Ventoux

Part 1

As the bridge of Avignon disappeared through the rear view window words from my childhood came to my lips.......  sur le Pont d'Avignon

On y danse, On y danse

Sur le Pont d'Avignon

On y danse tous en rond

I have never been keen on dancing but do love 'strictly'. I also like the way great cyclists dance on their pedals, effortlessly guiding up slopes like a Lycra clad Nuryev. 

I am not climber and can only 'dad dance' the pedals in my overstretched Lycra. 

With Avignon behind us my attention was drawn to the sky in front 

At first I thought it was a gull angled in such a way to catch the sun but soon realised that it was seemingly attached to a larger stationary form

It was the mast at the top of Ventoux 

So far up it looked ridiculously out of proportion to its surroundings. like a sand dune next to an over exuberant sandcastle.

I giggled to myself - an awkward nervous impulsive emotion with little relevance

We all dance there, we all dance 

The words came back in English 

 When we arrived at our gitte we found ourselves situated on a vineyard under the shadow of the seagull Monster. 

I was informed that Roman Bardet had once stayed there - he can dance 

But he only drank water

Cheers Roman 

I'll look for your name on the road tomorrow 

Part 2

In the circus world it's traditional for the lion tamer to visit the cage just prior to the performance.

Apparently to say a few words to their maned beast, and look him directly in the eye.

Although lacking the knowledge i can imagine that they would say something  like 'I want no blood spilled today please'

The evening before tackling my own beast, I visited the FBR (French bike  Rental) shop opposite the starting point. 

To my delight the shop owner said I could take my bike that evening at no extra cost........

Great I thought

But 'Monsieur byciclette' had not finished speaking.

'Unfortunately the bike you wanted with disc brakes is broken so we have upgraded you to one with Di2,  it's only got standard brakes but is slightly lighter.

I was not happy

Having Di2 on Ventoux is similar to having a Rolex watch that is broken.

It might look good but will only be of any use  twice a day.

In my case climbing up in your lowest gear and then descending in your biggest one.

As for being 'slightly lighter' if I carried one less inner tube it would have had the same effect. In the grand scheme of things it makes no difference when your of a similar weight to a 'deux chevaux'

Although I thanked him, he had read my mind and smiled wryly.

I set off at 8:30 giving enough chance for the September sun to illuminate the Rhone valley and to take away the morning chill. 

Although the season was drawing to its close I was staggered by the assortment of masochists that accompanied me. Some were notably heavier than me, most much lighter, all ages, gender and nationalities each sharing the same goal and a slightly nervous disposition

 The first few km are benign where you can ride with your head up and admire the views. The mountain top to the distant north needed no introduction, It appeared to glow under the rays of the morning sun announcing its presence as one of natures heavyweights. 

Purple grapes tugged at their supporting foliage within the adjoining vineyards. Their ripeness indicating that they were close to commencing their own journey. Like me having their very life being squeezed out of them in order to achieve something seemingly greater.

On arriving at St Esteve my comfort zone evaporated with the 12% hairpin of the ‘Virage du Bois’ which took me into ‘The Forest’. The sort of forest I associated with Little red riding hood’, moody and menacing where things were not quite how they seemed. As a child it would have been great to hide amongst those vast vertical timbers, but for me now I was totally naked, with nowhere to hide. 

The attritional ramps were not punctuated with cosy soft bends but stretched out so far in front, that they caused you to look away.

About two thirds of the way up there was a break in the canopy and for the first time you could see the Summit. 

Its proximity was contradictory. 

Whilst is seemed significantly closer than from the valley bottom, the angle between my chin and my neck was at its absolute limit.

Clouds were now dancing across its form enforcing my view that this destination was somewhere way up in the sky.

My heart rate was already past threshold and had now jumped into the red through a combination of endeavour and fear. My legs ragged with revolution -not the motional one, but the angry kind. 

I stopped. 

There was a parking area next to this point which guaranteed that I would be able to clip back into my cleats and I used my age-old excuse that I needed to capture the view in a picture. I have lots of pictures.

After greedily sucking on the contents of my Bidon I continued plunging back into the forest with its linear purgatory.

The remaining kilometres to Chalet Raynard were counted down as symbolically as a captive awaiting his release. On my arrival I treated myself to another photo session and an unusual Cappuccino.   

This consisted of an espresso with and aerosol derived topping. 

Clearly the trauma of the climb had put me in a state of submission as I did not even flinch as the spray can was crudely rotated around the top of my cup. 

The last section of the climb from Chalet Raynard to the top of Ventoux is spectacular. Its famed lunar type landscape lasts a total of 6km averaging at about 7.5%. The road reads like a reference library of cycling royalty marking many Tour de France stages that I have viewed in the past. I had seen this part dozens of times I felt elated by its unknown familiarity. 

 This feeling was temporary. The route to the top stretched out in front of me like a meandering river with a procession of different coloured heads bobbing up and down in agonised symmetry.

Although I was now approaching 6,000 feet the air felt thiner and my legs laboured with the pedals. I passed other cyclists pedalling squares and some had stopped pedalling completely. 

One poor soul lay motionless surrounded by paramedics and a bottle of oxygen. 

He was close to the Tom Simpson memorial and I was reminded that the challenge of this mountain has been the last for more than a few.

As I rounded the last bend the clouds retreated in applause at my arrival.

I was elated and relieved in good measure and ready for another photo break.

The time of close to three hours climbing was meant to represent another monument climb completed another tick off my bucket list. That would be doing it an injustice.

The giant of Provence is just that, a giant.

Something to be measured against, a yardstick for physical and mental adversity

As I descended I smiled at the thought of the new addition to my vocabulary 

Its not like ‘Ventoux’