After successfully completing the Hotchillee London to Paris tour, elated, we departed the next morning south towards the Alps. We divided into three groups with a large sprinter taking our bikes and some bags and another vehicle the remaining luggage. Four of us left on the train with the aim to meet the rest in Lyon where we stayed overnight before tackling the mountain we romanticised about from the minute we were hooked onto cycling.
Day 8: Lyon to Mont Ventoux
Two things stand out about our drive to the foothills of Mt Ventoux. Firstly, our roadside stop where we uncharacteristically carbo-loaded on McDonalds Fish O’ Fillet, chips and coke (yuck). Secondly, our gradual approach to Mt Ventoux which stood taller, bigger and scarier the closer we came. It was a beautiful early summer day and the drive to the French Alps was stunningly beautiful. Bedoin at the foothills of Mt Ventoux was our chosen approach being the toughest climb up the mountain.
The drive to Mt Ventoux of roughly 250kms from Lyon was pleasant but the mixture of fear, happiness and bravado permeated every cell in our bodies as the mountain loomed closer and closer. It was a monster and there was no turning back. The music from the radio station added to the butterflies in our stomachs – Owen, Linda, Sherine and I chatted and laughed as the brothers Gibbs entertained us with Saturday Night Fever. We were in one car whilst Riaz and Miriam drove the combi with our bikes and luggage, and, Zahid and Arshad drove the third car.
We stopped at the foothills next to a bicycle shop and quickly started assembling our bikes and getting changed. It was already past 4pm and the wind picked up. One passerby mentioned that the wind was far too strong for riders earlier in the day and they had to turn back. There was no turning back on our part – we came to ride and paid good money for the privilege. We started our ascent in good spirit around 5pm. Riaz took pictures and Owen barked his customary orders. It looked easy as the fields, pregnant with large delicious red cherries waiting to be plucked, quickly past us by. So too, several vineyards and iconic French villas. The gradient started increasing with no leveling and no warning.
“Ahoy!” Captain Barbosa aka Arshad exclaimed to the Frenchmen who came rolling down Mt Ventoux, the ‘Giant of Provence’. Captain Barbosa steered the black pearl slowly up the mountain with the rest of the fleet following. The pirates attempted to raid the nearby cherry plantation.
Zahid and Riaz raced on ahead with Arshad following closely. The rest of us followed suit. We each settled into our zones, mentally and physically. We knew that it would be the longest and toughest climb that we ever will do and needed to dig deep, extra deep. Cadence, speed and heart rate were soon settled into a tough but rhythmic balance of not over spending and keeping much in reserve for such a long climb. It was bright, sunny and the wind was thus far bearable.
My legs were great but my shoulders started announcing their discomfort especially when I turned to see where the others were. I moved into a beautiful rhythm, riding between 8 and 10 km/hr at a cadence of 60 rpm and steadily started moving. The gradient hovered between 7% and 10%. The strong wind was contained and cooled our sweating bodies. Occasionally some cars passed and several smiling cyclists descended indicating that their work was done and ours was just beginning. We rarely passed or were passed by the odd cyclists – it was a lonely quiet accent. In hindsight, this was sure indication that only the mad sign up for such a ride in these conditions at this hour – Les Homme Fols de Ventoux.
The vegetation was lush and several cars had stopped for a picnic. When I reached about 12kms into the climb my confidence intensified and I conservatively increased my speed knowing that it may be tougher towards the end. I just did not know how tough.
Without realising it at first, my body started getting colder. The wind started howling and I had a scary moment when looking back to see where the others were, I meandered onto the opposite side and the strong wind almost pushed me off the barrier less mountain. Scary, very very scary indeed. I quickly gained composure and moved to the mountain side. It also provided a little more protection. The road was narrow and called for strong concentration – the mind was now called upon to play an even bigger role. It must be a nightmare when crowds line the roads for the pros. We could but only dream.
I passed the memorial for a British 1969 Tour de France cyclists called Tom Simpson and watched as a fellow cyclist paid his respects. I mentally noted that we would stop on our descent, which we never did. Tom died of dehydration and it played on my mind as my drinks rapidly finished. I was parched, cold and nervous.
The gradient started increasing, the wind was in full throttle and the temperature started plummeting. I could see the tower at the summit but after each bend there was always another steep climb. Several switchbacks offered some respite as the mountain provided cover. During these sections one could increase speed massively even though the gradient was steep. In some areas I reached 17km/hr and in hindsight I could have gone faster.
But these were small and insignificant respites as the next corner brought even stronger winds and less control. The mountain resembled some distant lunar planet with little life and barren slopes – eerie with a deathlike look. Mordor looked like a palace. I was alone seeing none ahead and no one behind. Suddenly the wind, like a wave out of control, lifted and almost smashed me backwards onto the tarmac. I managed to uncleat in the nick of time. I was cold, shivering and I still had another 3 or so km’s. For the first time, some doubt entered my mind. I was determined to finish but scared that it was getting much too dangerous. Later we learnt that Mt Ventoux has wind for 306 days so chances are always that wind is a factor. This year’s longest Tour de France ride is stage 15 on 14th July with a distance of 242km that ends on Mt Ventoux. We shall watch with a lot more insight and inspiration.
I walked a few feet until the wind had a break, cleated and charged up to the summit. I was not going to be defeated even if I had to crawl there. The desolate landscape instilled its own chill. It was gloomy and my fingers had turned to stone. The last climb to the tower was extremely tough as the wind was at its strongest and the gradient at its steepest. In one section I had to get off and re-cleat. I reached the top, quickly took in the beautiful panoramic view, and, saw my fellow team members huddled like little kids in a corner of the tower. I too joined them with our teeth clattering and the wind howling in victory. We took a quick picture at the flagpole and tried to keep warm by stretching, moving, eating and staying still but nothing worked. I could not feel my fingers and for the first time I was concerned that I would get frostbite. Some time later the others together with Sherine in the support vehicle summited. We quickly jumped into the car and huddled for a little warmth.
My legs were so cold that I needed to find other warm places to warm my hands. Nothing helped. We jumped out and quickly took a group photograph, the quickest one ever. According to Owen, “Arshad was so cold even his bike, the black pearl, was shivering”. We helped the ladies into the car, as they were not confident about descending given their lighter frames.
Descending was even more challenging, very technical and treacherous, as the winding narrow road had no barriers. Occasionally a car would zoot up in the wrong lane and in one instance almost knocked Zahid. I could not change gears and could barely brake, as my hands were numb. I had no feeling other then a strong desire to flee in the futile hope that warmth would soon come. My shoulders were killing me as my iced hands were permanently braking. I must have been travelling at least 60 km per hour, body upright and breaking hard. The wind had a lot more fun. I decided to stop when I saw a bit of sun to see if I could thaw out. I also wanted to give my sore shoulders a break and had a bite of my date bar for some energy/warmth. The free wheel ball bearings in my hub had worn out so my chain sucked and spewed clanging noisily adding to the drama.
I descended as quickly as I could, in pain and cold to the bone. I joined and then passed the others feeling that if I spin my legs fast enough, warmth would return. It did to a limited extent as we came closer to the foothills but we were cold. Within minutes we were down, humbled but not defeated.
We dismantled our bikes, changed and quickly packed in our zombie-like state that in hindsight was bizarre. Cold was like a disease and we wanted to flee as quickly as possible from the danger zone. It was almost like we were running away from a graveyard as midnight struck.
In silence we worked loading our bikes, got into our cars and headed for Annecy 350kms away for our next destination. We soon warmed up and the feeling in my hands returned. A relief. We had a funky radio channel and many old songs were played. I challenged the others to naming each song and we had a great time listening to and identifying old hits.
In total, we drove 600km to cycle 42 km. Without a shadow of a doubt, each person expressed that it was worth it. We had a post mortem when we reached our destination in Annecy and finally when to bed around 3am blissfully aware of memories to be savored and stories to be told. We shall return climbing Mt Ventoux from each of its three ascents in one day – Les Homme Fols Ventoux (Madmen of Mt Ventoux). For now, L’Alpe d’Huez beckoned.
