PBP 2007 Fini

The proprietor advises us that our hotel is the other direction, so we go back to the station, find the narrow pedestrian tunnel and are soon at the F-1 hôtel in Trappes. Lazar is there, about to bike up to SQY. As I understand it, Gilbert will meet us here. A Belgian randonneur is inviting me to the Bruxelles-Strasbourg-Bruxelles 1000km—no crowded controls and you can do the whole thing by daylight, he tells me. Flat? No, north of Bruxelles is flat, but not south. We talk for quite awhile before he's startled to realize that I'm American. "I have a different way of talking to Americans…" he says. I don't know what he meant by that, but I'm glad to know my nationality isn't obvious.

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."