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The slag heap summit of Ventoux, a couple of days after the etape. You can just see the road winding up the side of the hill.
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‘You don’t have to be mad to go up The Ventoux. But you have to be mad to go back’
Provencal Proverb
There is a patronising game, of which I am sure you are
aware, which is the preserve of particular type of insular Europhobe. “Name the
famous Belgian”
If anyone asks you to partake in such a game, you should fix
them with an incredulous stare and just say ‘Eddie’, if they don’t know who you
are talking about then they should.
Eddie Mercx, was the greatest man ever to sit astride two
wheels. His record is not only head and shoulders above anyone else, he stands
alone, no one can even come close.
5 Tours de France, 5 Giro d’Italia, 1 Veulta Espana, 19 one day classics
(winning each at least twice), world champion 4 times, hour world record holder
and career wins that are too numerous to count.
His figures are nothing short of stunning. At his peak in
1971 he won almost every other race he entered. Merckx won the equivalent of a
race a week for six years.
But it was not only that he was so utterly dominant, it was
the manner of his dominance. He would destroy the opposition, winning was not
enough, he would do so with panache and elan. Heroic one man breakaway’s being
his speciality. He earned the nickname of the ‘Cannibal’, for the way that he
used to destroy the opposition. The man wasn’t human.
If the Martians were to challenge Earth to a cycle race,
then Merckx would be our man. That he would win, there is no doubt, but he
would do so with style.
Not only was Merckx the finest cyclist who has ever lived. He
transcended cycling. In that other favourite pub debate over the finest
sportsman who has ever lived, then Merckx would definitely be a contender.
Following in the footsteps of guys like Merckx is part of
the attraction of cycling the tour next summer. There are 21 stages and each of
them will present their own challenge. I have a map on my sitting room wall
each of the stages marked out. Stage 15 is perhaps the one that I am looking
forward to / dreading the most. Givors – The Mont Ventoux.
During the course of this summer we will climb many a
mountains on our bikes. Alpe d’Huez, Perysourde, d’Aspet, Glandon, Madeleine, Croix Fry. Except we won’t,
not really. In actual fact we will go over the lowest point possible on these
hills to allow us into the next valley. Which makes perfect sense. Why would
you build a road over the top of a mountain? If a mountain is inconsiderate
enough to be standing between you and your destination, then you would go round
it. Or if that wasn’t possible you would find the lowest point in the mountain
go through that. If you think about it there is no logical reason ever to go to
the top of a mountain. Other than perhaps to admire the view. Not so with The Ventoux. We will go right to the very top.
I have been up the Ventoux before. Back in 2009 I rode the
Etape du Tour, a sportive which follows the route of the hardest stage of that
years tour. Here is the blog I wrote after that trip.
Tennis has Wimbledon; Golf; the Old Course and Cricket; Lords. Almost mythical locations where any good player must
perform in order to be considered as great. Cycling has The Ventoux. It really
is that big a deal. The hardest and toughest climb on the tour roster. This is
a hill that terrifies proper cyclists. Its infamy was sealed 42 years ago when ‘Major’
Tom Simpson, the finest British cyclist of his generation (some say the best
ever) died from exhaustion a mile from the summit.
Ventoux didn’t terrify
me, however - principally because I am not a proper cyclist, but also because,
I had no earthly idea what I was letting myself in for.
I know now and it is
brutal.
There is absolutely no
reason for a road to go up to the top of Ventoux. The only reason why you would
drive up over the top of Ventoux is to go to the top of Ventoux. There is a
cafe and a view, but not much else. The only reason the road was built was as
some form of proof of Gallic masculinity. ‘We are going to build a road to the
top of the highest mountain we can find, to prove that we can’. It was
constructed in the 1930s and it really is a road to nowhere. Just up to the top
and back down. I suppose it connects the small towns of Malaucene and Bedoin,
but then the pass over the Col de Madalene connects them too and that route is
quicker and won’t have your car requiring a new clutch at journeys end. A road
there makes as much sense as diverting the A82 to go over the top of Ben Nevis,
just for a giggle.
The Ventoux itself does not have much going for it. It is not a
bonnie mountain. Its summit is a slag heap of limestone scree. There are no
plants or vegetation, it’s like a desert. an eerie, desolate moonscape of a
place. And windy. The mistral whips across the slopes mercilessly. It is one of
the windiest places on earth. The weather station at the top has recorded wind
speeds of upwards of 200 kph. For 240 day a year the wind speed exceeds 50mph.
Its a mile high, and when it is not windy it is hot. The Provencal sun beats
off the moonscape limestone so you get fried from above and below. Nobody loves
Ventoux like they do other mountains, it is steep, long, hot and windy. It
might engender respect, grudging admiration and perhaps fear but not affection.
The Etape itself was
scheduled to start at 7am and it was an early, 4am, start from Gringnan. Once
we had collected our bikes we were arranged in pens by starting number, ready
for the off. The Etape du Tour is a huge event there were upwards of 9,000
people involved, logistically that must be some operation. As with all these
things, one tries to eat and drink as much before the race to ensure that their
bodies are fully fuelled. Unfortunately this means that, to a man, everyone on
the start line is busting for a piss. It wasn’t long before bikes were
abandoned and competitors jumped over the barriers to find a convenient bush to
irrigate. Rivers of urine flowed from behind every tree.
When I was younger I
used to get nervous the night before a race or match or exam or indeed any
event of perceived importance. So much so that I was often physically sick.
Thankfully I have grown out of that and don’t get nervous at all anymore,
however I still hate the starts of races. Mainly because I hate how other
people around me are getting nervous. People compare bikes, ask what food
you’ve brought, what kind of cleats you use etc. Others check and re-check
their kit, check their watch every minute, in a fashion almost bordering
obsessive compulsive. You’d have to be going some to forget to bring your bike,
and pretty much that is all you need. If I’ve forgotten to pack a spare wheel
nut, or dustcap, if I have only 3 energy gels and not four, then unless I can
manufacture it out of the river of pish that is fast becoming ankle deep then
there is not much I can do about it now. I think I’d prefer not to know and not
to worry about it. However, whilst standing there waiting, I did realise that I had forgotten to
make a plan.
I had read that when
embarking on such a race, the professional will always have a plan. It had
always struck that cycling a bike was a fairly simple task and once one had
mastered staying upright, the propulsion and direction came naturally, and as
everyone knows, once you have learned you never forget. However apparently your
plan has to be a little more complicated than that. I gave it due consideration
and decided on a simple enough course of action. I’d try not to go out too fast
and find a suitable arse in the peleton and shelter behind that. I would take
it easy on the pre Ventoux climbs and try and ensure that I didn’t get out of
breath on any of them, I would try and drink as much liquid as I could and try
and remember to eat as much as I could. My time was not important, I thought,
so I would try and ensure that at Bedoin I would have plenty of gas left in the
tank to tackle Ventoux. My objective was to finish, and not get caught by the
broom wagon (or child catcher, as I liked to think of it). So I did a rough
calculation of what time I would like to be at each feedstation, in order to
give me enough time to tackle the Ventoux, as my average speed would surely
drop considerably on that climb, and I would try not to fall off. Simple. Bon.
Allez.
The start itself went
like clockwork, about five minutes after the VIPs and the first couple of
thousand riders passed across the start line, I followed. The first few miles
in such a race are always a hell for leather, ‘hammer down’, frantic, so that
people can get into a position they feel comfortable with. I realised fairly
early on that I was averaging about 25mph over the first couple of miles. A
pace that I would certainly not be able to keep up for 100 miles. So I found a
large backside amongst the peleton and settled in behind that, my plan being to
‘wheel suck’ for as long as I could get away with.
The course itself was
beautiful, we were taken on a tour of the finest that Provence could offer.
Past vast purple fields of lavender, golden corn waving in the early morning
sun and happy fields of sunflowers, their faces cocked towards the rising sun.
The smells from the fields of lavender in particular were wonderful. The course
took us through beautiful, medieval towns with narrow streets and windows
shuttered against the sun. In every town the locals had come on to cheer us on
with refrains of ‘Bravo’, ‘Allez, Allez’ and ‘Bon Courage!’. Some towns had set
up unofficial feeding stations where there were filling bidons on request. It
was a real carnival atmosphere. In the peleton too, riders chatted and joked as
they whisked along at a rare old pace. The first couple of climbs over the Col
de Cite and the Col D’ey were fine. I picked a big ring and just spun the
wheels allowing people to pass safe in the knowledge that I was keeping plenty
in the tank for the main event. The descent down the Col d’Ey was great fun.
Apparently it is ‘technical’ descent (which I think means tricky). My
descending is not my strong suit, so I didn’t pass many others, however working
with gravity always beats working against it. At the base of the Col D’Ey, was
the first of the feed stations. It was pandemonium with seemingly hundreds of
cyclists trying to grab water and food. There was such a crush that the people
manning the stations were just lobbing bananas and bottles of water into the
crowds below. It looked something like the archive footage of aid vehicles
delivering essential supplies after a natural disaster.
The climb up the Col
de Fontaube was un remarkable also, although when we got to the top I was
treated to my first view of the Ventoux. I had been told that we would be able
to see the mountain from pretty much all of the course and I had been trying to
ensure that I didn’t look at it too much and just tried to concentrate on the
wheel in front of me. However on summiting the Fontaube it was difficult not to
see it. Coming over the top of the hill we were presented with a monolith of a
sight, almost close enough to touch. It came as quite a surprise to see it so
close. It seemed that you had to crane your neck higher and higher and higher,
until you were almost looking vertically up, in order to see the distinctive
red radio mast on the top.
The Ventoux is not
part of a mountain range, an old extinct volcano it stands alone and dominates
the rest of the country side. The limestone on the top of the mountain can be
mistaken for snow and it just adds to the impression of its might. After the
Fontaube we swept away from the Ventoux, and everytime we saw it it just seemed
to be getting further and further away. It was a cruel trick to play on us.
Showing us it at close quarters to impress us with its scale and then showing
us it from a seemingly huge distance just taunting us as to how far we had to
go.
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| The Ventoux dominates Provence. You can see it from 60miles away and it seemingly never gets closer. A cruel trick to play. |
The downhill from
Notre Dame to Bedoin was seemingly endless and sensational. The joy of these long, long, straight and steep downhills was only tempered by the knowledge that
all the altitude that we were loosing on the downhill would have to be
re-captured when we got to Ventoux.
I arrived at the
feeding station in Bedoin in about 6 hours and was feeling good. I had made
tentative arrangements with Mum and Dad that I would look out for them there and as I was pulling out of the stop we bumped into each other. I didn’t want
to stop for too long and they asked me what time I thought I’d get to the top.
‘2 hours max’ I replied, secretly thinking that I’d be done and dusted in 90
minutes. After all I only had 15 miles to go.
When you are on your
bike you never get that hot as there is always a breeze to cool you down, however
whilst I was topping up my bottles I noticed that it was roasting. In the
couple of minutes speaking to my folks, I noticed that I had broken into quite
a sweat. Undaunted, however, I said my farewells and jumped back on the bike to
bag the Ventoux.
The road rises quite
sharply as you climb out of Bedoin and I noticed that my legs were heavier than
they had been previously. However I was glad when the road levelled off
slightly as we turned the corner out of the town. The first mile or so of the
climb was fairly benign. It was unquestionably ‘up’ but I had a couple of
gears in my pocket for when the climb got bad. We took a sharp left hand bend
in the road and as we did so the road climbed steeply. I had to borrow another
couple of gears from the bank. We then entered the forest, and there was a
sharp hairpin in the road. And the road just seemed to rise up vertically. It
was like hitting a wall. My pace slowed dramatically and I was out the saddle
almost immediately to try and keep some momentum and so that I could avoid
going to my lowest gear. Once this steep bit leveled out a bit I would get back
in the saddle. But the steep bit didnt level off, it just kept getting steeper.
I asked my bike to give me another gear, but there were none left. I was out my
saddle and really grinding the pedals. I could feel my heart pounding and could
feel my pulse in my temples. No matter how wide I opened my mouth I just
couldn’t get enough air. I was only two miles into the climb, and I was
struggling. My legs had been gently marinated in lactic acid for 90 miles, just
softened up and tenderised. Now Ventoux was roasting them… And I had 13 miles
of this to go.
We had now entered
into the forest that cloaks the bottom of the hill. Usually the shade would
have been a welcome relief from the broiling sun, however the air was still and
fetid, it was so difficult to get air. It felt humid and oppressive. Sweat
bubbled out from parts of me that I never knew could sweat, from behind my
kneecaps, dripping off my ears, my hands were soaked through and finger tips
crinkled, when I exhaled a spray of sweat was propelled forward. The atmosphere
in the forest was such that there was no where for the sweat to go. It coursed
off my brow and almost sizzled on the handle bars. Other riders had long since
got off their bikes and started to push them to the top. Those who had stayed
on their bikes were going only very slightly faster than those walking. There
were some who were lying prostrate on the road trying to get their breath. Frequently
we would pass others retching in the gutters at the side of the road,
occasionally those on the side of the road were shivering - sure sign they had
had too much of the sun. It was like something out of a war movie.
I was absolutely
shattered. I kept asking my legs to push a little harder, try and get some
speed up. My legs kept telling me to bugger off. 10 miles from Bedoin there was
a feed station at Chalet Reynard, my plan had been to stop there for a rest
before tackling the last 6 miles. However a couple of miles into the climb I
had to get off my bike and try and catch my breath. I sat down for 5 minutes
telling myself that if I took a rest that I would have try and make that time
up. Sitting down watching the peleton pass was eerie. Where there had been
friendly banter and joking before now there was just dead silence. 100’s of
riders must have passed all with heads down, to a man faces racked with pain.
There was no joking or bonhomie now. The silence was only broken by the
occasional sound of someone wretching or the uttering a quiet oath as their
gears slipped or cleat released or the occasional and slightly comedic
prrrrrrrump of flatulence as the carbo rich food we had all been forcing down
made its way through our systems. It was like a march of the (incontinent) damned.
I decided that I was
moving so slowly that there was little point in wearing my helmet. I strapped
it to the front of my bike and just wore my cotton cap. When I got up I
resolved that I would, in cycling parlance, ‘put the hammer down’. I remounted
my steed and the hammer immediately rebounded and hit me full square in the
teeth...
The road was so steep
and unrelenting that I really struggled to get back on my bike and get going.
Even in my lowest gear I could get the first pedal stroke in but couldn’t get
my other foot clipped into my cleats. My pedals would present themselves the
wrong way up, and the design of the pedal was such that you couldn’t push down
on the wrong side without your foot sliding off. The force that I
was pushing down was such that my foot would come off at quite a rate, the
backs of my calves would get ripped on the chain ring and I would find myself
landing full flush on the cross bar. Nigh on a hundred miles in, a saddle
tenderises your balls considerably, at least wearing them as earrings removes
that dull ache, replacing it with a mind numbing pain.
I tried again. This
time I was careful to look down and try and make sure that I flipped the pedal
over with my shoe so the cleat was correctly oriented. Alas, the gradient of
the hill was such that I couldn’t generate enough momentum to give me enough
time (and I’m only talking fractions of a second) to clip in. As I fumbled
about, my speed decreasing rapidly I veered to wards the edge of the road and
started to over balance. Success! I was into the cleats, however my over
balance had gone too far and I couldn’t right myself. In my panic I couldn’t get out the f*cking cleats. I slowly toppled over on the side of the
road. I was left looking skywards, my feet still attached to the pedals, blood
dripping from my knee, calf and elbow. I am afraid I didn’t see the funny side.
I was raging at the sheer indignity of it all. Absolutely raging. If I had had
the strength I would have done a Bjarne Riis and flung my bike away. But I was
goosed. I just lay there for a few minutes trying to summon the strength to get
up and carry on.
After another couple
of attempts I finally managed to get back on my bike and slowly started to
climb again. The forest was thick and obscured any view. It was impossible to
tell how far you had gone or how far you had to go. It just seemed interminable
and endless. There are kilometre markers up the side of the road, however that
just made things worse, it was dispiriting that they took so long to appear.
You kept thinking that you had missed one. Then when they only incremented by
one it really got you down. In the end I just put the head down and ‘shat the
pineapple’.
I had to stop another
couple of times, I forget how many. I kept asking my legs for a little more
effort but there was simply nothing left in them. I felt tired and lethargic.
There was no denying that the hill was steep, but it surely wasn’t that steep.
I started to feel cold despite my sweating, I was bonking. No doubt about it. I
swore at myself for not eating enough earlier on. As I climbed through the
forest my heart was busting, I could hear the pulse in my temples and it felt
like my heart was going to break out of my chest. The hill was just relentless.
A number of riders had
given up the fight and decided to walk up the mountain, such was the gradient
they didn’t loose much in time. Indeed had they taken off their cycling shoes I
dare say some would have passed those on the bikes.
Finally the forest
started to thin out and rounding a bend I could see Chalet Reynard, the final feed
stop before the finish line. It was like a bomb site, plastic bottles and gel
sachets littered the ground. A huge scrum had formed around the feed station as
cyclists tried to get what little water they had left. I managed to get a
bottle, before it became apparent that the water station had run out of water.
I found myself a quiet
spot away from the crowds and sat down behind a wall. I was spent. I emptied my
jersey pockets of food and slowly force fed myself all that I had left, dry retching
as I did so. Forcing thick sickly sweet energy gels into a mouth which was so
dry my tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth. I took me about 45 minutes
to get through the couple of gels and energy bars that I had left. By the time
I got back on the bike I felt a little better. The road levels out slightly
immediately after the chalet (when I say level out, I am talking in relative
terms, it goes from precipitously steep to just very steep). I was able to
shift down a couple of gears and get into a rhythm. Out of the forest and into
the sun, the air became clearer and it was possible to breathe again. Almost a
mile up the views afforded of the Provencal countryside were amazing. They would
have been breath taking had I had any breath left. More importantly the lack of
trees meant that we could now see the orange radio mast in the distance. The
road zig zagged across the barren moonscape of the hill. It looked incredibly
steep but at least we could see the finish and the prize. It was amazing what a
fillip that was. I had new strength in my legs.
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| Sensational views from the top of Ventoux |
A couple of miles from
the top we passed the memorial to where ‘Major’ Tom Simpson expired in 1969, a
victim to the unrelenting demands of, the heat, the Ventoux and The Tour. The
steps up the memorial are festooned with empty bottles and riding caps that
have been left in tribute. I, like many others, doffed my cap in respect.
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| A long road to the top. |
Just past the memorial
a cyclist was sitting in the ditch at the side of the road, his head between
his legs retching. He was in sight of the finish but he was spent. I took out
my water bottle and threw it to him.
And then there it was.
A small crowd had gathered at the top of the hill, sitting on the walls that
line the inside of the last bend cheering on every rider. I got out my saddle
and rounded the last bend as near as I could to a sprint finish. I crossed the
line. Just like Anquitel and Mercx and LeMond and Indurain and Armstrong had
done before me and like Tom Simpson never would.
I was shadow boxing with the greats.
I leaned back in my
saddle and punched the air, just like I had seen my hero’s do in the past. It
had been really tough and I wont lie to you I was emotional. Elation and exhaustion
make a heady cocktail.
Then I saw him and my
bubble was savagely burst. There, standing against a wall leaning against his
bike was a fella with one leg, drawing on a fag with a casual insouciance that only the French can pull off. I had been beaten by
a one legged man. Who smoked.
I’ll be back.
When the route of the Tour was announced I was thrilled that
we would be visiting the Giant of Provence. The Tour has only visited there 8
times and the stage winners read like an all time who’s who. Gaul, Poulidor,
Merckx, Thevenet, Pantani and Verneque.
And how did Eddie fair up the Ventoux? Well it has humbled
even the greatest. It was a summit finish in 1970, when he was in his pomp.
Merckx won the stage (of course he did), but the mountain took such a toll on
him that he collapsed at the top with exhaustion and required oxygen.
Perhaps he was human after all.
I can’t wait to renew an old acquaintance.
From Glasgow,
N
