Mes Amis de les Coureurs Facile –
Mont Ventoux, “le Geant de Provence”, otherwise known as every cyclist’s worst nightmare. Almost 2000m altitude but starting at a couple of hundred metres, making it one of the longest climbs in European cycling. Added to that a nasty 7.5% average for the last 16 kms and we knew that we were in for a treat.
The day started well, or really the night before. Dr Nige arrived in Cavaillon in the afternoon closely followed by Turnip in his astonishingly ugly Nissan. The arrangement was to have dinner with the Captain’s entourage in L’Isle sur la Sorgue the evening before for full rider briefing and isotonic and carb loading in advance of the assault on the MV. Wilson had done a great job checking us into “Le Bouchon” restaurant. Introductions made. The Captain arrived not merely fashionably late, but with “parisien panache” at some 2 hours after the peloton had polished off a three course nosh up with all the trimmings and deux bouteilles de rose … well if Johnny Hallyday can pull it off so can the Captain.
The day itself started early pour moi and the Cavaillon posse. 43 kms to the foot of the Ventoux meant a savage 5.45am reveillon. I thought i could hear Madame Demi say a “bonne chance ma Cherie” as I tiptoed out the door, but I suspect it was a “get out the feckin door you ijit and don’t wake me at this hour ever again on holiday …”.
Quick sprint to the rallying point via Maubec to L’Isle sur la Sorgue to pick up Wilson and then through the back roads to Bedoin. Interesting accordion tactics noted in the peloton, Wilson pulling hard on the front, three donkeys on the back wondering just how much time it would take before Wilson turned round to see three specs at the rear ambling along 10kms slower enjoying the dappled early morning sun … glorious ride nonetheless got us to the village to greet WBA installed at the Town Hall ready for … erm coffee, buns, croissants etc, shopping. anything it seemed but a ride.
On the stroke of 9am a bugle sounded, the crowd stood still, a haze of yellow and red lycra in the distance and the unmistakable sight of the Captain, Aussie flag billowing, leading out a flotilla of the north shore’s finest thru the streets of Bedoin. “what are you all looking at?” he addressed the crowd. “It’s Jeff Thomson” someone ventured. Close, but no cigar. However at least they had not mistaken the Australian flag for some rag from far flung colony of the Mother Island…
With the encouragement of knowing we were being led by the fastest larrikin bowler the world has ever known, we set off at a gallop – well a trot to conquer the Ventoux. Captain knew it was a good day early doors when he spotted someone spraying a name on the road in front of the ER peloton. “C, A, P … ” he ventured. “C R A P” i think was more what the erstwhile street artist had in mind. The Captain, encouraged, asked “are we there yet?”. Not quite it seemed.
Slowly the vineyards gave way to some gentle slopes and then some less gentle ones. and then cruising through an otherwise unassuming village, the road turned rudely to the left and into a 10% ramp as if to say “show time”.
Pretty soon the riders as opposed to the Easy Riders disappeared into the throng. Matt, Simba and Wilson haring up the slopes with points to prove. “,and what about the Captain?” I muttered to myself … but any idea that we would cruise along with the Dear Leader and his drapeau encircled by ER domestiques quickly disappeared. Probably just as well. The Ventoux is just endless and everyone needs to and indeed does take it at their own pace and in their own time – which means about 2 hours or so for mere mortals – or 45 minutes for crack addled ones.
Once at the top, most of the ERs managed to find themselves an uncomfortable spot on the shingle over the final 500m flag. Well done Drastic who correctly called Danny the B as the ER with the camera in the photo circulated by the Captain’s media people. The other ERs were on the fence just out of shot looking for indispensable items from the Caravan such as ‘early booking discounts with Ibis Hotels”, small sachets of washing powder and keyrings from the Police Nationale. Rumour has it that there was also a race going. To absolutely no one’s surprise Froome sauntered up about 4 hours before everyone else, made some grimaces as if it weelly, weelly, hurt and then raised his arms aloft -and smiled that faint smile of his that says “yes, i weelly did it all on my ownsy”.
From left to right is Wilson and Matt (with their recently scavenged Carrefour Caps from the freebies caravans) and Simba in the back to front LCL cap
The post-race descent down to the village was more enthralling it has to be said. weaving past spectators making their way down at 3 kph, police motor bikes at 60 kphs and a flotilla of camping cars stuffed with beery Belgians made for a unnerving/thrilling experience (delete as appropriate).
A quick beer in the village to fire the Captain up and off we headed for the return trip via Carpentras where the Captain’s Directeur Sportif was waiting in camping car with chilled Bollinger ’98. To all our astonishment the peloton was led out at some 45 kph for the next 10 kms by the Captain. Clearly the bidon he had grabbed from a Cofidis rider contained something the same magic potion that propelled Froome to victory and Asterix to vanquish the Romans. No one mentioned that the Mistral was blowing on our backs at about 1000 kph which meant big smiles at the end of the trip to deposit the Captain’s entourage. Our secret isn’t it?
The rest is a blur of heat and haze, a sun-drenched romp through the back roads of the Vaucluse, and until eventually we reached the tour village, I mean the in-laws at about 8.30pm. given a 5.45 start it was one hell of a long day – 135 km round trip with 2000 climbing in the middle. Big shout outs to the Captain for leading the way and providing entertainment for the the rest of us – to Matt and Simba for reminding us old buggers that we are as, yes, old. Wilson, WBA, Danny, Dr Nige for excellent company. But the real hero of the day was Dave Turnip. What an example. Smashed hip. Recent operation. No fitness to speak of. Doctor says “no” to riding to the North Turra shops and back, and here is on a massive ride – and quite hairy in it own way. smile as wide as the Tasman Sea – and leading the peloton back down the road at the end of a massive day in fine fettle at 30+ kph. David – well done mate. As my the great Magoo would put it, “Legend”.
happy days
a bientot
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