Mont Ventoux
As famous for its barren moonscape as for the tales of death and glory that have played out on its slopes, Ventoux has a claim to be the most legendary climb in cycling
It’s arguably the most famous climb in cycling, but Mont Ventoux’s unique moonscapes and tragic history also make it the eeriest of ascents
It’s like a threecourse meal. You start with something light and easy on the stomach, perhaps a soup or a salad. Then you move to the main course, which is a big portion of heavy stew with tough meat and one too many dumplings. It’s not particularly appetising, but like your mother used to say to you at the kitchen table, you have to get through it if you want to have any of the delicious pudding. This final course is also rich, but simultaneously refreshing and a feast for the eyes. Perhaps a raspberry pavlova.
As you can probably tell, I’m no cook. However, climbing Mont
Ventoux in the south of France can definitely be split into three very distinct portions. In fact you could probably add a fourth – perhaps a premeal amuse bouche – because so great is this mountain’s reputation that the anticipation of climbing the Giant of Provence dominates your thinking long before you hit the road.
You can see its apparently snowy peak all the way from the A7 Autoroute to the west, rising intimidatingly from the landscape. You then have another 45 minutes of driving to contemplate it before you even reach the start of the climb at Bédoin. I say apparently snowy, because most of the year Ventoux’s peak isn’t covered in snow – it merely appears that way because of the bare,
So great is its reputation that the Giant of Provence dominates your thinking long before you hit the road
bleached limestone that covers the top (pudding) section. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
In the soup
The start of the climb is down among the honey-coloured walls of Bédoin, a bustling little town that seems commercially as well as physically dominated by the mountain in whose shadow it sits. If you turn up without a spare tube or lacking a sugary sachet there are plenty of places happy to sell you such things, along with a commemorative jersey.
There are in fact three towns from which you can begin an ascent of Ventoux, the other locations being Malaucène to the north and Sault to the east. But it’s the climb from Bédoin that is the toughest in terms of gradient and most notorious thanks to its appearances in the Tour de France.
Not that the gradient is particularly arduous to start with. At first you pedal easily between vineyards that are most likely growing bunches of deep purple Grenache grapes. The incline averages just 4% for the first 5km, which is pleasant but also leaves you in a slight quandary as to how hard you should
push. Go quickly while the going’s good or go slow to save the legs for what’s to come? Whatever you decide, it’s nice to have the option.
The second portion of the climb starts on a big left-hand hairpin at Saint-estève, with a rather delicious looking restaurant on the outside of the corner. If you somehow miss the fact that you’ve gone round a large left-hand hairpin, then you’ll know you are in the second act by the advent of mixed woodland, which brings strong smells of sap and a stultifying denseness to the air on a hot day.
The next 9.6km (your main course) average a gruelling 9% and there really is no rest. The road meanders in such a way as to tease you into thinking that perhaps something easier lies just out of sight, but it doesn’t.
Curiously the small stone distance markers are all on the left-hand side of the road, which means they’re easily missed. A bike computer is invaluable on this ride because otherwise it’s very hard to know how far you’ve come or, more importantly, how far there is to go.
Running joke
It was near the end of this middle section that the Chris Froome farce took place in 2016 – the last time Mont Ventoux appeared in the Tour de France. The stage had been shortened due to strong winds on the highest part of the mountain and Thomas De Gendt had already soloed to the stage victory when a combination of crowds and motorbikes formed an unintentional
The road meanders in such a way as to tease you into thinking that something easier lies just out of sight
blockade into which the hapless Richie Porte crashed.
Unable to take evasive action, Froome piled into the Australian and snapped his Pinarello into the bargain. Stricken and panicked, Froome bailed on the broken bike and began clattering up the road on his cleats. It was a curious sight, akin to a clarinet player appearing on stage without a clarinet and then trying to style it out by whistling.
The finish line that day was at Chalet Reynard, where the ascent from Sault on the D164 joins the D974. A cafe selling yet more commemorative clothing (as well as food) is a tempting place to stop, but if you can resist then the road sweeps left across a car park that feels bewilderingly large after the confines of the trees, and on to the third and final section of the climb.
Remembering Mr Tom
Averaging 8% for 6.1km, this last leg might not appear vastly different from the previous one. However, the
Stricken and panicked, Froome bailed and began clattering up the road on his cleats
cooler air, the distracting views, the alien landscape, the hairpins and the red and white carrot of a visible finishing point at the top all combine to make it feel somehow less arduous.
That’s not to say this curious final sector, with its limestone landscape poking above the trees like a vast compound fracture in the earth, doesn’t have its difficulties. For a start, the infamous Mistral wind can make it hard to stay upright on some days and the exposure is evident even if the wind is calm, seemingly either baking you under a grill-like sun or chilling you to the bone.
It was that intense heat that got to 29-year-old Tom Simpson in 1967. The amphetamines and alcohol in his system probably didn’t help, but it seems unlikely that they alone would have toppled Britain’s original cycling hero. Deliriously determined to reach the finish, Simpson died on the slopes of Ventoux during Stage 13 of the Tour de France. Today the grey granite memorial to him that stands at the side of the road near where he collapsed shows just how agonisingly close to the top he was. It seems like you can almost reach out and touch the buildings above you, although in reality there is still one last sucker punch of a double-digit gradient to be overcome.
The thought of Simpson throws a slightly sombre shroud over the final push for the summit, but to be honest the whole way up the climb there is a curious atmosphere. From the eerie stillness among the trees, where it’s easy to feel you’re being watched, to the spectral wind that tugs at wheels and whips mist across the wild upper slopes, it’s a mountain that seems slightly unsettling.
It’s not a feeling alleviated by the buildings at the top, which have the air of an empty prison about them. But although the late 19th century meteorological station and 1960s telecommunications mast are ugly, it’s thanks to that ugly weather station being here that the road was built in the first place.
And, standing under a sign that seems to be constructed more from stickers than metal, it’s obvious why they were built here: on a clear day the view is as expansive as from the top of any traditional Alpine or Pyrenean climb.
A feast for the eyes. What sort of feast, I’ll leave to you to decide. After all, I’m no cook.
Henry Catchpole has devoured more climbs than most people have had hot three-course dinners
It’s thanks to that ugly weather station being here that the road was built in the first place