Jeremy Whittle - Ventoux : sacrifice and suffering on the giant of Provence

For my parents

Introduction

Visible from the Alps, from the Pyrenees and from 35,000 feet, Mont Ventoux is a mountain so singular, so identifiable, that pilots flying south towards Italy and the Cte dAzur use its bleached summit as a reference point. The vast, unmistakable bulk of the Giant of Provence dominates the rolling landscape of the Drme and Vaucluse regions of the south of France. The gruelling ascent has become one of the most feared and revered climbs in cycling.

This is a history of the significance of the Ventoux, to the development of professional cycling and, more intimately, to those whose lives, like my own, have been enriched, defined or shaped by their experience of it. It is based largely on collective memory, on conversations and recollections, encounters and interviews. It is a personal interpretation of events and histories, some public, some private.

Some of those histories are well documented, some passed on by word of mouth, some by rare photography and some, too, preserved digitally. In this book, parts of that narrative are accelerated, other parts slowed or paused and revisited in greater detail. As such, it is subjective a snapshot, a single frame, taken from one perspective.

That is particularly relevant with the dramas that have been provoked by its brutality and by its part in the death of British cyclist Tom Simpson in July 1967. The debate over how Simpson should be remembered as flawed but courageous hero or as another example of professional sports ongoing ethical malaise will continue long after this book has been digested. His story is not the raison dtre of this book, but the Simpson tragedy in an era of naivety and lawlessness ensures that, of all the mountains in cycling, it is the Ventoux that casts the longest shadow.

Of all the renowned climbs in cycling, it is the Ventoux that is both inspirational and intimidating; it is the Ventoux that has the richest history; it is the Ventoux that most embodies both the grandeur and the darkness of professional racing.

That is why my fascination with the Giant is so enduring.

I

13 July 1967

White light. The bleached sky pulled taut by the heat. The bleached sky, taut like a drum.

Theres no blue any more, not up here. Not like the blue down by the sea, on the beach, all kids screaming, ice creams and cold beers. Up here, its just white. Like Im on the Moon or something.

Theres salt crusted around my lips, baked onto my face, salt in my eyes. No sweat any more, just salt. Maybe its too hot to sweat. Thats funny, eh? Too hot to sweat, you reckon, eh, Tom?

Its too bloody hot to do anything, let alone ride up the sodding Ventoux. I should be on the beach in Corsica with Helen and the kids. Anywhere but here. I hate this bloody place. So bleak. Just salt and dust, like in a desert.

Ive been here before, but its never been this bad, never been this dry. So much noise buzzing all around me, a right din. Bloody shouting, bloody helicopters, bloody motorbikes, bloody buzzing insects.

Come on, Tom!

Allez Tommy...

Leave me be. Im fine. Just keeping it going, pushing on, turning it over.

How much longer?

Maybe five minutes, or so, maybe a bit less if I can keep this going. Keep this up, then chuck it down the other side sharpish.

One last push, tick the bastard off, then get down the other side, get back on the front. Im rapid going down Im quick enough, Ill catch back on.

Why am I not sweating? I should be sweating cobs five miles to the gallon, pouring into my bloody shoes, soaking my socks, like that time I had to wring them out in the sink.

Blow me, though, my guts. Ive had it with feeling this rough, day after day. I thought theyd be sorted out by now. But its always the same on the Tour. My guts, my breathing, the salt in my eyes, the salt in my mouth, and then theres my head, banging like a drum.

Nothing left in the bottles either. No more of anything. All gone, ages ago. Now I need water. No bars up here, though, Tom, no bars on the bloody moon.

Keep it going, keep pushing. How far have I got left now? Up here, you cant really tell. Probably a bit over two, then down the other side, bastard ticked off, into Carpentras, job done.

Just keep it going. Get it over with. Forget that bloody drum.

I know theyre all watching me, waiting for me to crack. Theyve been waiting for that to happen for days. In the cars, on the motorbikes, Plaud in the French bloody team car. Now even Aimars staring at me! Is he mad?

Take it easy, Tom! Are you all right, Tom? Have some water, Tom! blah blah blah, like Im struggling. Like Im bloody done for.

I can hear it all, all the bloody buzzing around me. And I can still just make them out up ahead, the hunched, rocking shoulders, just up this godforsaken hill.

Dont you worry Im keeping tabs, keeping it ticking over. But I cant breathe, cant see anything just the white rock, the white light. And the white sky above me, as white as the skin of a bloody drum.

The drum banging inside my head.

The mountains provided a mythic kingdom, an alternative world in which you could reinvent yourself as whoever you wanted. Nonetheless, it didnt matter how you imagined yourself or the mountains: the landscape could still kill you.

ROBERT MACFARLANE , Mountains of the Mind

Winter

During the night, the freezing rain that pelted down on the cat-black autoroutes and deserted retail parks of the Rhne valley fell delicately and silently above 1,000 metres, as gigantic snowflakes blessing holy ground. The next morning, as a low sun struggled to break through, the Giants summit was icy white, dusted with snow, from the tree line to the barren frozen summit.

Far below Mont Ventoux, I sat drinking bitter coffee in a village caf, clad in layers of thermals, my toes already frozen, wondering if I really wanted to reconnect with the suffering that had typified all the previous mornings and afternoons Id spent toiling on those slopes. And I wondered too, as ever, if I was really ready, once again, to ride the road that killed Tom Simpson. I knew, deep down, that over the years I never really had been.

At least, for once, there was no wind.

Wind and the Ventoux are old mates, old muckers, old bedfellows. That unrelenting whipping wind, that loathsome Mistral, it drives you mad they say whips away your placemat, knocks over blackboard menus, blows campervans off mountains, blows cyclists off the Giant. If the heat doesnt get you, the Mistral the wind that picks up, builds to a frenzy and then dies at a moments notice will.

I drank the last of the coffee, pulled my thermal mufflers tighter still around my extremities and set off, from Bdoin on the road that put paid to Tom, that put Eddy Merckx in an ambulance, that forced a crazed Ferdi Kbler to quit, that made Chris Froome run. This then, is the climb of Lquipe s killer mountain.