Le Mont Ventoux

The painters had the day off, so through the congestion of Carpentras Maurice and I drove toward the Mont Ventoux. Rising high above the ripe cherry trees and waving wheat fields of the fertile earth, Mont Ventoux’s top bare of foliage gives it a faux snowcap. We were excited to meet the Mont, the Giant of Provence of Tour de France fame. For years we had agonized with strong young cyclists straining at the ascent up Mont Ventoux, pumping with legs of sinew and steel, sucking air, oozing sweat–well, we agonized from the comfort of watching them on TV from our family room with cold drinks at hand. Now we were going to check out the climb for ourselves. We passed a fortified church in a town square, a field of poppies, a hill town glowing in the sun, and the Giant loomed ever higher. Ignoring the glories of the village of Malaucene, we turned at a sign announcing that the route was ouverte. Keep reading