30/6/11
On top of the world
This "hill" known as the Giant of Provence has a mythological status in the world of cycling. It has often been a stage finish of the Tour de France
and the back drop to historic battles that have decided the final outcome of the great race. As a teenager I read the biography of Tommy Simpson, the
most successful British cyclist on the continent until his death in the final few kilometres of the Ventoux climb in 1967. I’ve seen the pros racing
up there on TV and read a few accounts of recreational cyclists who have made the pilgrimage – so I thought I had some idea of what was in store.
I travelled into Bedoin to pick up my rental bike I’d hired for 4 days. Bedoin is the starting point for the climb (the hardest climb), you can also
go from Sault, which is longer but less step. Bedoin is a picturesque little village lousy with lycra clad cyclists, who are mainly sitting in café’s
in various states of recovery. We stayed about 35km away, basically in the middle of nowhere on the other side of the mountain near a place called St.
Leger. Why? I hear you ask – don’t - arranging this portion of the trip was “sub-contracted” out, and that’s all I’ll say.
My first ride was to Bedoin and back the next day as we had run out of bread. The 70km round trip was by no means flat, in fact mountainous by New
Zealand standards. Straight out of St Leger is a 9km climb of around 8%, followed by some “undulations”, or as we like to call them back home – hills.
Then just before Bedoin is the Col de la Madeleine. The WHAT? Yes the Col de la Madeleine that other iconic Tour de France climb. When I got to the
top of that I stopped and watched a bunch of cyclists being photographed under a sign on the summit. This was too easy, and felt wrong – and I was
right. This relative pimple of 443 metres was just a cheap imitation with the same name – someone should tell those pleased looking mugs having their pictures taken.
A couple of days later was D-day, the day to pit my less than prime condition self against one of the greatest mountains in cycling history, and I
wanted to make early start before the heat of the day. But alas no, my riding companion, did what most 19 y.o. do and stayed up late and slept in.
We arrived in Bedoin at around midday. By the time we set off nearer 1pm it was approaching 30 degrees. I set of at a steady pace and enjoyed the
country side and the early gentle slopes. The first mile stone (literally white and yellow tombstone shaped makers on the side of the road) said 22k
and 1.9%. Really? 1.9%. I carried on through a little village and the gradient went up slightly – 19k 4%. Yeah that feels about right, but I was still
full of the joys of life. Then a step left hand hairpin and the road went up dramatically. I remember thinking "ok now this is it, I’m really on the hill".
It was the kind of gradient where you are counting on it being finite, but it wasn’t and it just got progressively stepper. The mile markers passed me like
yellow arthritic snails. There was this one section, not even at the half way stage, where I thought I should pack it in before I expired of heat stroke,
where I saw a sign indicating a 10% slope. After that I found anything under 8% was rest for the legs. Apart from the heat and the sheer physical strain
were the flies – and flies are capable of 10kph, so there is no getting away from them.
One thing that was concerning me, apart from expiring “doing the thing he loved”, was the descending cyclists in long sleeved jerseys and wind breakers.
An hour and half later, once I had cleared the tree line and was on the last 6km through a white moonscape, I became aware of the cold. You know it’s a
mountain when it’s hot at the bottom and cold at the top, and the sun is still shinning.
I don’t think I have ever been so happy to get to the top of a hill before. Having tackled nothing even remotely close to this before, it turned out to be
a mental and emotional challenge as much as a physical one. Although, had the physical me been in better shape the emotional me would have taken less of
a battering.
The descent, well that was downright terrifying at first, and then it became a case of concentrating on concentrating and summoning the strength to operate
the rental bike’s brakes.
In summary – I want a rematch.
25/6/11
Well we’ve just come back from 3 weeks in France. It was partly business and partly holiday, but wholly fantastic.
After 28 hours of flying (Auckland to Singapore, then on to Paris) we were pretty tired when we hit the ground, and it was a public transport
baptism of fire. Armed with a metro map from the information desk we headed towards the city at 7am on Saturday morning. We got off at what we
thought was the closest station and proceeded to drag our suitcases through the streets for an hour and half before reaching our hotel. It was
at the birth of my second blister I realised the metro maps aren’t drawn to scale and are a pictorial representation rather than a geographical one.
Apart from some business meetings and a couple of days of being tourists we spent most of our time exploring on foot or riding the metro. We ate a
lot and drank a lot, but we also walked a lot. You don’t see many fat people in France, which is surprising when you consider what appears to be
most commonly consumed – bread and wine. Most days for breakfast I had coffee and croissant(s), which seemed to be standard. The main difference
I guess would be the coffee, which is mostly espresso. I too drank espresso after a couple attempts at ordering a “flat white” and then realising,
that even if they could make it, it would still be ghastly as all milk was UHT. We are spoilt for dairy products in New Zealand – including cheese.
Bread is served with everything and there is a bakery on almost every corner serving the most decadent pastries. And then there are the chocolatiers.
The French take their chocolate very seriously. So how is it that they’re all not rotund butterballs? I don’t know. There are a lot, A LOT, of smokers
and most use public transport, but on the face of it that wouldn’t seem to make for what is a fairly carbohydrate loaded diet. I suspect they just don’t
eat the volumes. At restaurants the serving sizes weren’t excessive and I never left one feeling “Mr Creosote” stuffed.
We went south for the next 2 weeks via the 320kph TGV – better than flying – what an awesome service. It was in Provence that I climbed on of cycling’s
meccas, Mont Ventoux – more about that later. The south of France isn’t an international, world famous holiday destination for no reason. We hired bikes
and rode along the coast from Nice to Antibes on a purpose built cycle path. This was a very popular route and mode of travel for both locals and tourists
– John Key’s cycle way may not be such a bad idea.
Next the report on Mont Ventoux!
Ignorance is bliss - I had no idea what lay up the road
