Col Bagging 2015 - part one

Day One: 27^th June 2015

Althen-des-Paluds to Lagrand

An 11 pound baby is massive. People wince if a new mother declares she has delivered a cherub of such scale, both in recognition of the pain of delivery, but also the discomfort of having carried such a burden in the latter stages of pregnancy. It’s the equivalent of 10 large packs of butter. Stack those up and see how long you can carry them around with you for the day. Better yet, ingest them, allowing the fat to build up around your body. In effect, that’s what I’ve managed to achieve in the 12 months since we last set off on our annual cycling effort; a gain in weight, largely flab, of 11 pounds. When I don my Lycra for a day’s riding, I now look even more like a badly made sausage.

So it was, being slightly more rotund than in previous years, that I set off on our pilgrimage, this time heading north, broadly from Marseille to Geneva. I say broadly, we drove an hour from the airport on Friday night to our hotel in Althen-des-Paluds then, in the morning, dispensed with the initial 30km of our planned ride, driving instead to Bédoin, the small town at the foot of Mont Ventoux, a move that filled me with more than a little joy at the thought of having reduced our day’s ride to a mere 117km. It did mean, of course, that I was immediately lugging my somewhat overweight carcass straight up one of the most daunting climbs that features in the Tour de France. The same mountain that, on the 1967 tour, claimed the life of the British rider and World Champion (so no slug on a bike) Tommy Simpson, who quite literally keeled over off his bike and died, just one kilometre short of the summit. This, therefore, is not a climb to be taken lightly. More significantly, it’s also not a climb to be taken heavily, which with my 11 extra pounds, was precisely what I was about to do.

Mont Ventoux stands proud in the heart of Vaucluse, Provence. It’s an oddity, rising from surrounding plains and standing majestically, towering above the landscape. At the top stands a transmission tower, visible for miles, and the nearer you get, the more imposing it seems. As we neared it, the banter in the van subsided as we contemplated the challenge ahead.

It’s an enormously popular destination for cyclists and hundreds of us pumped and grinded our way up the hill. I have never been terribly quick to ascend, so am quite comfortable leading our group from the back, offering gentle encouragement or a convivial “bonjour” to the many dozens of riders that pass me on their way to the top. I did, however, consider throwing the towel in early when, sitting bolt upright on a town bike, laden with two full paniers, a woman in a flowing floral frock went flying past me, merrily chatting to her husband as I gasped for my next lung-full of air. I took some mild consolation from the whirr of a battery pack attached to her bike frame, obviously providing an element of power to her which I didn’t possess, but nevertheless, my immediate thought was that perhaps I might have been wise to lay off the beer and peanuts in the months preceding our ride.

As Sister Maria and Captain Von Trapp sailed off into the distance, I contemplated our surroundings. The climb begins through arable land where orchards with cherry trees, laden with fruit, nearly tempted me to dismount for a quick snack.  Occasionally, appearing through gaps in the tree line, stands Ventoux, brooding and menacing, a reminder that adding a shade more weight might not be the sensible thing to do.

It’s just 21km to the summit of Ventoux, with an average gradient of 7.8%, but in the early stages, stretches of 10, 11 and 12% test the legs as you leave the orchards behind and enter the forested region. Fuelled with the adrenaline of the first day’s riding of the annual tour, it doesn’t take long before the effort is felt. The heat also plays a part in draining the energy and, before too long, the monstrous churn of the pedals assumes control. Through the forest, the landscape begins to change; the trees become stunted, as if the effort of climbing that high up the mountain to grow has robbed them of their ability to realise their potential; I felt a certain kinship.

Beyond the dwarf conifers, patches of scrub grew, circular shrubs against a gravelly, sand-like mountain

landscape. It was like an inverted golf course, the green foliage looking like bunkers amidst a sandy background. Soon, not even the scrub survives and Ventoux’s landscape becomes desolate; just the bare, bleached face of the mountain, radiating the blistering heat of the sun, conspiring with strong winds that roll down the mountain into the faces of the riders, making a difficult challenge even more so.

As I’m nearing the top, approaching the point where Chris Froome annihilated the field in the 2013 Tour de France, I am even more amazed at his achievement that day. The mere contemplation of application of speed at that point finds me considering a comparison, not to Froome, but to the unfortunate Tommy Simpson. Instead, I trundle on, knowing that soon I will be pausing at the shrine that is a permanent reminder of that fateful day in July 1967.

The memorial to Simpson is a modest affair, a granite block atop a dozen or so stairs. A brass plaque alongside the carved wording signifies the visit of his daughters on the 30^th anniversary of his death. Others have also left their marks and offerings; flags, water bottles, inscriptions and other paraphernalia respectfully litter the steps before the chiselled monument. After a brief pause, it’s back on the bike to complete the final 1,000 or so metres that Tom Simpson didn’t make and eventually I reach the 1,911 metre summit.

A big part of our trips are the pre-ride declarations, usually reflecting the imagined sporting prowess that is about to follow. Max Hymas, or ‘House’ as Lord Turton has christened him; reflecting the latter’s background as a public schoolboy, where tenuous connections to the arbitrary lend themselves to wonderfully inventive nicknames, is particularly prone to bold claims of the endeavour that will follow.

House’s bravado extended to the claim that he would be first to the top of Ventoux. What follows is hearsay from the boys that were tucking into their second coffee at the top while I was still trundling up the mountain, but apparently Max may not have claimed the top spot on the podium as he predicted; indeed it went to Rob Bradburn, a newbie for this year’s trip who, Turton claims, was granted the victory for the day on account of it being his first ride out. Only Lord T will really know the truth of the statement as he finished a not too distant second to Rob. House, it should be noted, did not live up to his pre-ride banter and finished third, the other two, according to Lord T, having disappeared over the horizon long before Max.

Descending Ventoux was a joy. A few kilometres from the summit, we took the road towards Sault where we encountered an exquisite road surface that allowed us to roll speedily through the blossoming lavender fields. We weren’t riding through at peak season, the flowers on many plants were still waiting to unfurl, but occasionally, for reasons probably only known to the farmer, a field of the most vibrant purple would unfold as we rounded a corner, providing a visually stunning setting to our descent.

The drop from Ventoux to Sault differed from so many of the downhill rides we’d experienced before; instead of needing gilets and arm warmers to guard against the cold, it was like riding through a fan-assisted oven, and worse was to come.

As we cycled from Sault toward the Col de Macuégne, I watched the temperature rise on my Garmin. It was a proper Wimbledon moment, when the commentator observes that the temperature on the Centre Court is considerably higher than the ambient heat. It was the first time I’d ever experienced a rapid descent that was exceeded by the Celsius scale; at 38.5mph, it wasn’t the fastest I’d ever cycled a bike, but at 39.5°C, it was certainly the hottest.

We trudged on and I took pause to consider that perhaps we were going the wrong way. The road signs for Col de Macuégne were notably absent, instead signs for the somewhat ominously titled Col de L’Homme Mort were prominent. I had plenty of time with my thoughts in the ungodly heat to contemplate the provenance of its name. Suffice to say, it didn’t require a great deal of imagination.

Happily, nearing the summit we encountered a T-junction and turned left away from the dead bloke. A few metres later and the day’s climbing was done. What followed was a gentle descent for about 30 minutes to the hotel and we mastered a superb peloton through the majestic Gorge de la Macuégne, although those in the support crew had the temerity to suggest that our style left a great deal to be desired. It was a debate that would rage through the evening and the week ahead.

There was also some dispute about the distance remaining for the day’s ride and also the elevation of the terrain. We discovered that the gentle pootle to our accommodation was a little further than we believed and we were caught a little by surprise at the final 500m over a gradient between 8-10%. It served only to make the beers taste finer at the Auberge de Lagrand where we settled for the evening.

We discovered that we had fallen in the midst of two wedding parties which, all things considered, was quite remarkable for a place so small, and it created a vibrant backdrop for us to enjoy, although not for the maître d’ whose stress levels appeared to rise with every order we placed for drinks. Lord T had the audacity to suggest that the rosé wasn’t sufficiently chilled which was just about enough to tip the poor fellow over the edge. It transpired that the surfeit of guests had depleted his supply of ice and his source of fresh ice stocks was on the blink. He duly instructed us to take it or leave it.

The evening was laced with banter as the newbies on our trip, Rob Bradburn and Keelan Ross, were introduced to some of the highlights of previous sorties with a certain unscheduled trip to Andorra featuring heavily. Caroline and Sarah then introduced us to a highly complicated and extremely arbitrary points system that reflected our behavioural tendencies. I can’t complain as I was close to the top of the leader board after the first day, having been the sole rider among us to stretch at the end of the day and not get caught urinating in public – the benefit that comes from being so far behind the others. It was at this point that we learnt that our peloton skills did not reflect the finesse that we were certain it possessed. We were, according to the ladies, utterly useless, and what soon followed was as exercise undertaken on the gravel of the pétanque terrain in how to best ride as a group. It was a skill we were utterly unable to master on foot and it would prove beyond us on our bikes in the week ahead.