“Watch out for the crazy Belgians.” That was the advice of
Bernard, our genial Swiss host at the lovely gite my family had rented for a week in the Vaucluse, a northern department of Provence. After being there for a week in early July, I
had announced my intention of cycling up Mont Ventoux, the Giant of Provence, one
of the most famous mountain climbs in Tour de France history. The Belgians had also
come to cycle up Ventoux, Bernard explained, but they were doing it three times in one day, as part of an
annual Cinglés (that is, “Madmen”) du Mont-Ventoux pilgrimage.
“The Ventoux” (as it’s known by pro riders) is an enigma as
far as French mountains go. Geologically, it is considered an Alp, but in
truth, it is something of a freak, standing alone hundreds of kilometres from
the nearest mountain of similar size. It dominates the landscape of the
Vaucluse; you can see its bright white peak from almost everywhere in the
region. At first glance it seems snow-capped, but that’s just the bare white
rock of the flora-less, moon-like summit.
When the Italian poet Petrarch climbed Ventoux in April of
1336 (on foot, not bike, of course) he claimed, “My only motive was the wish to
see what so great an elevation had to offer.” But the pull of Ventoux was, and
still is, about more than a sweet view. Petrarch went on to say that growing up
in the distant shadow of Ventoux, the mountain was “ever before my eyes” and he
had dreamed of climbing it for as long as he could remember.
After only a week in Provence, I could relate. I had gone to
the south of France for a family vacation, not intending to do any serious
cycling. (I didn’t bring my bike, but since I knew we would be near Ventoux, I
did bring my shoes and shorts—just in case the planets aligned and I found a
bike rental place and some time to spare.) Everywhere we went in the Vaucluse
in our rented Renault—to Roman ruins, picturesque medieval villages, lavender
fields—the white-capped peak seemed to be beckoning, calling me, taunting me
even. Every time we drove by the bike rental place in the village of Malaucene,
at the foot of the mountain, I felt a visceral pull to stop our rental car,
grab a bike, and just go—up.
And obviously Petrarch and I aren’t the only ones who have
felt the call of Ventoux. It is a pilgrimage site these days for cyclists not
just from Belgium but around the world. On any given summer day, hundreds of
cyclists, of all shapes, sizes, and levels of fitness cycle up it only to come
right back down. Although some other climbs in France may have more storied
Tour de France associations (the Alpe d’Huez or the Col de Tourmalet, for
instance), cyclists seem especially drawn to Ventoux, for a bunch of reasons.
I suspect the main appeal is the suffering. Ventoux is just
so damn hard. Lance Armstrong has called it the most challenging climb in
France. In the French system of
classifying the difficulty of bike-race climbs on a scale of 1 to 4, Ventoux is
classified as an HC—what the Tour de France considers an hors categorie, or “beyond category” climb—in other words, off the
scale. From Bedoin (generally considered the hardest of the three possible
ascents, and the one used on the Tour), the grind is 22 km long with an average
gradient of 9% over the final 16 km, including that final stretch of the lunar
summit where the wind blows at 90+km/h for 240 days of the year. The record
wind at the summit is 320 km/h.
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Pantani vs. Armstrong |
Given that it’s such a relentless bastard of a climb, it’s
not surprising that Ventoux has been the site of much Tour de France drama over
the years, including the famous duel between Armstrong and Marco Pantani in
2000, Eddy Merckx’s dramatic stage victory in 1970 (he had to be taken straight
to the hospital following his win), and, most infamously, as Tour fans know, in
1967, British rider Tom Simpson actually died on the mountain, collapsing
during the race, not far from the summit.
Le Ventoux, then, offers the cycling pilgrim a chance to
experience some Tour de France mystique together with some high-end suffering—and
after all, isn’t that what all pilgrims seek? That unique ecstasy of pain
endured, the promise of transformation through suffering?
I had been expecting to see cyclists in the Ventoux area,
sure, but I was amazed by just how many I encountered on the roads connecting
the villages of the Vaucluse. (And you can’t miss them. They’re almost all decked
out in colourful jerseys—pinks and lime greens that only Europeans can pull
off.) On the stretch of road between Malaucene and Vaison la Romaine, near our gite, you couldn’t swing un chat out your car’s passenger window
without hitting spandex.
However, most of the cyclists I saw riding the valleys
around Ventoux didn’t appear particularly happy to be there. Pilgrimage is
serious business for most of them, I suppose. I saw mostly small packs of
cyclists focused on pace, pace, tempo—all ass and wheel—oblivious to the
marvels of Provence’s countryside. These Uber-Serious Euro-Roadies, most of
whom rode outrageously expensive bikes and were decked out like gaudy peacocks
on wheels, struck me as self-absorbed, overly serious, and generally unlikeable.
Their grim focus only seemed to lapse at the end of the day’s work, when hordes
of sunburnt, dishevelled, gob-and-snot encrusted cyclists could be found
whooping it up at the outdoor cafes of Malaucene, celebrating their conquest of
the mountain. Crazy Belgians, no doubt.
After a couple of days of watching this out my car window, I
decided it was time to see what the fuss was all about. I rented a hybrid bike
and bought a map and headed out for a spin—not to climb Ventoux, I told myself,
just to explore the Provençal landscape. I didn’t realize it at the time, but what I
was really doing was casing the climb, sizing up Ventoux for later in the week.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQ_B8hu4WhbjA5_jfcqhJoFxcvxa7WWqG6oGQoxe6KYTE07m30NYSybEQaDW3rL45h8cgk52aqspkFXH7-1CTMxuI2UKPL7vD0bW1tfTU0D1vPM1G7abzJKqEqPmkW5QvBXB-NXoKjiX2/s320/mont-ventoux-8.jpg)
I’m not sure at what point in the day I made up my mind
(probably within moments of getting on the bike), but by the time I got back to
the rental place, I knew I was ready for the Giant. At the end of the week, I
would be going to the moon.
To read Part Two, click here.
To read Part Two, click here.
So, did you climb it? Curious minds want to know more.
ReplyDeleteOf, course. Stay tuned . . .
ReplyDelete