Le Geant de Provence

Le GÈant de Provence

How singing boosted my lung power enabling me to conquer the Giant of Provence

The forecast had promised clear blue skies, light winds and a maximum temperature of 28 degrees C. As we ate breakfast it looked as if that promise would be fulfilled. For the previous three days the Mistral had blown down the Rhone Valley from the northwest, making conditions for our training rides far from ideal but my companions insisted on the discipline of the 70 – 80km daily ride. Wolfgang doing the majority of the work on the front of the peleton, Josef taking up position as ‘la lanterne rouge’ and me nicely tucked in between, just concentrating on keeping pace.

They had not been too impressed with my condition when we had arrived, one week earlier, in the Cevennes. My roadwork had been limited by a series of factors including the weather and a cricked neck. They are both retired teachers. Wolfgang was Headmaster of a Primary School and Josef taught in a Technical College. Being educationalists they decided on a ‘make or break’ training schedule which, as it turned out, nearly had the distinction of succeeding on both counts.

Our base that first week was in Meyrueis. Rides were organised through the Gorges de la Jonte and du Tarn with climbs to the 1565m summit of Mont Aigoual, where they sipped their ‘café au lait’ and enjoyed the panoramic view from the observatory while waiting for me to arrive.

Satisfied with my week’s progress we moved camp to Malaucene and waited for favourable conditions. So, it was on the morning of Wednesday, 1^st September 2010, that we set of for the ascent of Le Geant de Provence.

We cycled out from Malaucene in our now familiar formation, with Wolfgang in the lead. I was feeling good, legs felt strong. We breezed up to the Col de la Madeleine; I was using big gears, the bike glided along. I felt euphoric. Over the Madeleine we went and started the run down to Bedoin. As we descended I turned my head to the left and then rotated it skywards and there, half way to heaven, was the summit. The view was iconic. The now redundant telecommunications tower sat upon a peak of absolutely bare grey white rock, its lower slopes covered in pine forest. I have to say, that at this point my confidence took a slight knock as euphoria turned to nervous anticipation. We rolled into the market square in Bedoin and took the left hand fork in the road where the signpost innocuously directs you ‘Mont Ventoux – Sommet 21km’. It is from here that the road tilts ever so slightly upwards and the strong men of the Tour de France prepare for glory.
After a further 2km the road forks again. You can bail out by going right towards the ‘Gorge de la Nesque’, but we follow the sign left, ‘Mont Ventoux – Sommet 19km’. The gradient increases, we three look at each other and nod, it is time. On the climbs it is every man for himself. We wish each other ‘Bon Voyage’ and ‘Bon Chance’ and I drop to my own pace. I am relieved, masochistic pleasure should be enjoyed alone.
The gradient continues to rise as I steadily work my way down through the gears. A seven man peleton cruises past me with barley a glance. I feel slightly inferior until I see that the last man is riding a pink bike, which cheers me up no end.
I know that in the next couple of kilometres the road is going to kick up sharply. My legs don’t feel so good and I am already peddling third from bottom gear. Three mountain bikers go past, their legs rotating, in my opinion, at an unsustainable speed. They will never keep it up.

The thing not to do in these situations is panic. I look at my heart rate monitor. The rate is too high. I am panicking. To get the situation under control, I decide to go for a little comfort. I reach into my jersey back pocket and pull out an energy bar. It is the one covered in chocolate, delicious but a devil to unwrap one handed and chew. You can end up with chocolate all over your face. Luckily, the temperature is such that the coating has not melted and I manage to eat the bar with no trace of chocolate over my cycling gloves or handlebars (I am fairly confident about my face but without a mirror, who can tell).
Half a kilometre ahead the road turns sharp left into the forest. It is here that the serious gradients start. I feel the need for what cyclists call a ‘technical stop’; locals know it as a pee pee rustic. To my right I espy a dirt track into a vineyard. A small sign gives the name of the grower and that it is classified as ‘Cote du Ventoux’. I am off the bike and swiftly approach a row of vines which shield me from the road. Thirty seconds later I am back on the bike and I hope that my contribution to the 2010 vintage, from that vineyard, will be a positive one.

Into the forest I go and immediately the road gets steeper. I am in my last but one gear. Psychologically I want to keep the last one in reserve for the really tough bits. After less than one kilometre I realise that this is the really tough bit and make my last gear change.
   I reckon it is about 9km to the Chalet Reynard. Here the forest ends and the road will flatten out for a hundred meters as it is joined by the road coming up from Sault (the least demanding route). I try to settle into a rhythm, keeping the riding smooth and the effort constant. I check my heart rate – 145, it is bad but not too bad. Over 150 for extended periods and I would fall off the bike. At 145 I can stave off exhaustion for some time.
   A solo French rider goes past, blue helmet and a bad colour clash between his jersey and shorts. There is the slightest of nods; nobody expends energy on a ‘Bonjour’. I am slightly annoyed, he looks a mess, terrible riding style and yet he is faster than me. I decide to ignore him.
   Suddenly, I become aware that I have been joined by travelling companions. There is a swarm of flies buzzing around my head. Every now and then I have to take a hand off the handlebars and give them a swipe.
   We go around a right hand hairpin, one hundred metres ahead there is a lady looking back down the road towards me. She is French; she is standing next to a car with a French number plate. She raises her camera and points it towards me. Some mistake, surely, but she could be a discerning photographer looking for that iconic image to grace the front cover of ‘Cycling Weekly’. She is rather attractive. Long blonde hair, black dress, late thirties/early forties, I would say. I zip up my cycling jersey and tell the flies to ‘bugger off’ and try to look serene. I begin to smile and try to hold the bike steady so she gets the shot she wants of me. As I get to within 15 meters a young boy flashes past, no helmet, and up on the pedals. She swivels the lens to follow him and she takes the picture. They have a brief shouted conversation and he is gone. I reckon it was her son. I unzip my jersey and welcome back the flies. Around the hairpin we go.

The French take their cycling seriously. Along the side of the road are markers at one kilometre intervals, which tell you; how far to go to the summit, your current altitude and the average gradient for the next kilometre. I am currently on a stretch which has an average gradient of 9%. I comfort myself with the fact that normally, after a steep section, the road tilts down and you can enjoy some respite. The next road marker approaches. I anticipate the gradient will drop to 7% or 8%. The marker says 9%. I look at my heart rate monitor, still around 145. I can hang on for another kilometre at 9%. Around the hairpin we go. A long straight ahead, maybe 150 metres. Encouraging signs! The Frenchman with the colour clash clothing is slowing down. I am catching him. 20 metres ahead of him, one of the trio of mountain bikers is zigzagging all over the road. He is not long for this climb! I set my jaw and like a lion after a wounded antelope, I go after the Frenchman.
At the next hairpin two elderly gentlemen smile and shout “courage monsieur”. I nod and notice a second mountain biker sitting in the trees behind them, head in hands. Things are looking up! The next road marker announces the average gradient will be 10%. The sweat is running down from my hairline, down the side of my nose, where it drips off the end on to the cross-bar. There are two flies walking about on the inside of my sunglasses enjoying a panoramic view of the road. The Frenchman is really struggling. I come up behind him and keep pace with him as I compose myself for the “coup de grace”. I push on the pedals and as I glide pass I say “Bonjour”, as casually as I can. He is a beaten man.
I continue to climb with growing confidence, my mind and body have accepted the task and as doctors would say “my condition is stable”. I eat my second energy bar – blueberry flavoured, and I try not to dribble down the front of my jersey. We reach the Chalet Reynard and it is time for the flies and I to part company. It is the altitude you see and the lack of vegetation. Sadly, we say our goodbyes and rather petulantly I whisper “good riddance” as an aside.

As I approach the Chalet I check my water bottles – one completely empty, the other about half full. I can probably make a final 6km on half a bottle but this is the section of the road where there is no shade, the sun beats down and the heat is reflected back off the road and the pale rocks. Tom Simpson comes to mind. I decide no heroics. I pull over and fill my empty bottle to the half from the tap at the side of the Chalet. I notice a group of Germans coming out of the Chalet with arms full of bottled water. Should I have purchased a better class of water? No, probably not, ‘eau de robinet’ is good enough for me. No sense in wasting money. I am back on the bike and off to go. Initially, from here onwards, the gradient gets a little easier, somewhere around 6% to 7%. You can see the summit. I begin to relax and enjoy the ride. It is a beautiful day and the view is magnificent. Confidence is high; I am going to make it. Mentally, I start singing the second verse of “Christus Salvator” …… “Nearer ever nearer Lord Jesus Christ we draw to thee”. It seems so appropriate and the tempo perfectly matches my cadence on the bike. I am very happy.
A fellow cyclist draws up along side me. A cultured English accent says “I will be glad when this is all over”. I am a bit taken aback. Usually the first approach is a tentative “Bonjour”, followed by “Anglais”? How did he know that I was a Brit? He is immaculately turned out in a predominantly white cycling kit. He would be in his middle 50’s to 60. His ample steel grey locks curling out from the back of his helmet. I am instantly reminded of Richard Todd’s portrayal of Guy Gibson in the ‘Dam Busters’. I feel like a bit of company and a chat so I reply “Which way are you going down”? “Same way” he replies. “We are going down to Malaucene” I shout as he accelerates away. How does he do it? He looked like he had just stepped out from the air-conditioned lobby of a five star hotel. Ten minutes later we pass again. He is standing at the side of the road gulping down large quantities of fluid from his ‘bidon’. “Two and a half kilometres to go” I say. He nods. This is the last I see of him. I am highly suspicious. I think he has started from the Chalet.

My energy is running low. I play my last card and swallow my tube of isotonic energy gel. I feel much better. I am worried that I have passed the Tom Simpson memorial without noticing. It should be on the rocky slope to my right. It is tradition to stop and pay your respects and many leave a little memento at the site. Tommy Simpson came up this way in July 1967 with a little more inside him than a good breakfast and two energy bars, but he must not be judged too harshly. The culture and cycling norms of the times were different then. The fact that he used amphetamines and had a few gulps of cognac (both diuretics) from a shared bottle as they rode out of Bedoin, would have raised few eyebrows in 1967. It was also believed that to drink too much water slowed you down. The combination of these factors plus the heat, dehydration, and the man’s incredible endurance and bravery did for him. He collapsed fatally for the second time just one kilometre short of the summit. He had fallen off just a short distance before but allegedly, he begged spectators to “put me back on the bike”. He was too courageous for his own good. I pass the memorial. I do not stop but bow my head in respect.
The last kilometre has a gradient of about 10%. I would like it to end now. Physically my resources are running low but there is no doubt that I can complete the last ‘K’. The road swings right past the Bar Café just below the summit, then around the right hand hairpin where the tarmac kicks up to a near impossible angle. Just fifty metres to go to the finish. I am up on the pedals, not for a sprint finish but just to keep the bike moving. This is where that nice young sports reporter (Mike Bushell) from the BBC, fell off last year reprising the Ventoux stage of the Tour de France. Trying to talk and smile for the camera he forgot to put the effort into keeping the bike moving. No such embarrassment is going to happen to me. I am across the line. I stop pedalling and the bike rapidly comes to a stop. Wolfgang and Josef come over and offer their congratulations. My time is officially agreed at 2hrs 33mins.

Tonight at the restaurant I will proudly wear my official ‘Ventoux Finisher’ T-shirt. I bought it a couple of days ago in the bike shop in Malaucene. I now have two. Didn’t I tell you? This is my second ascent. I cycled up from Malaucene last year.

For all you technical buffs, the bike I was riding is a Scott CR1 Pro, carbon frame, Shimano Ultegra group set, 30 gears, front triple 30/39/53T, 12-27T cassette, 700 x 23 Mavic Ksyrium wheels.

Robert Harwood

September 2010