Mount Ventoux first appeared on my radar when I read William Fotheringham's "Put me back on my bike: in search of Tom Simpson", the British cyclist's biography whose life so tragically ended on the southern flank of the mountain. I was deeply impressed by this story which has all the ingredients of a heroic epic and gives a detailed account of the rise and fall of cycling's first doping victim.
Mont Ventoux is a 1,912 m high free standing peak on the western periphery of the Alps which towers 1,600 m above the planes of Provence in the department Vaucluse. The top of the mountain is bare limestone without any vegetation, hence it's moniker 'The Bald Mountain'. Because of its isolated position it is exposed to the elements and as its name might suggest - venteux meaning windy in French - the wind blows at 90+ km/h most time of the year with wind speeds of up to 320 km/h. On April 26th 1336 the Italian poet Petrarch was the first to climb the mountain giving an account of his ascent which still is a very recommendable read.
In 1951 the Tour de France for the first time led over the murderous mountain - each year 10 to 20 cyclists die from exhaustion or crashes - and since then it has been for fifteen times either part or end of a stage. Together with Col du Galibier, Col du Tourmalet and L'Alpe d'Huez, Mont Ventoux is one of the Tour's 'sacred mountains'. The Tour usually takes the southwestern approach from the hamlet of Bédoin, which is considered the hardest ascent with an altitude gain of 1,607 m over 21 km and an average gradient of 7.6 % (hors catégorie). Famous French Rider Charly Gaul reached the top in 1958 with the first ever recorded time of 1 hour 2 minutes. The fastest ever ascent was accomplished by Spanish climbing specialist Iban Mayo in the 2004 Dauphiné Libéré with a mere 55 minutes. Over the decades Mont Ventoux has become sort of a myth, making it a high profile feat on every serious road cyclist's bucket list.
Provence is a paradise for road cycling, be it for its lonely country roads which meander across the vast planes through endless fields of purple lavender, be it for the pittoresque mountain scenery around the Grand Canyon du Verdon, an over 20 km long and 700 m deep rock gorge with a river of unreal emerald green at its bottom. Not to mention the French savoir vivre, with divine food and wine, which can easily upturn ones carbo-loading-spending-ratio. My wife Sabine's 40th birthday provided a convenient pretext to wrap up a cycling trip to Provence as a birthday present with Mont Ventoux as the long desired topping of the cake. We chose the scenic little village of Tourtour - le village dans le ciel (the village in heaven) - as our base where we resided in a typical sandstone mansion with floral curtains and wallpapers.
After two fantastic tours around the Canyon du Verdon and one rest day which we spent hiking on the vertiginous cliffs of Cassis we finally put our sights on Mont Ventoux. We chose the classic approach from Bédoin which meant a 200 km drive partly over small roads from Tourtour. When the mountain first appeared on the horizon I was disappointed. In my imagination the 'Beast of Provence' had reached Himalayan proportions. Instead the reputed giant seemed more like a gentle hill that lay peacefully in the surrounding vineyards. We parked our car at the outskirts of Bédoin on a big gravel parking lot where other Ventoux aspirants were already assembling their gear. We climbed our bikes and joined the stream of pilgrims that pedaled eastwards out of Bédoin. For the first ten kilometers the small road wound through the submontane countryside, the southern flanks of the mountain and the telecommunications mast on top always in view.
In the hamlet of Saint Estève a sharp left switchback marked the begin of the real climb. Until then the road had had a slight uphill gradient which markedly increased at this point up to 10%. It turned northwards and left the vineyards and olive groves behind entering the pine woods that surround the bald head of the mountain like a chaplet. From here on the tarmac was marked with the names of those who had fought in the Tour de France, some of them iconic and weathered some of active riders still fresh. Now and then descending cyclists whizzed by. From the cloudless sky the sun burned merciless on our backs and I wondered why I had bothered to take arm warmers along. At the roadside the typical white yellow-topped D974-milestones informed us about altitude, gradient and distance left to the summit. One by one we passed other cyclists some of them seemingly already struggling with the task at hand. For us, being used to mountainous terrain, it was an ascent like many others and no real challenge. After 1 hour and 20 minutes and 16 km in the ride we reached Chalet Reynard at 1,440 m. Meanwhile the sun had given way to clouds and soon the first big raindrops splashed on the hot tarmac. We were now above the trees and the barren and rocky peak was visible for much of the 6 km we had left. The gradient was a bit more forgiving but the temperature had dropped noticeable and together with the upcoming wind made us don our wind wests and arm warmers. Our next stop-over was the memorial to Simpson one kilometer east to the summit. From the Chalet the road turned west and wound through the stony desert towards the summit. Beyond the snowpole-lined roadside the still sunlit flats beneath us had an almost unreal glow contrasted by an increasingly dark sky.
Half an hour later the granite memorial stone came into sight at the right side of the road. It marks the spot where Tom Simpson met his fate on a brutally hot day in the 1967 Tour de France. The 13th stage had started in the morning of July 13th in Marseille, led over Mont Ventoux and finished after 211 km in Carpentras. As the race reached the lower slopes of Ventoux, Simpson, who suffered from an indigestion, was seen washing pills down with brandy. As the race neared the summit of Ventoux, the peloton began to fracture. Simpson was in the front group before slipping back to a group of chasers about a minute behind. He then began losing control of his bike, zig-zagging across the road. A kilometer from the summit, Simpson fell off his bike. His team manager and mechanic got him back on his bike and pushed him off. Simpson's last words actually were "On, on, on.“ The famous "Put me back on my bike!" was invented later by a journalist. Simpson rode a further 500 m before he began to wobble, and was held upright by three spectators. By then he was unconscious, with his hands locked on the handlebars. CPR was not successful and a police helicopter took Simpson’s body to a hospital in nearby Avignon, where he was pronounced dead. Two empty tubes and a half-full one of amphetamines were found in the pocket of his jersey.
Meanwhile the weather had turned really bad, a strong wind blew the rain in our faces, and after taking some pictures at the paraphernalia adorned steps of the memorial we pedaled on, eager to finally get to the summit which seemed within reach from here. Ten minutes later we tackled the last ramp and after a final switchback were on top at 1,912 m. I had imagined this moment many times and - as so often - reality was quite different. The summit is dominated by the telecommunications mast, a dilapidated building with flaking gray paint. Underneath is a parking lot with a steady coming and going of cars and motorcycles. As many other cyclists we sought shelter in the little souvenir shop where we stood crammed in between coffee mugs, T-shirts and other knick-knack trying to get some warmth in our bones. We envied those who returned to the dry comfort of their cars after taking the obligatory picture at the summit signpost. For us the descent would be anything but comfortable let alone enjoyable.
It started with two switchbacks followed by a long ramp leading westward along the northern flank of the mountain. After the second hairpin which still held some snow we were chilled to the bone. The cold made us shiver so fiercely that it became nearly impossible to steady the handlebar or to brake. With clattering teeth we struggled from bend to bend, cautious and afraid to slip, halting now and then to recover. After a seemingly endless 20 minutes we reached Chalet Liotard some 500 m below the summit. Two hot cups of tea later we were still shivering. To get out again in the wet and cold seemed almost unimaginable and it cost us quite an effort to leave the shelter of the hut. It was still raining but with every meter it got noticeable warmer. Soon we were underneath the cloud cover, the road became dry and we sped up finally enjoying the ride. Beneath us the vineyards and lavender fields spread like a checkered carpet in the warm afternoon sunlight, already making the wet and cold hell above us seem unreal. In Malaucène, a scenic little village at the western foot of the mountain, the road made a bend to the south and after 15 km of enjoyable cycling in the flat we reached Bédoin and the end of our tour of Mont Ventoux.
Some more impressions:
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