Standing under the torrent of water, I can taste the salt that’s running off my forehead as I wash sweat, suncream and grime from around my neck. I peel off my jersey to wring it out and pull off of my cycling shorts to scrub the chamois clean. Then I hear a sharp intake of breath.
‘Have you seen your backside?’
A small crowd gathers behind me in this communal washroom to tut and shake their heads in disbelief. ‘It’s just one massive bruise,’ says an onlooker, clearly delighted.
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I am almost 700km into Paris-Brest-Paris (PBP), and this news comes as no surprise. Stepping out into the afternoon sun, my kit dries in about the time it takes to locate my bike – the obvious cause of my affliction. I thought riding a fixed-gear bike would give me some insight into the first Paris-Brest et Retour in 1891, the forerunner to Paris-Brest-Paris, when around 200 competitors set out from the Champs-Élysées on a mixture of safety bikes, tricycles, tandems and a lone Penny Farthing.
I wanted to put myself in the shoes of its inaugural winner, Charles Terront, a cycling superstar who won on a British-made Humber in the days when derailleur gears were barely a twinkle in their inventor’s eye.
I’m still fairly new to the world of fixie riding, and it’s only on this monumental ride that I have discovered one of its great drawbacks. It’s not the climbs – in PBP the climbs tend to be long and steady, and are proving very manageable – it’s the descents. Due to the lack of a freehub my pedals spin faster the more speed I pick up, and every time I find myself bouncing erratically in the saddle, pummelling my buttocks to a pulp.
I wince as I sit back down on the narrow saddle and push away from the kerbside. Only another 500km to go.
132 years and counting
The original event in 1891 was a race, open only to male French riders of whom 207 started and 99 finished. The last time it was run as a race was 1951, from which point it has been run purely as an audax (or more accurately, a randonneur) and has grown into one of the biggest draws on the amateur calendar.
By the time I find myself on the start line on a Sunday in August 2023, Paris-Brest-Paris has gained a huge global following. The 6,749 participants come from more than 80 countries. Among them are Americans on classic steel frames, Dutch riders in bullet-like velomobiles and a group from Malaysia on Bromptons. There are Finns and Aussies, a rider from Zimbabwe, a team of Indonesians, flag-swathed Brazilians and a trio of Germans on a triplet.
As our wave inches towards the start line, an animated group of Indian riders on carbon bikes prepares to sprint away. I’m scooped up by one peloton after another as we tear into the night, knowing we have just 90 hours to cover 1,219km. Constellations pinprick the sky then vanish as the sun rises. By early morning I’ve ridden my fastest ever 200km yet have barely scratched the surface.
There are 15 checkpoints and, as I am quickly learning, minimising faff time is key. You need to arrive with a to-do list: 1) Park your bike and note its location. 2) Throw empty bidons into a musette. 3) Get your card stamped for proof of passage. 4) Eat as much as possible. 5) Invest some time in self-care: brush teeth, shower, snooze or stretch. 6) Get back on the road as quickly as you can.
It’s easier said than done. Controls are chaotic; there are the crowds who cheer you in, long queues for food and the complexity of trying to summon up schoolboy French when you can barely remember your name. And there is the confusion of trying to find the people you plan to ride with in the melee of the bike park.
Approaching the 400km mark, I team up with a Japanese rider who pedals like a metronome and smiles at my arigato as I take over at the front. We soon find ourselves behind a diminutive Iberian dynamo who drags 30 riders along with her. I exhaust my Spanish telling her how grateful I am.
By the time we are 24 hours in, sleep deprivation is making people clumsy. Everyone has a story of seeing a rider fall asleep in the saddle then collapse into a field, ditch or hedge. Sure enough, rounding a corner we find a veteran French cyclist sprawled in the road, still clipped into his pedals. As he is helped to his feet he teeters like a new-born foal. This could be concussion. A driver pulls up and offers to help but the rider insists he’s fit to carry on. With careful coaxing, we load his bike into the car and he promises to get medical attention.
It’s midnight when the ping of a phone message tells us there are only 45 beds left at our planned sleep control. Every rider we overtake now represents another potentially free mattress, so we chase tail-lights, tearing up hills and – in my case – spinning wildly on long descents.
We pass bodies in gold space blankets on the roadside and riders sleeping in steamed-up bank foyers. Both of these would have been better options as it turns out, because when we arrive at the sleep control at Carhaix (515km), the only space I can find is under a table.
Channelling Charles
Back in 1891, Charles Terront rode the entire route without sleep. Learning that his nearest rival, Joseph Jiel-Laval, was resting in a hotel, Terront took a lengthy diversion to avoid being seen and within a matter of hours was in the lead.
With Terront as my inspiration, I peel myself off the linoleum in the middle of the night and trundle out of the control to tackle Roc’h Trevezel, a 384m climb to the highest point on the ride. Climbing on a fixie is easier at speed, and I overtake scores of riders before arriving at the summit, finding a cafe, drinking a coffee, wrapping myself in a blanket and collapsing into a deliciously deep sleep.
I make it to Brest that morning, well within the 40-hour limit. The advice is to ‘race out and tour back’, but that doesn’t make the 50-hour return leg feel any easier as I grind through 80km of knee-hammering ascents before heat sends me scurrying for shade. The clock is ticking and I know I’ll have to make up the deficit after dark.
The first Paris-Brest-Paris was designed as a test of rider and machine. Michelin had convinced Terront to use innovative pneumatic tyres that could be ‘detached’, the tubes repaired, then reattached in minutes. He was plagued with punctures but the tyres – the world’s first clinchers – still gave him an advantage. His problems mysteriously stopped when he got to the front of the race, which made him suspect underhanded tactics from Jiel-Laval’s team.
These days, there’s a far greater sense of collaboration among the riders. One new-found friend kindly drops back when I’m struggling with heat stroke. Another dashes ahead to order pizzas when we’re flagging. Cyclists I’ve never met counsel me through tough night sections. And one woman is so horrified by my appearance at a control that she gifts me the coffee she has just bought herself. It is both touching and slightly humiliating.
Through it all are the people who gather at all hours to cheer us on: from children with arms outstretched for high fives, their parents offering food and water, to elderly neighbours who’ve seen the event speed past their front doors over many decades. Towns are adorned with bikes and banners, and street parties go on into the night.
In the early hours of Thursday, I wake up on a patch of grass with the luxury of nine hours to cover the last 120km. I join a conveyor belt of red lights stretching ahead into the night. I’m sleep-deprived and time has lost all meaning but, as I ride into my fourth sunrise, I know I will make it.
Paris in sight
Terront’s final stop in 1891 was in Versailles just 17km from the finish line, where you can find a small monument to his achievement. In Paris, police sent reinforcements to control the crowds who had gathered on the Boulevard Maillot long before sunrise. And just after 6am he rode through the Bois de Boulogne, flanked by local cyclists as the crowd cried, ‘Vive Terront!’
More than 130 years later, there are echoes of that moment as the finishing line comes into view. The cheers that have carried us from one town to the next rise to a crescendo over the final 400m. And it’s the growing legion of long-distance riders around me who are Terront’s greatest legacy.
As different as Paris-Brest-Paris is today from his 19th century voyage of discovery, this wonderfully international group of riders shares the same sense of adventure. It’s a camaraderie that has made this event the world’s greatest celebration of long-distance cycling.
Kit list
Gear up for Paris-Brest-Paris
I rode this titanium Van Nicholas Yukon touring bike with gears in the 2019 Paris-Brest-Paris and had it converted to a fixed gear bike for the 2023 event.
You need to be fully self-sufficient on the road and so, on top of inner tubes and a pump, I carried a spare tyre and an extensive tool kit. A battery pack is vital to keep computers and phone charged. Backup lighting, a change of clothing and a light bivvy bag are all worth considering. Don’t forget your toothbrush, suncream, hydration tablets and towel.
The details
You’ve got three years…
What Paris-Brest-Paris
Where Rambouillet, just outside Paris
How far 1,219km
Cut-off time 90 hours (options for 80 and 84 hours if you are feeling competitive)
Next one August 2027
Qualifying requirement Entrants need to complete four qualifying rides of 200km, 300km, 400km and 600km in the same year as the event
Price €190 (entry only)
More info paris-brest-paris.org
• This article originally appeared in issue 152 of Cyclist magazine. Click here to subscribe
