I left Vaissons la Romaine at around nine thirty, trying to split the difference between freezing at the top of a six thousand foot climb and getting killed by the afternoon wind. Got to the base of the climb - over 15 miles and about five thousand feet in elevation gain - and simply began. It does not take long for the climb to assert itself and in no time I was in my easiest gear, struggling to hold a pace I knew I could sustain, and all the while the signs at each kilometer would quietly inform me of the percent grade ahead: 8 percent, 9 percent, 11 percent, 10.5 percent (10.5? Really? You are giving me half percent measures? Are you enjoying this, little milestone? Clearly I was a bit out of my head quite early).
The miles wore on. Two riders blew past me near the base and I never saw them again, but after that I never got passed again. And slowly, keeping in mind all the training I have done, reminding myself to stay in my limits, I made my way.
An hour passed. I was passing riders regularly, and smugly chatting with drivers of cars supporting other climbers I went by. One rider had the unmitigated gall to get out of the car and start pedaling right in front of me about a third of the way up. Finally, after about a half hour, I closed the 100 yard gap between us (which should give you an idea of how relentless this climb is), gave a cheery hello and left them in my wake.
Ventoux is famous for murderous winds that slam into your face, drag you across the road towards a ravine, and then inexplicably swing around and blow you forward. I was happy to sacrifice the latter for the absence of the former, and my timing was paying of (it also pays to talk to the local cycling shop, who advised me when to start). The winds were there but not terrible, and as I climbed they kept me cool enough under the Provencal sun.
The final twists and turns are quite exciting. At some point you know you are going to crest, that you are not going to crack (or you did but kept on going anyway), and then there is the runup to the summit, a short ramp-like grade of maybe fifteen percent, but just past it is the crowd of cyclists who seem to watch every rider approach, as though looking for affirmation of the rite of their own passage.
I joined them. During training I tried to add up the grades and lengths of local climbs that would sum to an HC climb. I can see now that it is possible to assemble one in Portland and that it makes no diffference: the sum is greater than the parts, the sum can not compound the difficulty like the real thing can. I had done my best to prepare for it, but nothing really prepared me for that long, that steep a climb but the climb itself.
Yet whizzing down afterward to a lunch of warm cheese, salad and beef with a creme brulee after, it was exhilaration and not fatigue that I felt. I had done the work and I had made the climb; my first HC climb ever. In a sense the rest of the whole trip would be downhill now: I had proven to myself that I belonged on the mountain.
Photos from the top of Ventoux:
