In the history of cycling, which is certainly not short of traditions and superlatives, there are many terms and names floating around, the mention of which causes a reverent murmur among knowledgeable disciples of the sport. "Paris-Brest-Paris" is one of them.
This legendary long-distance ride, first held as a race for professionals and amateurs, runs over 1200 kilometres from Paris to the Atlantic and back again. It was a race until 1951, when it became too long and too strenuous for the riders, who were able to reap the glory and money elsewhere with less hardship and in less time. What remained was a long-distance marathon for randonneurs, held every four years and initially barely noticed, with only a few hundred participants daring to take part.
Paris-Brest-Paris: From professional race to cycling marathon
This changed in the 1970s; the incredibly long stage for endurance cyclists became increasingly popular and today the 6500 starting places are usually fully booked, although only those who have already completed four brevets over 200, 300, 400 and 600 kilometres in the year of the event are allowed to take part in P-B-P.
Today, Paris-Brest-Paris is no less a part of French cycling culture than the far more famous Tour de France. In contrast to the legendary stage race for professional cyclists, taking part in P-B-P is a cycling dream come true for amateur and leisure cyclists from all over the world.
A declaration of love to Paris-Brest-Paris in book form
Nils Rode, journalist and TV author from Cologne, has fulfilled this dream and written a book about it. His "declaration of love to the oldest cycle marathon in the world" sometimes seems to be spoken rather than written, often a little brash in tone, but extremely entertaining and well worth reading, even for people who may be amazed or shake their heads at this very special world of randonneurs. With well-tempered self-irony, Rode pokes fun at himself and the scene of long-distance cyclists and does not shy away from humorously dissecting their - and his - quirks.
Rode spans the broad arc of the book with the story of his participation in Paris-Brest-Paris 2023; between the chapters, he focuses on related topics: his entry into cycling, his enthusiasm for bicycles, experiences during the qualifying brevets, memories of his first racing bike.
Reading samples
... about the night at the P-B-P-Camp
Actually, people snore everywhere. I briefly consider whether I should analyse the different snoring sounds. Because nobody snores in the same way. Some snore quickly, others with frightening pauses between the individual sounds. There are sounds and there are very loud sounds. Oh, let's leave that alone. I walk past people who are lying flat on their backs with their mouths open, stretching their faces towards the ceiling. Others are hunched over, only a few are lying on their stomachs. Of course, most people's thigh muscles have long since given in. The muscle pain is a nuisance when lying on your stomach. Stomach sleepers have an even harder time with Paris-Brest-Paris. I'm not a stomach sleeper.
... about buying your first racing bike
This shop in Krefeld is still in my mind's eye. It was crammed full of racing bikes, and the Merckx was hanging somewhere in between. On a hook in the ceiling. I don't think anyone wanted it. It was almost a bargain, discounted, without wheels: 2,177.50 Deutschmarks. A real Belgian! Dura-Ace 8-speed, Ultegra brakes, Modolo stem. Plus a Rolls saddle. Far too expensive for a student, even if it did come with a free long stem air pump. So it was that or nothing. And to this day I have never regretted my decision to buy one. This bike has never let me down - apart from once. Neither in the Alps nor in headwinds. We've been to Canada, Hawaii, Nice, Czechoslovakia, Italy, Switzerland and everywhere in Germany. Only once did the stem break, in East Frisia. That was unpleasant, it hurt a lot, but it was the stem. A part I bought later, retrofitted for the triathlon attachment. Forget it, you really couldn't help it, Eddy.
Of course it was an off-the-peg bike, but a very good off-the-peg bike. And somehow I like to think that the great Eddy Merckx at least took a quick look at my bike at the end. When it was hanging there, ready for the final inspection, the legendary master must have come and stopped right in front of my frame, looked at it, yes, he must have touched it. Touching it might be too much, but I'm sure he felt it. The cool steel, the sockets, the stamped logos with his name, the stickers. He must have hit it with his fingernail. A beautiful sound. Direct, unspent, hard on impact, soft on the finish. He thought everything was good, ready for great adventures. Both kept their word. Eddy and Merckx. Belgium has never disappointed me.
... about a visit to the Tour of Flanders
And now Oude Kwaremont. With tens of thousands of others. Countless coaches and buses have brought people here, standing close together. It must have smelt of beer and cyclists' sweat inside. No matter. Once a year it's carnival time in Cologne too. Upstairs, a fan mile on the boggy meadow, plus huge screens. Between fries and beer, they watch the live broadcast of the race. If I hear a loud groan or even applause, I know that something has happened again in the field of riders. "He's going to decide the thing right here," says Marie-Claire next to me. I freeze, but don't want to be rude. Who does she mean, I want to know? "Tadej Pogacar, of course." I'm taken aback. We are in Belgium after all. "What about Wout van Aert?" The Belgian has already won many races. "Not his week," says Marie-Claire, looking very determined. "Van der Poel won't be able to do it either. They've already done too many races this season."
... from the Atlantic back to Paris
Day 2 is even hotter. At the beginning, this is not the main focus, as the landscape is breathtaking and a little distracting. Above all, the landscape is comparatively flat for a little while. Sometimes the bike computer only shows 17 metres above sea level, sometimes 25 and then only ten. And something else makes it a little easier to roll. The road regularly bears the "stamp" of the Tour de France, yellow lettering painted on grey asphalt. So the great heroes have ridden here too, which somehow brings them together. We often head down to the water, where there are small villages with small harbours, former trading posts. Daoulas, Hôpital-Camfrout, Le Faou and finally Pont-de-Buis-lès-Quimerch. Beautiful villages, the houses made of granite, often with slate and half-timbered elements. Cool market squares. Cafés. Chairs. Shade. The finest Brittany. For holidaymakers.
Even if I'm on a trip at the moment, it's not a holiday and it won't be. The tour operator has simply given me too little time. Or too much distance. But on these first 50 kilometres after Brest, I can relax a little. In front of me is a rider in a dark-coloured jersey. I recognise him - it's Ronald, a young Dutchman who is hanging a little too much over the frame. I'd like to advise him to simply raise the saddle a centimetre or two - but he'll know what he's doing, it's not his first ride. I've met him many times, in Belgium, but we've also ridden brevets together in the Netherlands. Ronald has stayed in my memory. Because he rides in trainers and with normal pedals. So no special cycling shoes and no clipless pedals. I can hardly believe the fate he has chosen for himself. But never underestimate a Dutchman on his bike! "Same bike, same shoes, same everything," he says briefly in greeting and grins. But he doesn't say much more. He looks tired. He is tired! "No sleep until now. I can't get no sleep. Crazy." At first it was still too early for him, then too loud in the dormitory, too hard on the cot, too uncomfortable on the meadow, and so he kept waking up and simply travelling on again after a few minutes. Breaks only for eating. That's quite a statement, after all, we'll soon have 700 kilometres on the clock.
... at the finish
Suddenly a noise. It comes from the left. What is it? I can't quite place it yet, but it's something. Instinctively, I grip the brake levers a little tighter. I try to press these completely numb fingers, which used to be my fingers, against the brake levers. That's probably a better way of putting it. Could I still manage an emergency stop like this? Would that be the best decision in case of doubt? Or would it be better to accelerate and pass as quickly as possible? I have no experience with this. Maybe I should drive 1,219 kilometres more often? No, not really. I get two or three metres further and the noise disappears. It changes to a completely different sound, it's applause! Two people are clapping. Not loudly, they don't start cheering frenetically, but they are applauding. You can hear them clearly. There are two hands clapping twice. In the middle of the night. In the middle of the darkness. Who are they? Are they lying there on a picnic blanket or are they sitting in folding chairs they brought with them? Did they drive there by car and think, oh come on, let's sit there for the night and every time a little light rolls past, we'll clap? I don't see anything or anyone, but I hear them, and that helps enormously. Think about it for a moment: when was the last time you were applauded in the middle of the night? Look! And even after I've passed, they're still clapping. The madness of Paris-Brest-Paris really does last until the finish. No matter what the weather, no matter what the time. One last thought remains: no wild boar far and wide, neither from the left nor the right. Instead, there are spectators who are cycling enthusiasts. I think that's also a punch line. I try once again to sensitise all my senses. Soak it up, take it in, remember what's going on. Someone rushes past from behind, bent low over the handlebars. It seems like a battle for seconds, tenths of a second, as if a race were being fought here. But no, this is not a race. At most, it's a competition with yourself.
You can't win Paris-Brest-Paris against anyone, the only opponent is yourself. Who or how many finish in front of or behind you? It doesn't matter. What matters is whether you finish or not. Romantically speaking, this is sport in its most beautiful form. Doing something together, taking on a challenge, pushing yourself to the limit. Moving, having fun and helping anyone who needs help along the way. That's all there is to it. That is the spirit of sport in action.
We have reached the Bergerie de Raumbouillet, a huge complex with old walls, stables, meadows, trees and a long network of paths. Lights and spotlights now show us the last few metres. The tarmac ends and gravel takes over. Gravel and sand at the end - as an organiser, you have to dare to do that. I know people who immediately jump off their racing bikes if they come anywhere near a tiny piece of gravel. They immediately panic in their eyes. Help! Gravel! My sacred road bike. The threat of flat tyres and chipped paintwork! These are all terrible ideas for some road bike enthusiasts.
But here, no one will jump off their racing bike because of a few hundred metres of gravel road. Nobody panics about their bike here. On the contrary. If there's gravel here, it's just part of Paris-Brest-Paris.
One last left-hand bend. It goes under an inflated plastic gate arch. There it was - the timekeeping. "Beep." Now everyone gets another 200 metres downhill. As an encore. There are two large tents and a few spectators. Applause, not exuberant, just honest appreciation. No-one is fidgeting around with a microphone in their hand and shouting my name into the night sky. There's no flash photographer shooting everyone at the finish line. No, there's just a line drawn on gravel. The final line. Simple and straightforward, barely recognisable. No music, no confetti, no party. No contrived "payoff". No, in the end everyone has to come to terms with Paris-Brest-Paris themselves.
It will take me a very long time.
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Nils Rode: 360 hills to Paris. A declaration of love to the oldest cycling marathon in the world: PARIS-BREST-PARIS; Delius Klasing Verlag, 240 pages, 26.90 euros 360 Hills to Paris | Delius Klasing SHOP
Thomas Musch
Publisher
