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.

Just ahead was the Chapelle de Groseau, the remains of the chancel of a 12th-century Benedictine abbey where Pope Clement V liked to stay.

A little farther on we stopped at the source of the Groseau river, a big pool bubbling up from the ground, shaded and clear, at the base of a cliff where a game of petanque was taking place.

Then we ascended for real, chugging uphill in our Ford Fiesta, 7% grade, then 11%, then 12%, the communications tower at the summit beckoning us onward.

To our surprise a steady stream of cyclists ascended with us, on their own quests to conquer the Giant. At each stop for views and pictures we layered on and buttoned up as the temperature dropped and the wind increased.

Higher and higher we drove. I could not imagine doing this relentless ascent on a bike, yet still more cyclists struggled upward, forcing down the pedals, panting, sweating–and so many of them women! Vegetation disappeared as we closed in on the summit. We parked at a congested viewing area just below the top. I cinched my Camino hat tight and we stepped into the wind to walk up the remaining meters to…a fest?

The road was packed with colorfully clad bikers, cookie and candy stands and a DJ. It seemed to be the endpoint of a fundraising ride for ALS.

Back in our car, we crept through cyclists still arriving with no separation from vehicular traffic.

We drove over the top and soon turned away from most of the bikers on a different road down. A stag sculpted of metal parts caught our attention.

Nearby was a cement and stone platform of unknown purpose where we sat and ate lunch, watching occasional passing cyclists.

The road leveled out near Sault where the promised lavender fields were still green, although, to our hopeful eyes, beginning to take on a dusky hue.

We were almost home when Maurice turned onto a road he had spotted the other day. There in long rows grew a field of lavender in bloom, Provence’s blue gold, scenting the air and welcoming passersby; even a young man on a motorcycle had stopped for a photo.

Soon after we were home in 32-degree-Celsius heat, to tapenade and calimochos and a dip in the pool.

Note:  The Tour de France starts this year on July 1 with a time trial in Düsseldorf.  Sadly, climbing Mont Ventoux is not included in the 2017 race.