Mountain Jam

*Apologies in advance for the length of this one.  It's a glorified ride report so proceed at your own peril.

It's been just sitting out there, mocking me. A spectre that looms out behind the house, past the vineyards and hilltop villages and the Rhone valley beyond. I didn't believe my eyes when I first saw it. I stopped dead in my tracks. "What is... is that... it couldn't be... yes, it must be!" It was faint in the distance. Just a form on the horizon through the haze of the already hot morning sun. It was silent and majestic and even flickering just slightly as the heat above the vines played tricks with the light. As I stood and stared shapes became more familiar... one long sloping side and the other terse and steep, a small cap on top of a bald crown, like a chapeau on an old Provençal farmer, sipping Pastis next to a game of boules as though he'd been in that same spot for a thousand years. That definitely was it. Just past the vineyards behind my house. Mocking me.

They call it "The Giant of Provence" for the way in which it looms over everything in its realm.

 Its name, "Ventoux" means "windy" but it's barren rocky peak gives it it's other nickname, "The Bald Mountain." It's most famous for the legendary stages of the Tour de France that have finished atop the moonscape that serves as the summit. It will return to Le Tour in 2009, it was just announced last week, a dramatic, last-stage-before-Paris epic that finishes atop The Giant.

So, needless to say, from the moment we first seriously started considering this insane French adventure, I've had in the back of my mind that at some point I needed to try to get my bike up that hill myself.  It seems like a great idea, really -- a classic climb, an easy drive from the house, and, coming off the PMC, I would be in peak condition. It sounded perfect. Unfortunately, life got in the way. My boxed-up bike didn't see the light of day for a week after we got here. I got in a ride here or a ride there but between travel, hospital visits, and just generally dealing with life in a foreign country, I haven't exactly been burning up the roads.

This fact, of course, was no deterrent to my Father, who was here the past two weeks. He's just read Johan Bruyneel's book (Lance Armstrong's coach) and came over here with the idea in his head that he wanted nothing more than to drive up the Ventoux, in a car, behind me, on a bike. Um... sure, that sounds great Dad.

I agreed to a "scouting mission" to ride a bit of the mountain on Friday, see what it's like, then hop in the car and drive to the top for some pictures and sight-seeing. After all, this is no little hill.

(those numbers in the middle are 9s and 10's, in case you lost your reading glasses).

The forecast looked miserable. Rain, wind, cold, um... rain. I packed every piece of rain gear I have. I made a Nutella and banana sandwich. I brought pretzels, peanuts, and a thermos full of hot coffee. I also threw in a RedBull... you know... just in case.... My expectation was a cold, wet training ride up a bit of the beginning of the climb -- hop in the car to warm up, have some coffee, drive up a bit, ride some more, then toss the bike in the car and drive to the top... under the pretense of "scouting" the hill for a proper assault in the spring.  Amy, of course, just rolled her eyes and said, "you know you're riding the whole thing, right?"

We arrived in Bedoin, which was surprisingly beautiful. Searched out a cafe for a... well... cafe, and a nature break, then got the bike ready and I headed uphill.

Okay, so the thing is, riding for five hours, or even for two hours, as the case may be, around Eastern Massachusetts is one thing. Riding for two hours uphill, the WHOLE WAY, is freaking hard.  The thing that surprised me the most was how hard it was to breathe.

About seven kilometers in I stopped because I couldn't keep my heartrate below 183.  My maximum heartrate on the bike is around 186 beats per minute so I knew that I would need to keep my heartrate at maximum around 177 to 182 if I was going to have any chance of putting any significant part of this mountain behind me. 

The air was cool but the sun was warm and I quickly was shedding layers. About an hour in, I stopped for lunch and realized I'd only taken a half bottle of fluid. Not good. Compounding the issue was that, expecting cold, I'd only brought one bottle of sports drink and a bunch of water -- I was losing sodium and couldn't replace it.  My Dad had a bottle of Orangina so I figured "what the hay?" and dumped it into my bottle.  I started out again, knowing that I was near the end of the line.  At this point, the road was going uphill fast.  After the first 6 kilometers of the climb, the road makes a hairpin turn and gets steep. Seriously steep.  Up through the alpine forest... endless, unforgiving, up, up, up... averaging nearly 10% and in places almost 12%.  I couldn't keep the heartrate down. The most frustrating thing was that my legs felt fine. Clearly, my cardio-conditioning had been the first to go. I stopped again just past the halfway point, gasping for breath. Of course, at this point, I had considered riding to the top and I was immeasurably frustrated at having good legs but no lungs.  

The thing with cycling is that the most challenging rides aren't nearly as difficult physically as they are mentally.  There is no way, especially on a climb like this one, to avoid the fact that you are going to be suffering for several hours.  The key is being able to override the alarms going off inside your head, telling you to stop, and just keep steadily turning the pedals.  Once you get in that rhythm, you can manage just fine until you lose focus and let the alarm bells start sounding again.  It can be a constant battle between the inherent survival instincts that are telling you that, you know, maybe it would be a good idea to stop: get off this tiny saddle; put on a sweatshirt; have a sandwich; maybe a beer, and the mental discipline to say, "nah, let's keep pedalling up the side of this mountain for absolutely no reason whatsoever."  It's great fun.

I started out again but only made it another few kilometers before I had to stop again to let my heartrate slow down.  After consulting the map we were only a few kilometers from Chalet-Reynard, where the road turns and heads up for the final third of the climb to the summit. "Well, I might as well make it to that... seems like a good place to stop."  Figuring there was no reason to lug a RedBull all the way up there without drinking it, I added that to the remnants of the Orangina/PowerBar Endurance Drink in the bottle and headed on.  This time I *really* slowed it down and tried to keep my heartrate in control, knowing that if I had to stop again I was tossing the bike in the car.  The road continued steeply for another kilometer or so but I kept it at 177 pretty consistently.  As we neared Chalet-Reynard, the trees began to thin out and around a corner the building came into sight.  Behind it was a barren rocky expanse.    At the same time, the road had leveled out significantly -- to a laughable 7% grade.  Hey!  This is easy!  I felt better at that point than I had the entire climb.

Now the voices in my head were going full tilt (actually, I think it was the little guy from the RedBull ads but in any event...): "Dude, why stop here?  You feel good.  Just keep riding a bit and see how it goes."  

Um... well... okay...

So, you see where this is going.  The wind picked up but wasn't nearly as strong as the epic gales that give the mountain its name.  Around each hairpin the road "leveled off" (relatively speaking of course) allowing a good 100 meters or so to recover.  I stopped again to catch my breath at the top of one steep pitch but at this point, the radio tower was in sight and you couldn't have stopped me with a shotgun.

(To provide a sense of scale, I'm on the road right in the very middle of that picture)

Of course, the summit being in sight and actually being close are two different things.  I knew I had several kilometers to go and the hard part was not getting too stoked and blowing it within sight of the top.

Around the last bend the road pitches up to about 20% but I could have dragged a Mack truck up it without feeling it.  So, as usual, Amy was right.  I did the whole thing.  Sure, I took a bunch of breathing breaks and rode so slow my legs were barely tired but I still climbed the Ventoux.

It's close enough to the house that I can't say I won't take another stab at some point before June, you know... just for fun.  And of course, now that this one is checked off the list... hmm... how far away is l'Alpe d'Huez?