High summer
High aspirations

An enjoyable cycling trip down to the Pyrenees last summer had whetted my appetite for more of the same, but maybe in a different part of France. Some of the alpine climbs and perhaps the Giant of Provence: Mount Ventoux? The penultimate stage of this year’s Tour de France finished on its summit, and the TV pictures of our own Bradley Wiggins turning himself inside out in an effort to hold on to his fourth place on GC proved truly inspirational. So why not combine a family holiday to Provence with a couple of days cycling? ( why not precipitate a divorce as well? ed.)
The plan was to drive down there with an overnight stop on the way. The bike slotted into the car along with the suitcases, and as long the holiday/cycling balance was maintained everything should be fine.

A week in Provence

Stephen Hill had often waxed lyrical about Provence and had given me a few tips on where to stay. And now, having sampled its delights, I can see what he meant. It is a delightful part of France and we thoroughly enjoyed our seven day stay in the area. Mind you, wherever we went Mont Ventoux was always there overlooking the surrounding hills and reminding me that I’d soon be making my way up its slopes. Four days in and I felt I’d acclimatised enough and was ready for the challenge. After a good breakfast I rode out from the hotel and headed for Bedoin, one of the start towns. The 15 mile ride-out was a good warm-up, although there were a couple of minor cols to get over on the way. I wondered what they would feel like on the way back!

Mad dogs and Englishmen

The timing wasn’t ideal. Arriving in Bedoin at about 11.30am with the temperature nudging 29 degrees, I knew I was in for a warm ride. Helmet slung over the handlebar stem I rolled over the marble start line that is embedded in the road and began the climb. The relatively shallow gradient for the early miles lulls you into a false sense of security. Spinning along at a brisk pace with the sent of pine in the air and warm sunshine on your back, what could be better? The reality arrives as soon as you get into the trees. The gradient ramps up to a level that is uncomfortably steep and has you clicking down through the gears. 34X23 was a little on the high side and the next one down (34X26, my lowest gear) was a little on the low side. I settled for a fast cadence on the 34X26. This plan, coupled with the occasional out-of-the-saddle dance around the hairpins, seemed the least painful option. The painted messages on the tarmac to those present and past Tour heroes made for light reading and helped take my mind off the job in hand. Another thing to focus on was the steady stream of riders suffering their way up the mountain. Such is its attraction to cyclists from all over the world, that on this Tuesday afternoon in September I must have passed over 50 riders on my way up to the summit.

High respirations

The ride through the trees seems never-ending, but eventually you leave them behind and enter the sun-bleached rocky scree slopes for the final kilometres. The contrast between the two is quite extraordinary. At Chalet Reynard, with 6 km to go, the incongruous sight of dozens of diners staring out from the panoramic windows of the café and dozens more catching the rays on the terrace exerts a pull on the sweat drenched cyclists. As I had only drunk half a bottle (difficult to drink other than a quick mouthful every so often) I carried on, the end in sight. Thankfully the gradient had eased and I was able to click up a gear and speed up ready for the final push to the top. The aforementioned scree was reflecting back the heat nicely, and I wondered if it could be harnessed for sustainable energy. For a minute or two my head started to pulsate and I felt nauseous, but thankfully it past quickly. Funny how odd things pop into your head at times of stress: I had an image of Robin Williams in his marvellous role as Adrian Cronauer, that irreverent, non-conformist DJ in Good Morning Vietnam giving the daily weather forecast to the troops: ‘It’s hot, it’s damned hot!’ Onwards and upwards, past the memorial to Tom Simpson with its collection of bottles, tyres and caps covering its steps. How close he had come to making it to the top on that tragic day in 1967. Passed the last of four photographers who spend their days capturing the grimaces of riders, albeit with a nice background, and I’m almost there. One steep hairpin and there’s the finish line. Aim for a gap between other finishers, and it’s over. One hour 37 minutes for the 21 kilometres. The legs don’t want to stop and twitch for a minute or two. An earlier finisher smiles and points to his camera and the summit sign. I manage to take a shaky image and he reciprocates the favour





Wide eyed and legless

I swallow an energy bar (first food since breakfast) and finish off the rest of my bottle of water. Caped up I head down to Chalet Reynard and join the gallery for a can of Coke. The sweeping bends of the moonscape top section were soon replaced by the more technical twists and turns through the trees. As the road levelled out at the bottom, and the need to pedal became evident, my legs didn’t seem to be functioning. They were going round and round but there was no power in them. It took a couple of miles before they came back to some semblance of life. The ride home over the two small cols wasn’t pleasant, and it wasn’t until a string of Belgian riders – who were staying at our hotel - came past, that I had the energy to muster up some speed for the final couple of miles – mostly downhill. A memorable day.

A man, a plan, a canal, Panama

Apologies for adding the irrelevant words ‘a canal, Panama’ to the heading; it was just a good opportunity to share with you a rather long palindrome.
A couple more days left to enjoy Provence and then homeward bound. I had noticed that, with a small detour (it looked that way on a small scale map), we could go back via Grenoble, drive through the alps and spend the night near Alpe d’Huez - provided Ann was agreeable. To her great credit that kind and generous woman said yes, and so off we went.

21 – 20 – 19 – 18 and so on

We arrived in Bourg d’Oisans, at the foot of Alpe d’Huez, at about 5pm and found a small hotel just on the outskirts. Bright and early the next morning I was to be found riding up and down the valley road trying to warm up my stiff and cold legs. Unlike Provence, the Alps, with their towering presence, restrict the sun’s rays and the temperature on the valley floor was still around 12 degrees. So in a long sleeved top and leg warmers – a mistake - I started the climb. After three or four of the hairpin bends I was in the morning sun and getting warmer by the minute. Too bad, have to get on with it. Each bend is numbered and the name of a past stage winner of the Tour on Ad’H has pride of place alongside. Already there are other riders making the ascent of this iconic climb, each suffering on the steep gradient. The TV images don’t give a true picture of the severity of the climb and the scenes of Armstrong and Pantani dancing up the slopes only add to the illusion. This is one tough climb. No respite, just keep tapping out a rhythm that you are able to sustain. More photographers, more forced smiles. Through the ski lodges and follow the signs ‘Itinerary Tour de France’ up a few more bends and there it is: the finish line banner. One last effort and the clock stops at one hour 39 seconds. There on the left is a podium. Barely able to climb onto it, I overcome my modesty and keep going to the top step. A friendly French cyclist obliges with the camera, and for a moment I can hear the cheers of the crowd ringing in my ears. Or is it Ann phoning to remind me we’ve got to be out of the hotel in an hour? A quick descent, stopping only for a couple of snaps, a hasty shower, suitcases and bike in the car and our journey north continues. Here’s to the next time.

more of Justin's photos, click here



Justin Wallace 21 September 2009

A Pleasant Ride, A Very Reasonable Tea & Another Fine Mess,

Wednesday 9th September had been forecast to be a scorcher, but was a rather more grudging affair on the day. The sun held itself back until later on, the wind was 'moderate' and from the North East.

We were a record -breaking fourteen riders, including three visitors from another age; racers from the seventies and eighties - (not the same thing as those riders actually in their sixties and seventies) - Neil Dykes, wearing well at just over the half century (still with the ravaged remains of his film star good looks and queasy charm) was backed up by that King of Retro Chic, Richard Muchmore, showing how to put a Mullett to good use, and the evergreen stylist Steve Mayes, Mr Colnago himself, always just a Quick-Step ahead.
Back in the peleton were Peters Heath and Hogg, Ron Fisher, Ed Bucknell, Mike Cross, Ann Fish, Sharon Calton, Jonathan Howe, Gareth Doman, Tony 'Tiger' Panting and your Blogger.
An amiable and uneventful roll across the unchallenging terrain to the North East to Diss, was marred only by a mechanical malfunction of my bike. CLICK-CLICK, CLICKETY-CLICK, CLICK-CLICK, CLICKETY-CLICK, CLICK-CLICK, every pedal revolution. "Bottom bracket" several old-timers muttered, "I don't think so" I riposted "Pedal" I surmised. "Madgetts'" we agreed.
Tea was at 'Mere Moments' (run by Sharon's sister). We were led around the back to a decked area with a view across the Mere. We filled all available space, lounging around and causing the sort of merry confusion that comes easily to a group of fourteen cyclists bent on tea-time fun. Peter called the meeting to order so that he could show us all his new blue shoes. No one trod on them, we merely gasped in admiration, as Peter moved on to item two on his agenda. Text from Justin in Provence. Le Mont Ventoux ascended, from Bedouin, in an astounding time of 1hr 37 min. Now I've climbed Ventoux a number of times, but I've always felt that the views and the experience were not to be rushed, thus even on my best attempt about twenty years ago I managed to take a civilised 2hrs 20m. These days I'm relishing a full three hours on the climb.
Justin is now a Grandpa which, as any fule kno is Grandpére in French - and which rhymes with 'grimpeur' which is French for a climber. Should he suffer a mishap on the descent, however, would he would become a 'Croque Monsieur'?
I munched my scones, gulped my tea and sped to Madgett's. It took Mick's lieutenant a couple of minutes to fix the noise - though he couldn't find anything actually loose. He tightened the pedal to the crank and the crank to the BB axle. All is now silky silence, and I may not be able to remove my left pedal, ever again.

We wound our way through the old town of Diss




On the way home, Sharon dropped her bottle. Mike gallantly went back to pick it up, I gallantly stopped to see that all was well. We set off to catch up with the others, passing the right turn to Walsham which would have been a route option, but there was no sign of red jerseys so we sped along at 26-7 mph in hot (ish) pursuit until near Finningham when we realised we'd never see them again that day. Peter e-mailed me to say that they'd waited for quite a while (but out of sight) and that Neil had, gallantly, offered to try and find us and then meet-up in Walsham. For his pains he was beaten in the sprint for the sign.
So a second week with a split. Not a long ride (49m for me) but a large one. It's just so easy to lose people. Still, we had an enjoyable last few miles, and I learned about Sharon & Mikes' successes in the Triathlon world. Never too old to learn, eh?

This was pronounced by Peter Heath to be the cheapest tea stop for a very long time indeed (probably since the previous cheapest tea stop, whenever and where ever that might have been). Not just remarkably reasonable, but reasonably remarkable quality as well. VGFM in fact.