cycling up Mont Ventoux - the giant of Provence



The owner of the bike hire store had seen it all before. Hundreds of prospective clients come in every day, lift the road bikes, testing their weight, lovingly running fingers over the shiny carbon-fibre frames or checking the price of the lurid yellow Mont Ventoux jerseys, promising themselves a purchase if they make it to the summit and return unscathed. 
In the late afternoon yesterday, I collected my pre-booked Trek Madone with three cogs at the front, ten gears on the rear cassette. That�s thirty gears altogether. Should be enough. I asked the owner if there was a discount for two days hire. He smiled, �You want to do Ventoux twice, we�ll make a deal.� His words were encouraging, even if the tone was �dream on, amateur.� I vowed to keep this shiny lightweight bike away from Craig. No point in making him feel bad.

I�ll never kick a football on the hallowed turf of the Nou Camp. Or don running spikes in front of a heaving crowd at Sydney�s Olympic Stadium. But, this morning, in a Provencal village, I�m about to cycle up one of the most feared climbs of the Tour de France. My preparation has been three weeks of cycling across France from west to east with Craig, and in the last few days I�ve climbed two �junior� mountains of the Tour de France. Oh yeah, and I�ve learnt the french translation for �Call an ambulance, quick!� But, with all this, I�m shaking as I park the car in the grounds of the bike rental shop in Bedoin. 
The French philosopher, Paul Fournel, said of Mont Ventoux, �It leads nowhere. It exists only to be climbed.� Fellow philosopher, Roland Barthes was less complimentary, �The Ventoux is a God of Evil, to which sacrifices must be made. It never forgives weakness and extracts an unfair tribute of suffering.� Lance Armstrong said, simply, �It�s more like a moon than a mountain.�
Visible from one hundred kilometres in every direction, Ventoux rears from the Provence plain like a hunch-backed giant. What looks like snow on the top, is in fact a barren wasteland of scree and rock. If it�s a hot day, beware the last few kilometres, where wind speeds of 320 kmh have been recorded. Every day in spring and summer, hundreds of cyclists attempt the ascent from Bedoin, twenty-one torturous kilometres to the summit. In between strained pedal strokes, the riders think of Lance and Cadel and, most of all, Tom Simpson, the British champion who died a kilometre from the summit during the �67 Tour. 
My aim today, if I can�t make the summit, is to reach Simpson�s Memorial, and like many cyclists before me, leave a momento carried up the mountain for our Tom. But first, there�s a few kilometres in between. My muscles are twitching with anticipation as I start, well in advance of the hordes who�ll be cycling up later in the day.
After an easy kilometre riding out of Bedoin, the climb begins. Almost immediately, a lone cyclist passes me in a blur and I consider tucking into his slipstream. He�s forty metres ahead before I decide to save my energy for the last few kilometres. Let�s see who�s laughing then, Pierre!
The ascent from Bedoin is in three parts. This first section is a lovely easy climb through vineyards and cherry orchards, the trees heavy with fruit. I check my Garmin, my heart is racing above its usual climbing limit but it�s excitement rather than exertion, or so I tell myself. Time for the slow breathing exercises I�ve been practising. Count to ten, forget the pain in the legs, relax the arms, keep the hands loose on the handlebars, breathe normally.   
WHATEVER YOU DO DON�T TIGHTEN UP! 
Easy. 
I take my first drink of water, wondering if I should have brought two bottles. But all that extra weight? I look back towards Bedoin, still sleepy on this sunny Saturday. The cyclist who passed me has disappeared. I check my heart rate. It�s steady. I�ve ridden four kilometres. I reach for the water bottle again, but stop myself.
The second section, let�s call it the �forest of torture� arrives at the next corner. The gradient ramps up to 9% and doesn�t drop for ten kilometres. In fact, it regularly nudges 12%, but the stunted wind-blown pine trees offer redemptive shade and I start to relax. A few very early risers are already descending, whirring past at a scary pace. In truth, I�m more nervous about the descent than the climb. My bike, let�s call her Madeleine (I�ll explain later), is unfamiliar and has slick racing tyres. The only thing slick about me is the sweat on my bald head. Which brings me back to the forest. The difficulty of this section is the long straight stretches. There�s no way to fool yourself into thinking the gradient will drop just around the bend. In high summer, the forest is a furnace of parched air, a stretch feared even by Tour veterans. 
I love the little white and yellow pillboxes, let�s call them �tombstones� shall we, that list the gradient and the distance to the summit. I should take a photo of one, but I really don�t want to stop and break my rhythm. 
Who am I kidding. I�m afraid that if I get off Madeleine, I�ll struggle to get back on. I haven�t had a sip of the water since the first section, but I refuse to drink until I�m out of the forest. I promise myself a gulp at the Chalet, somewhere up ahead. Another cyclist speeds by downhill, his face contorted in a wild grin of ecstasy, or fear. I have tucked a rolled up jacket into my jersey pocket for the expected chill of downhill. In the forest, it�s soaked through with sweat from my jersey. Another corner, another stretch of five-hundred metres, still 9%, before another corner. Like an angry customer at a grocery store, it goes on and on, not pausing for breath.
Sooner than I expect, the third section arrives, the final six kilometres from the Chalet Reynard. This is the famous �lunar landscape� television images of the Tour de France, where the heat seems to radiate from the pale boulders and scree. At first sight, it is truly unearthly. But, I love it, because the gradient drops to a merciful 7% and I actually increase speed, although it�s improving from a very low average. At last, there�s a view to take my mind off my legs. The meteorological tower on top of Ventoux is also visible for the rest of the climb, so I know just how close I am. 
As I pass Chalet Reynard, a bus unloads a bunch of tourists. One quickly takes my photo, the madman on the bike. Secretly, I�m chuffed. And so, begins the madness of the final ascent, where, on three occasions, I have my photo taken by professional photographers, who run alongside me and offer their business card, so I can visit their web-site later and buy the photo. They wish we cyclists a �bonne journee.� 
Suddenly, my attitude changes completely. I�m smiling, my breathing is slow and easy, I even lean back and take a hand off the handlebars, relax into the view. Is that the Mediterranean? Up ahead are a few riders. I appear to be gaining on them. Surely not. I check my Garmin. The gradient remains at a friendly 7%. I�m four kilometres from the summit. Perhaps twenty minutes from climbing one of the most feared mountains in cycling. And then, I start thinking of a puncture. If I got one, what would I do. Cry? Take a deep breath and fix it, knowing I can never pump enough pressure into the tyres for easy cycling. Or would I just push the bike the remaining distance? I try to ignore these thoughts, stare up ahead where the tower looms ever larger. Three kilometres to go. I pass two cyclists, offering a smile and �tres difficile�. They nod in agreement, too exhausted to speak. 
In the final two kilometres, the gradient again ramps up to 9%, as if Ventoux is having the final word. Mercifully, the wind is cooling, rather than threatening. I ride past Simpson�s Memorial, attempt a passable impression of bowing my head in deference while pedalling. I decide to visit and pay my respects on the descent. The second last corner is a sweeping left-hander that faces a towering wall of parched rock and scree. In summer the heat would blast from these rocks and baste the cyclist. I look up. Nothing but rock and deep blue sky. At the final hairpin bend, I do what every cyclist before me has surely done. I increase my cadence, just to show I�ve got something left. Yeah, dream on. 
I�ve made it. I dodge the tourists alighting from a bus and head straight for the Mont Ventoux sign, where a few cyclists patiently wait their turn to be photographed with the altitude marker. A French cyclist takes my photo and I reciprocate. A cyclist arrives every minute. Another tourist bus disgorges hundreds of photo-snapping daytrippers and motorcyclists thunder into the car park. 
But, let�s forget all that and enjoy the view. To my left are the Alps, much closer than I imagined, with many still snow-capped. Directly below me is the snaking road, littered with cyclists, slowly climbing. To my right, a long view south towards the Mediterranean, villages appear as brown-stone dots from this altitude. Behind me is the meteorological tower. Oh yeah, and a lolly stall and sausage stand. I eat the chocolate bar I brought with me. I don�t really want to leave, feeling I�ve earned the right to dawdle and admire Ventoux�s majesty.
My time to the top? Two hours and six minutes. Professional riders take one hour, trained amateurs between one hour thirty and two hours thirty, so I�m happy with that. But, frankly, who cares about time when there is that view and a real sense of achievement. I look at the faces of each of the cyclists as they arrive. Do I look like that? A mixture of pride, exhaustion and something... intangible, like someone who�s solved a mystery that�s been stalking them for ages. Is it contentment? Or resolution? Whatever, it�s fun watching their faces. 
Without wanting to, I shrug into my jacket and slowly begin the descent to Simpson�s Memorial. It takes less than two minutes. I lean my bike against a snow post and walk quietly up the stairs to the obelisk. I offer a chocolate bar and a small piece of scree brought up from Bedoin. I wanted to bring a bottle of cognac but couldn�t find one small enough to fit into my jersey pocket. It�s thought Tom had a few sips of alcohol at Bedoin, before the fatal ascent. Like many Tour riders, any drug was welcome. The temperature of Ventoux on that day in 1967 was thought to have reached 50 degrees. Tom Simpson, a World Champion, had fallen off once, just a few metres downhill, before supposedly uttering the now famous words, �Put me back on the bike.� There�s much conjecture about what he actually said, but true or not, his courage drove him forward to just below this memorial where he collapsed again. 
The foot of the memorial is decorated with bidons, a cycling cap and rocks. Beside the inscription to his memory are two plaques from his daughters, one in 1997 at the 30th anniversary of his death and another in 2007. They are both very moving and sombre. I walk gingerly down the stairs and look back up to the summit. So close. 

It�s now peak-hour on the Bedoin ascent, with groups of cyclists huffing and sweating their way to the summit. I�m so pleased I set out early. At the Chalet, gangs of motorcyclists gather in the car park beside Winnebagos and tourist buses. I�m surprised by the crowds. I�ve been told the Chalet refuses to offer water from the tap to cyclists, they must buy a bottle like everyone else. I take a sip from my bottle. It�s nearly empty, but the only exertion I�ll be doing in the next thirty minutes is hurriedly applying the brakes. 
In the forest section, a few riders are already walking and I�m amazed to see some riding up with mountain bikes and old steel-frame bikes. More courage to them. I had it easy on this Trek Madone. At 11am, I arrive back in Bedoin for a celebratory soft drink. No beer, because on the descent, I�ve decided to ride out from Bedoin after lunch to the Col de la Madeleine, a small mountain I drove over to get here. As I�ve dubbed my Trek, Madeleine, she deserves an extra few kilometres. 
I go to a bar and order a large coke, with lots of ice. I call my wife to tell her I�ve climbed Ventoux. I try hard not to blubber across twelve thousand kilometres of phone line. Outside the bar, a posse of cyclists are gearing up for the ride. They laugh and challenge each other to predict the time it�ll take to reach the summit. Their accents are English. Just like Tom.
After lunch, Madeleine and I set out easily for the Col de la Madeleine. It�s a glorious little road, like a scene from the movie, Jean de Florette. And yes, there is a goatherder who sits under a stunted tree, surveying his goats. I stop at the summit and admire the quiet. It�s a beautiful cloudless Provence day. The forecast tomorrow is for more of the same which means I�m going to cycle up Ventoux, from a different side. 
In the evening, I sit outside at La Lyriste and eat another delicious three courses. I�d like to tell you what I ate, but I honestly can�t recall. My mind was half-way up Ventoux. Tom was beside me, reaching across, offering a bottle of cognac. He winked and told me it was just the elixir for climbing. I took a sip and handed it back. He powered away, into the forest.


A video of my ride is below :-


This is an edited extract from my eBook, baguettes and bicycles. To purchase this book for $2.99, go to my Amazon page, here. 
baguettes and bicycles is a travel adventure, a restaurant safari and a guidebook for those who enjoy slow food, easy cycling... and fast descents.