Stage 15 Givors to Mont Ventoux

For Le Tour, 242.5km and a summit finish. For us, 266.7km including the descent back down to the town of Bedoin at the foot of the climb.
Why is Ventoux famous?
Because it is a place of extremes – of wind, of heat, of cold, of rain – and sometimes all four in the same day. (Read on.)
Because it is hellish hard to ride up on a bike. (Read on.)
Because it is a place of outlandish geography, totally out of context with its surroundings. (Read on.)
Because it is where, on the barren moonscape of its upper slopes, legendary British cyclist Tom Simpson lost his life on the 13th July competing in the 1967 Tour de France – an event that he had a good chance of winning. (Once again – read on.)
Mont Ventoux has featured in the Tour de France many times since 1967. But not since then has there been such a long stage ending in a summit finish at the top of the Ventoux. Tom Simpson’s death continues to cast a long shadow.
Before the riders get to the Ventoux, they will, like us, have ridden South for over 220km through the Rhone, the Drome, and the Vaucluse, before finally arriving in Provence. They may have noticed the increasingly Mediterranean feel to the landscape and the villages. Wide expanses of wheat fields giving way slowly but irrevocably to rolling hillsides of olive trees, fields of lavender, sunflowers and vines.

Certainly they will notice the temperature rising to the low 40’s through the middle of the day. They might even notice the changes to the architecture of the small towns along and near the route, more Italianate in feel and colour and style, in architecture and in their churches.

At several points they will have found it difficult to ignore particular geographical features – a massive volcanic plug forming an impregnable hill; a softly flowing river providing ample places for visitors to wade and walk and paddle and lounge among its free flowing but gentle passage over irregular and shallow sculpted bed rock. A dramatic rock wall gorge beside a small village, that the road approaches but doesn’t dare enter, turning back at the last.

Like us, they will have enjoyed the predominantly gentle undulations, although still sufficient to warrant three category 4 and one category 3 climbs: more than enough to get the heart and lungs pumping and pounding.

They may get to enjoy a predominantly tailwind airflow, as we did; or may face a headwind throughout the long journey South.
But in the back of their minds, as in ours, remains the looming realisation that the white-topped mountaintop on the horizon, getting ever closer, will soon have to be tackled.

Eventually after the final bout of pre-ascent climbing and descending, arrival in Bedoin marks the start of the 22km climb. Unlike yesterday, they won’t have the luxury of stopping at a cafe for coffee, ice cream and coca cola to reinvigorate already-tired and stressed muscles.

The road will be closed to all traffic, keeping the hordes of boy-racers on 4 wheels and 2, out of the way. All the camper vans will have been parked up and perched on assorted levellers and piles of wood and rock. All possible vantage points along its 22km route will be occupied, by tens of thousands of cheering fans.

The junction and signposts that mark the start of the climb:

After 5km at 3-6%, through villages, vines and the first pine trees, and with the giant observatory on the summit looking down on you from the high left, a left turn marks the start of the proper climbing, you enter the forest and lose sight of the summit. The next 5 miles are marked by pine forest mixed with beech, stretches of road several hundred metres long between corners, and always climbing at between 8% and 13%. A grinding, slow and laborious ascent, already in the lowest possible gear and wishing there were more available, the ever-upward trajectory gratifyingly shaded, but irritatingly progress being slower than the haze of flies that trail each rider as they haul themselves ever upwards. A well timed water stop after 11 tortuous kilometres provides a momentary respite, before continuing the next 4km to Chalet Reynard – an evocative name but one which ultimately deceives – a 60’s style soulless building alongside the only flat section in the entire 22km climb – all 200 metres of it – and which marks the transition from the scrubby pine forest into the sun-bleached rock moonscape of the final 6km to the summit.
Blessedly, it also marks a slight reduction in the gradient. Whilst welcome for us, we were climbing between 5pm and 8pm, as the day began to cool. Whereas the professional peleton may well be hitting the upper slopes several hours earlier. At which time, if the weather is like yesterday, the heat bouncing off the white rock will turn it into a cauldron of heat, far outweighing the benefit of the reduced gradient (8-11%, with some stretches at 5-8%), and turning the challenge for the top into a survival exercise as much as a bicycle race. And again, throughout this final 6km, the route will be lined with fans, some having spent the last week in their chosen spot in their camper vans, a combination of aficionados and nutcases, cyclists and the genuinely interested, plus those looking to witness some sort of freak show. Which it truly is. When it is too hot to stand still without instantly becoming drenched in sweat, it has to be freakishness that enables these men to race up through the thin air of such an unforgiving landscape to the summit at 1,912 metres above sea level.

the final 2 km from the top just before the rain moved in:

The record is something like 51 minutes from Bedoin to the summit (on fresh legs). When the summit was first achieved by bicycle, in 1907, it took Jacques Gabriel 2 hours 29 minutes. When included within a stage in the Tour de France, the best climbers typically reach the summit in under an hour. When I rode it yesterday, after already completing those first 220km, it took me 2 hours 25 minutes.
The mountain is an oddity, a brutish lump isolated in an otherwise flat area, it generates its own weather patterns and is truly a beast. In 1967 it claimed the life of Tom Simpson, the 1965 world champion and genuine yellow jersey contender. Less than 2km from the summit, he fell from his bike, was helped to remount, pedalled two or three more yards, then fell again. His eyes glazed, he fell into a coma and despite later being airlifted to hospital, never regained consciousness and died. Allegedly his final words to his team manager, who was by his side when he fell for the second time, were, “put me back on the bike”. The combination of the heat, his exhaustion, a stomach infection and traces of alcohol and amphetamines in his bloodstream (often used by cyclists in the 1960’s to help keep them going on long and relentless stages, most of which were longer than those ridden in the modern day race) all contributed to his death in this hostile and barren place high above the lavender fields and vineyards of Provence far below. A simple memorial now marks the spot where he fell, and many cyclists stop there to pay tribute and regain their energy for the final push. For me, it was more a case of mentally noting it, but no point in stopping, as the day was drawing to a close and I still needed to reach the summit as well as get back down before dark.
The top of the mountain looks permanently snow covered, however it is in fact bare rock, exposed after centuries of deforestation for fuel and building by the local population, and bleached by the unforgiving sun. On the summit sits an enormous observatory, which itself can be seen from 65km / 40 miles away.

The stage finish is at the observatory (although as noted, we also have to get back down to Bedoin). Sometimes it is so windy it is impossible to get to the observatory. Even in summer. The highest windspeeds in France have been recorded here. The observatory is not a delicate-looking structure. It is not a scenic entity in the traditional sense. But if you like your architecture to be rugged, industrial, unforgiving and adamant, this is the thing for you. It is built to withstand the worst that nature can throw at it, in the same way a lighthouse is. But where a lighthouse has curves and therefore a semblance of charm and attractiveness, the observatory on Mont Ventoux has straight lines and square edges and “utility” stamped all over it.
At other times the peak is indeed snow-covered (there is a ski station about half way up). Fortunately for us, the heat of the day had started to dissipate, the wind was relatively light, and those who reached the summit early, got back down in fine conditions as well, descending at speed. However by the time I and many others reached the summit at 1,912 metres, the weather was turning – and fast. Within moments, the wind speed increased, a wall of cloud blew in from the East, thunder could be heard.
Cutting short our stay at the top, a number of us began to descend.

At the top, extra layers added as the weather rolled in…

Before covering even 3 of the 22km, and passing many other riders still on the way up, the rain began. A wall of water began to be violently thrown down from the sky, huge drops, massive volumes, gusting winds, matched by flashes of lightning very close by, and instant cracks and surround-sound rumbles of thunder. Almost immediately the road was awash in several inches of water; the rainfall was bouncing up off the road; despite having put on a light waterproof and arm-warmers at the top, in moments I was soaked and shivering. The temperature had dropped from 40 degrees to 14 degrees in minutes.
The road as well as being awash, had occasional muddy rivers of water superimposed diagonally across several corners. Rocks and debris were being washed into the road. It was almost impossible to see, even with a cycling cap under my helmet to provide some protection. Some riders gave up the attempt to descend, and sought refuge under the awning of a fortuitously-placed camper van. Other sheltered under the trees. Those who were the last to reach the summit, sheltered in the Tour de Force van and came back by 4-wheeled transport. Allegedly the entire van was rocking side to side at the summit with the sudden strength of the wind.
Several, like me, continued, even though it was almost impossible to see ahead. The only way to progress, was slowly, with extreme caution, meaning both hands applying both front and rear brakes continuously, to try and keep the speed down – constant braking a practice normally frowned on as it wears out the pads, heats up the rims which can cause punctures (no danger of that here though) and leads to cramped hands. Indeed, after 20 minutes of this, feeling in fingers was being lost, cramp was setting in, and still the rain pummelled from the sky. I began to realise why my bike was shaking as I continued to descent to hopefully warmer and less wet altitude – it wasn’t a slowly deflating tyre, but my body shivering uncontrollably.
My focus was entirely on keeping the speed down, despite the relative ineffectiveness of the brakes under such conditions, and not to crash. Eventually, I emerged on the lower gentler slopes where the rain eased and then stopped. Despite the warmer temperature, it was by now after 8pm, we had been cycling since 7am, and I was unable to control the shivering. So it was a case of trying to grit teeth and soft-pedal back to Bedoin and our accommodation, where, finally, I could step off the bike and into a dry building to try to get warm and dry and stop the shivering.
It’s not often that you can get sunburn and hypothermia on the same day – but Mont Ventoux is no ordinary mountain, and just when I thought I had it beaten, it put me right back in my place, with a vengeance.
And that is why the Giant of Provence is such an iconic location for the Tour de France.
Total distance: 266.7km . 166.6 miles. By far the furthest I have ever cycled in a single day.
Total moving time: 11hrs 15 minutes
Total ride time (including all stops): 13 hours 23 minutes
Total altitude gained: 1,965 metres
Average temperature: 31 degrees. Highest: 41 degrees. Lowest: 14 degrees.
What a day.