The Scottish Mail on Sunday

Froome flew by ...but I was king of the mountain

- By Max Wooldridge

WE STOOD out like Spurs fans at the Arsenal ground. Even off our bikes, anyone could tell from miles away that we were a cycling group. We toured Provencal vineyards and devoured wine tastings in our sweaty uniforms of spray-on Lycra gear. And I stuck out even more than the others – because I was the sole Pom among a group of 30 Australian cyclists following the route of the Tour de France.

I expected some serious sledging, but they could not have been more welcoming. Many were in Europe on the cycling trip of lifetime and had wide grins and smiling eyes to prove it, and I was soon swept up in their exuberance.

Provence has some of the best cycling roads in Europe, if not the world. We pedalled through the Vaucluse region, Provence’s beautiful interior, en route to Mont Ventoux, the mythical mountain that hogs the skyline for miles.

Each day, we cycled along magical undulating, trafficfre­e country roads. Often the only sounds were our wheels and the hum of insects.

We rode through quiet, beautiful villages in the heat of the day when the only signs of life were sleepy dogs and the soft pealing of church bells.

We stopped off in achingly pretty villages with lovely names, like Venasque and Chateauneu­f-du-Pape, famous for its wine production.

When the heat got too much, we simply doused our sweaty heads in village fountains.

In Vaucluse, all roads lead to Mont Ventoux – the ultimate Tour de France mountain and a climb feared by amateurs and profession­als alike. On Bastille Day, we headed to Venasque early and joined the locals stocking up at the superb local patisserie.

We followed the road signs to Sault on a magical ride through the stunning Gorge de la Nesque, complete with a dramatic sheer drop one side.

From Sault, we cycled the so-called easiest route up Mont Ventoux, until we reached Le Chalet Reynard cafe two-thirds of the way up. Here, the road ran out and barriers meant this was where the official course began. There we parked our bikes and settled in to watch the Tour fly past. There was a carnival atmosphere.

As the Tour caravan passed by, we were greeted by the ridiculous spectacle of grown French men barging children out of the way to catch the freebies thrown out by promotiona­l vehicles. TV helicopter­s overhead announced the arrival of the race itself, and then, out of the cheering crowds, emerged the slight frame of Britain’s Chris Froome, going at a thunderous pace we could only marvel at.

It was a special moment on a special day that we’ll bore our grandchild­ren to death with until senility.

Coming off the mountain was great fun, too, a chaotic Wacky Races-like jamboree of motorists, cyclists and fans on foot. It was cripplingl­y slow, but no one cared. This was cycling at its most unifying. After a few miles, the cars began to thin out and the reward for our patience was a heavenly descent on a recently surfaced road that felt like marble.

Sadly, I had to leave the rest of the group the following morning as they carried on to the Alps. That’s the thing about cycling. However tired you are, it often leaves you wanting more, and even more so when you are alongside like-minded folk.

 ??  ?? SLEEPY BEAUTY: The pretty village of Venasque. Below: Max on his bike
SLEEPY BEAUTY: The pretty village of Venasque. Below: Max on his bike
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