gilbert, Byron and I packed up all our gear and set out to do laundry and relocate to Paris, trying to retrace Sridhar's steps. We met up with Pete Dusel and a lot of other randonneurs hanging around outside an overwhelmed laundromat in Montigny-le-Bretonneux. There was clearly no chance of getting a washing machine, so after visiting we struck out toward Paris. We made it as far as Versailles, where met up with the Puerto Rican randonneurs on a hot and sunny afternoon.

Byron ponders la Seine

Gesturing wildly toward le soleil, "Where was THIS all week," the Puerto Ricans asked? They've got a full series in PR—the 600km circumnavigates the island! I think upstate NY is better training for Bretagne weather though.

In 2003, the Paris Police found my drop-bag on THAT spot!

Going to Alsace-Lorraine
Bikes on board

Sunday, I had a mission: A friend of mine from Louisiana had told me that his family had come to America from "Roppenswiller" on the French/German border. A map of Alsace-Lorraine revealed Roppentzwiller lay just 20km from the Swiss border. Google indicated some ranches still owned by families named Gesser in this tiny town. I set out to find them, having a roadside crêpe and then being followed by a Bosnian beggar woman all the way to Gare Est. Purchasing a ticket to Altkirch, I traveled without bike, being disappointed with bike accommodation on the trains thus far—we managed because Byron and Gilbert had two good arms each, but it would be a struggle for me alone. Surprisingly, this train had the best bike accommodation of any I'd seen—two roomy and easily accessible compartments just for bikes!

The electric train rocketed across the flat landscape heading east from Paris. I was expecting mountains as we approached Switzerland, but it was only a bit hilly—certainly not Alpine.

The canal at Mullhouse

No English announcements and no digital display—how to avoid missing the stop in Altkirch? Studying the schedule to learn the stops approaching Altkirch, checking the watch, stops were found to be pretty much spot-on schedule, listening intensely to the French announcements to decipher names—modern French and German are much softer than modern English: "Altkirch" sounds more like "Alkeersh" to me. I thought I had it all figured out, but somehow ended up in Mullhouse and had to jump onto another train to backtrack one stop. Altkirch appeared to be a beautiful little town along the canal—lots of inviting places to dine, but no chance renting a bike or finding a taxi.

Roppentzwiller

I walked the road southeast to the edge of town, then turned back when the sun set, getting to the deserted train station well after dark. A pair of young ladies at the station told me there were lots of "Gesser"s in Altkirch and I'd better get on THAT train now if I want to get to Mullhouse—it's the last one tonight!

Roppentzwiller

Back at Mullhouse, I despair—I've come so far, but the last 16km seems like it won't happen. I should've stayed in Paris. It's 11pm, the next train to Paris is at 4am. Outside, the glowing orange dot of a cigarette marks those café tables occupied by a fellow loiterer. I munch a peach while seated on a bench in a well lit hall connecting a wing to the main station. A pair of bike cops accompanying a plain clothes whip around the corner and move hastily toward me—what'd I do? They pass me and rouse a man lying tucked against the wall. I better go get a room.

From the church steps in Roppentzwiller

Walking a few blocks, a room is had at Hôtel De La Bourse at around midnight for thirty-nine euro. «C'estl possible de louer une velo?»

«Non. Impossible. I think they will open in two months.» Luckily, the night clerk proved to be correct. A bike is rented, and I'm westbound though Zillsheim, Illfurth, a couple more villages, then west along he canal.

Most of the Roppentzwillerians are out of vacationing, but preparations are evident for the fall festival…

It' a cold overcast morning, and I feel great! Twenty kilometers to Altkirch, then south sixteen kilometers on 9-bis to Roppentzwiller, stopping at a boulangerie for water and coffee éclair. I had wondered what biking this area would be like—the map shows lots of communities, would the roads be crowded and lined with strip-malls? No, the the roads are small, I can't say the traffic is light, but they don't seem to mind cyclists. I don't notice many other bike commuters, but there are some, plus two "roadies" hammering along in full team kit, and one bike shop. The villages are splendid, with slat-and-plaster architecture.

Entering Roppentzwiller, I begin checking mailboxes for "Gesser".

Roppentzwiller GESSERs

At the old church in the town center a big plaque on an outside wall remembers the children killed in the war of 1914-18, including Jean Baptiste GESSER. Similarly on a statue remembering victims of WW-I and WW-II before the church.

Roppentzwiller Farmer

The cemeterie below the church includes several GESSER graves. Paris is very quiet in August, as the Parisians are all vacationing on the Mediterranean coast. Apparently, the same is true even in small Alsacian villages—lots of magnificent gardens show signs of being just a bit overgrown. Nevertheless, fall festival preparations have begun. Mannequins are beginning to show up in the town commons festival ground and the bonfire wood has already been stacked, maybe 30 feet high.

Roppentzwiller Church

I find a house labeled GESSER where folks are actually home—ma, grandma and a couple kids, mostly speaking German but not recognizing the picture I've brought of Byron GESSER. Grandma flags down a tractor driven by an ancient farmer, who reminds me of the old Cajun farmers of French Louisiana. He shuts off the tractor to hear grandma while studying the picture.

Memorial to children killed in the wars.

The motor is off, but the tractor is facing down a steep hill, grandma standing below the cab door just in front of the giant tractor wheel which is ever so slowly creeping forward. Um, what's German for…um…hey…uh. I brace my legs against the hill and grab the treads on the big tractor tire in a futile attempt to resist the forward motion. Grandma and the farmer remain oblivious, but ma sees, gets the farmer's attention and he reluctantly reached down and gave a big yank to the emergency brake.

Riding up the hill to the southwest—the culture seems different on this side of town, people are washing cars—maybe more car-focused and less home-and-garden-focused? An old man sits just in the woods at the side of the road weaving a basket. His neighbor comes out to see what I'm up to.

I ask if I can photograph. "Sure, of course." When I approach the old man he tries to led me to some workshop, but I hold up the camera and he shakes his head "no." I should've gone with him to the workshop—I find out later that this area was once famous for the quality of woven baskets.

Next I try the southeast end of town, toward Switzerland. Even the mayor's office is closed for August. Then up the hill to the northeast side of town, past the apple trees to where the new cemeterie sits high above he town—lots of GESSERs there too.

Back to the center, I guess I've done all there is to do…wait a minute…an old church like this—these big wooden doors probably don't lock, do they. Nope! I'm in and taking pictures of stained glass, paintings, statues and the pipe organ over the entrance. It was so dark that I often didn't know what I was photographing until the flash went off.

Firetruck

A paved tractor path provides an alternate bike route to Waldighoffen, then it's back up 9-bis to the canal path at Alkirch. The afternoon weather is a lot warmer for the eastbound return along the canal and there's more bikes, bank-side fishermen and even a sun-burned cycletourist sleeping on a bench.

After returning the bike, I get tickets for le prochain train to Strasbourg and le dernier train from Strasbourg—might as well take the opportunity to see an Alsacian city.

Strasbourg gare being enclosed in glass.

The central station in Strasbourg is a huge, grand building, built 125 years ago when Alsace was German. It's been a major hub between Paris, Vienna and Cologne and currently serves 55,000 passengers every day. Today the entire face of this old station is being enclosed in a giant glass atrium—like a castle in a giant glass bubble. Walking around town I discovered Le Fossé des Remparts—a canal lined with "allotment" gardens. City flat (apartment) dwellers get a parcel of land on which to garden.

Some grow vegetables, some ornamentals. Most keep a shed on their allotment, sometimes fixing the shed up into a tiny weekend "cottage", though sleeping there overnight is not allowed. Many add swings and slides on which the little ones may play while the parents garden. I catch the high-speed electric train (TGV) back to Paris (two hours), take the subway back to Porte d'Orléans in quartier du Petit-Montrouge meeting back up with Gilbert and Byron in the F-1 lobby.

Strasbourg bicycle parking

Tuesday, Byron sets off to visit the Louvre while Gilbert and I make the rounds of the better bike shops in Paris and plan to rent a couple of the "Velib" bikes and race around the Bois de Bologne. Many of the bike shops are closed for August, but we see some really cool stuff peeking trough the windows (e.g. Heinz Stücke's bike at Rando Cycles) and a few shops are open, Bicloune being the best of those. Renting a velolib doesn't work because American credit cards lack the required on-card Europay/MasterCard/VISA puce chip. We admire the boats from all over Europe that are docked on the Seine while walking back to meet Byron who has discovered that the Louvre is closed on Tuesdays! Ma pauvre!

Wednesday: After one last F-1 breakfast, we ride the fully packed bikes to Rochereau for the train ride to CdG. I'd made note that we should figure out which terminal we needed before hand, but failed to do so. We wasted a LOT of time at CdG-2, where everything is French-only, before shuttling back to CdG-1, inadvertently offending the ground-crew, packing our bikes just in time.

Au revoir, Paris.

So, a DNF. Why? The weather was a challenge, but I've ridden through a lot worse—the 2007 North Carolina flèche for instance. The tailbone problem was an issue, but I wonder if having completed PBP in 2003 I had less determination in 2007. If I had finished this year, I probably wouldn't find enough impetus to try again, but now I've got something to prove in 2011.

Copyleft © 2007 Adrian Hands.
Permission is granted to copy, distribute and/or modify this document under the terms of the GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2 or any later version published by the Free Software Foundation