It seems all dream-like now, those countless kilometers of suffering and transcendence, but I would not change a thing except (perhaps) my cycling shorts.
The lottery for riders was extremely limited due to the Moroccan Government seizing the caravan of sag-camels when they mistook the perpetuum they were carrying for heroin. After several nights camping on the BRM’s front door I cinched a spot aided by my incredible and unbelievable RUSA experiences earned here in the US and a $1000 US donation to the post-ride snack fund.
Carlos and I in a Parisian Cafe before the start – Carlos fell into a pissoir on the Champs Elysees and was unable to start the ride
somewhere south of Madrid after a tussle with a crazy old dude and his chubby friend who were vandalizing a windmill
I would have fared better if I were able to live off a steady diet of Lablabi and sheep’s milk.
top of Gibraltar over the Mediterranean – Gabe won’t get off his ass – the ferry does not run after 20:00 and the smugglers won’t sign and stamp brevet cards
This is where I lost my helmet to some heartless street urchins but luckily the ACP does not require a casque for riders. I have never felt so exposed and vulnerable.
extra miles after the sandstorm
I had a wonderful time, but I simply cannot tolerate sand on a randonnee any more than I can tolerate toe clip overlap on my randonneuse.
Somewhere in the Moroccan Desert before Jake abandoned after an unfortunate incident with a fez.
It was all such a hazy undefinable experience – I can’t believe it actually happened. Notes and experiences will be added as they are recalled.
I wish I could remember all of the people who offered assistance during my adventure and where I placed my bleeping finisher medallion.
[...] I will augment those fearsome badges of honor with my PDP 2016 finisher medallion on my cap – right next to my other Randonneuring medals of glory – [...]