Taking Bearings

Final climb to the summit of Mont Ventoux in France: My time along the classic climb from Bédoin was almost exactly the same time as recorded by Lance Armstrong and Alberto Contador, Alas, the “and” in that last sentence is very important for accuracy. But for an old rugby player, it was a day to push the sun back up in the sky just a bit

At 1,912 meters (6,273 feet) above sea level, Mont Ventoux is the highest mountain in the region. The mountain is known for its bare limestone peak, which gives it a distinct appearance, and its strong winds, which can make climbs especially challenging. Frequently included in the included in the Tour de France it is considered one of the most iconic climbs in the race.

The 13.4 miles (21.5 kilometers) long climb rom the town of Bedoin, is the classic and most difficult route to the summit. The final stretch shown in this photo starts after passing Chalet Reynard has an average gradient of around 9 percent with places where the gradient kicks up to 12 percent.

Photo: K. Lee Lerner on the final climb to the Mont Ventoux summit. Provence, France. April 2010. ©LMG All commercial rights reserved.

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Viva Le Tour, Viva La France! Cycling Bédoin to Mont Ventoux Summit!
Taking Bearings [Column]
K. Lee Lerner

Thanks to a volcanic eruption in Iceland that closed European airspace in the early spring of 2010 –and the subsequent indulgence of British Airways–a “three hour tour” business trip to Europe (and packed for same) turning into a month in Spain, France, and Italy.

Without my own gear, I bought equipment off the shelf, rented a bike in Girona and had good luck with cycling in the Spanish mountains.

Encouraged by Spain and “stuck” in Provence, I decided to have a go at the legendary climb up Ventoux. Leaving from classic start at the bike shop in Bédoin — where I rented an absolutely fabulous and featherweight Trek bike — I started out, entirely uncertain of my ability to reach the summit.

I’ve cycled thousands of kilometers in Europe, but the assault on Mont Ventoux turned into one of the most challenging, brutal, and beautiful rides of my life.

Sprouting spring vineyards and the wonderful smell of apricot trees in bloom filled the air while climbing through Sainte Colombe and Les Bruns.

My legs felt strong, but the test was yet to come.

After the famous hairpin turn at St Estève up into the forest, I quickly found myself near my limit in terms of blood pressure, brain oxygenation, and probably common sense for the remainder of the climb.

It’s not the altitude. In fact, we lived at a higher altitude than the summit when we lived in Colorado. It’s the grinding grade of the climb. The “Beast of Provence” earns its name.

Being an old rugby player (and a husky tight-head prop at that), my pace was strong but slow. I probably put out enough watts to light Paris for a week.

In one of the steeper sections of the forest a French family interrupted their picnic to walk over to the side of the road to clap and yell, “Allez!”

Cyclists on the road, no matter what their speed or professional status, shout, “Courage!”

I was also very proud of Brenda. She mustered all of her Colorado courage to drive steep sections in my chase car. BG had baguettes avec tomate et fromage waiting at the midpoint, a hot crepe sucre witing to hand me as I passed Chalet Renard and start up the final steep moonscape section.

That crepe was just the trick to help me to the top. Well… that and finally finding the lowest gear set on my rented bike.

There was one very steep section near the summit past Fontaine de la Grave where my legs were screaming and I thought I might need to rest or risk a “bonk” that might take me over the cliff. I confess that I actually tried to stop and rest, but I could not unclip. Struggling to turn over the pedals, I was forced to keep going up the mountain.

After the lower part of the climb takes away your legs, the final 4 km on Ventoux are simply brutal on the body. At the same time, they are magnificent and wonderful for your soul. You move into yourself and it’s a Zen-like, one-pedal-after-another climb into cycling heaven.

Any pro or amateur racer would scoff at my time, but it was satisfying to see at last two spandex-wearing cyclists who passed me on the final ascent being forced to stop and walk their bikes up the final steep hairpin turn at the summit. I confess that passing them was more priceless than any youthful athletic victory I can remember.