2019 Santini Gran Fondo Mont Ventoux
- Wheelgood rating: Medium
- Length: 135km
- Height Gained: 3220m
- Category: HC
- Route (long): https://www.plotaroute.com/route/996601
- Route (short): https://www.plotaroute.com/route/1118065
- Parking: There are public car parks in the town of Vaison-la-Romaine
Were two enthusiastic amateurs ready for a trip to the top of Provence? I put my best foot forward and found out by taking on heat, lack of fluids and a bottom stroking…
Starting, though, with the words of Talking Heads: how did I get here?
Well.
Normal routine here has it that I’ll find some stupid challenge, or hill, to ride and then try to persuade Mrs W to come along, if only to spectate, or soak up the atmosphere. Typically, that’s because someone will say words like ‘thousands of metres of ascent’ or ‘25%’ to me and this will cause me to enter a state whereby it must be conquered1. It’s fair to say that I’m a stronger cyclist than Mrs W and, normally, there’s a raised eyebrow along with the acquiescence signifying ‘oh, if you must’, sometimes followed by a ‘would I be able to…?’
This time, however, Mrs W and I had planned a trip to Provence purely because we happened to like it round there. It’d been a tricky couple of years for us, myself in particular, and we just wanted to get away to somewhere we knew was genuinely relaxing, had good weather and good cycling, should we wish to ride. No pressure.
As it so happened, there was a Gran Fondo event during the time we were going to be visiting. During Mrs W’s comprehensive research (she does like to be prepared), she found that there was a UCI road race in the area which ended on the top of Ventoux in the middle weekend of our stay and that, the day before, was an event for us mere mortals along a very similar route. Initially, I wasn’t interested. I’d ridden Ventoux before and didn’t really feel the need to go and prove I could ride another long, European, event. Mrs W, on the other hand, took one look at it and declared that she was going to enter and ride the shorter course (which climbs up from Sault).
Oh.
Was I surprised? Do bears…? Anyway. Once I’d scraped my jaw off the floor, I took stock of the situation. Some investigation revealed that, yes, it would be a challenge, but not on the same scale as, say, the Marmotte or Maratona dles Dolomites had been and figured, ah, why not? So that was me entered into the longer event. Not wanting to do this on our own, I wondered whether there might be anyone who’d like to come and ride the event with us, so I began to gently cast the net to see who might be interested…
And, so, come the time of the trip, five of us had entered – Mrs W and myself along with three friends: Jill, Paul and Alex. Alex and I were taking on the long route (135km) and the others the shorter (80km).
For me, the day began at 0300. I never tend to sleep well before an Event and this was no exception. That combination of excitement, worry, a desire for breakfast and, in this case, temperatures well into the twenties meant that there was never to be a return to the land of Nod. Until this point, the magnitude of the day had always seemed just a little distant, but, as alarm time approached the assorted components assembled themselves into a jigsaw that would swallow the entire day.
So what were we doing? Well, the 2019 Santini Gran Fondo Mont Ventoux, of course. So, what’s that when it’s at home, then? Well, it’s an event which isn’t all that well known in the UK, but, in short, it’s a sportive cycle event which is based around Le Géant de Provence, Mont Ventoux. It begins in the town of Vaison la Romaine, and the long route winds its 135km (84 mile) way over three smaller Cols before finishing at the top of the mountain via the same ascent from Bedoin that the professionals tackle in events such as the Tour de France. There is a shorter route which only takes in two Cols before taking on a slightly easier (less steep) climb to the top of Ventoux from the village of Sault.
As well as the five of us, there was a second group staying at the same hotel (VeloVentoux) who were also taking part; as is common on these larger events we didn’t see them much during the ride itself, but, judging from the four boxes of wine that three of them got through in four days (plus beer), they were likely to be in for an … interesting … day.
Eventually the alarm went off at 0530 and … I stayed exactly where I was. Mrs W, who’s much more organised and determined than I am, headed to get ready whilst I continued to wonder how long I could remain in situ. About 15 minutes was the answer, although it really felt like about 15 seconds. For once, we were the last of our five to be down for breakfast and, as ever, I ploughed into things knowing that keeping fuelled on big events is something I need to be aware of.
We left the hotel slightly nervous, excited and marginally chilly. The morning sun hadn’t quite warmed up the air and each of us was wrapped up (or not) according to how well we can all cope with the cold. In my case, I just did the Geordie thing of shorts and short sleeved top as it was above absolute zero. Following the obligatory photo of the warriors heading into battle, we were delayed ever so slightly once more when Alex, Direction Master Extraordinare, started off from the hotel determined to go in the opposite direction to the start…
Despite all this, we arrived at the event start around 0700 with the flag due to drop at 0730. It came as quite a surprise to see at least half the field already present and correct. At a UK event, people normally roll up at the last minute so anyone around half an hour before the start is normally a sign that they have just the same level of anxiety about being late that I do. Here, though, the whole thing is taken much more seriously and there was a waiting, prowling, atmosphere sliding its way through the front of the crowd.
Happily though, the further back down the field we walked, the more relaxed things became and we began to see smiles and laughter of those who would be happy just to complete the day compared to the serious business at the front of the race. We found ourselves a spot and, essentially, just stood around until the start, although we did have the good grace to look as embarrassed as everyone else when the most enthusiastic guy on the PA system was starting Mexican waves; sadly he got a bit carried away as each subsequent wave was greeted with less gusto than the last to the point where it could only really be described as a small ripple.
We saw, rather than heard, the first riders roll away and waited some more. It was a bit like the large running events on TV where it can take 20 minutes before some people even see the start line. It wasn’t quite that bad, but it was a good ten minutes before we rolled over the line and, surprisingly, continued to roll gently through the streets. Normally crossing the line is the point where people’s adrenaline gets the better of them and there’s a mad rush for the first 10-15 miles before the pained faces begin to emerge as the realisation of setting off too quickly sets in. Today, though, there was none of that – almost everyone was very relaxed. Yes, there were the odd group of fast boys and girls hammering up the road, but the vast majority were taking their time. Alex and I were somewhere in between at this stage as we hopped from group to group in order to try and find something that was about our ‘decent casual’ pace. We’d worked out that we couldn’t hang around for too long as there was a cutoff time of 1300 at the bottom of Ventoux. That doesn’t sound too bad until you realise that that’s 114km into the ride having already climbed around 5600ft of ascent. By the time you add in battering your way through the feed stop scrums and the obligatory comfort breaks along with the fact that it was now, ooh, 0730 and we’d not really gone very far and it was something that we made sure we kept in mind.
We also had to make sure we stuck together: one of the curios of this particular event is that it is mandatory for riders to wear the official event top. I don’t know of another amateur event which has this stipulation and it meant it had to break the rule of a (cycling) lifetime which is that I’m only allowed to wear an event garment if I’ve earned it by completing said event. It’s sad, I know, but there you go. This time, though, it was the official top or not riding, but this does introduce a problem when you’re trying to ride with your friends – normally recognition can be aided by someone’s clothing on the day, but not here where there would be 2499 jerseys identical to your own. Well, OK, a maximum of 2498, because the event organisers posted later on Facebook that anyone wearing a non-official top would be disqualified from the event (fair enough) and banned from future Santini events for life (which seems somewhat harsh) along with a photograph of someone doing exactly this, so we know there was at least one miscreant!
The good thing about being in amongst so many people was that there was much drafting to be done and we made our way to the bottom of the first real climb having done next to no work at all in a group that was rolling along at about the same sort of pace we’d have asked for if we were in charge of anyone. In fact, I had to slow down at one point, because we dropped down a sinuous descent at one point (coincidentally, this was the section of road Alex tried to head for first thing) which I knew, but Alex didn’t and, sensibly, he backed off. Would that everyone else had done the same: I’d found a decent gap between two guys who were going about the same pace on the right hand side of the road, but the oncoming traffic nearly caused one or two issues with some riders trying to be clever, but I could watch the fun knowing that I’d never be part of it…
Shortly after this, the Col de Veaux arrived and seemed to come as a shock to people’s systems. The initial part of it involved turning left across the traffic, which the marshals had stopped for us. Speaking of which, the marshalling was fabulous – a massive step up compared to the UK. This might be helped by the more generous attitude of the traffic, but, either way it was most welcome.
About half way up the first climb, I had my bottom stroked by a slightly wider French gentleman as he pushed me out of the way so that he could ride between Alex and myself. I have to say that I was torn between being offended as we were riding a little bit over handlebar width apart from each other having a chat and quite enjoying the sensation. Alex and I looked at each other and let him get on with it: we both know by now that you can’t tell how good a rider someone is by their physical build so there’s no point in chasing. Amusingly, about 0.5km from the top (of the 2km climb) he’d blown massively and we rode straight past again and, having decided how I actually felt, I returned his rudeness by not quite giving him as much room as I could have done.
This was followed by a decent descent down towards Brantes was marked by both a banana extraction procedure and an Italian dive-bomber. The good news was that once the extraction was complete and then the skin stowed safely, I caught him up and went past him on the inside a few seconds before he went for his line to butcher someone else’s descent. Point made, I never saw him again (and there was no shout, or nasty crunching noises, so it was OK)…
All good descents come to an end (the bad ones go on forever, but that’s a different kind of ride review, I suspect) and so it was here. We turned left up to a village called Brantes. The bottom part of the climb is the steepest at around 8% or so and then it steadies out to somewhere between 5 and 6% for a few km before it turns into the Col des Aires. We overtook a British guy who starting talking to us whilst hanging desperately onto my wheel. Apparently he was ‘riding’ with ‘friends’, but was on his own because their agreement was very much to ‘leave me behind’ on the climbs. And they had. Eventually, though, my steady pace was just that bit too hot and he got dropped: I could hear him talking to the next guy who came past in French…
The first feed stop was, as expected, absolutely packed so we decided not to stop for anything other than a visit to the gents as otherwise we’d still be there.
We set off only to be passed by a French guy who told me that I had a banana in my pocket before riding off. It wasn’t as if I was just pleased to see him either: this was the one I’d just eaten on the descent down to that feed station and, as we hadn’t stopped for long, I still had the skin in my pocket as I’m not someone who litters. Mind you, a decomposing banana skin in your back pocket is unlikely to help with anything very much so I found the next responsible place to dispose of it in the next village of Montbrun and got rid.
The next ascent onto the Col d’Homme Mort begins as you leave the village and, about 1km later, we overtook the same French guy who had commented on the banana. He seemed quite cheery when we rode straight past him. As we had a headwind, I’d assumed the role of windbreak and which suited Alex just fine. And, like all good French climbs, this one just wound on … and on … and on for 10km, or so. By about 5km in, Alex was starting to suffer a little bit, but I’d found a rhythm. Our agreement always was that we’d stick together, but that we both understood that we may need to do our own thing on the longer ascents. I stuck to my rhythm and, very slowly, rode away from him. As we went around the next hairpin, we caught a decent glance at each other and both nodded, i.e. crack on and I’ll see you at the top. So I did and, other than being rolled by a few odd people and a pretty quick group of three, I spent most of the ascent passing people without really putting much effort in.
Towards the top of the ascent there’s a T-junction where the route turns right straight and the gradient lessens. This top section is about 4.5km at an average of something like 3%, although there are some bits of ramps in there. Along with all the other event riders, I was applauded by a number of riders coming down – they must have had sore hands and vocal cords by the time they reached the T-junction as they were cheering and clapping everyone.
Following this, I had a small rush of energy to the legs and got into a performance mode and I really started rolling people, including a huge bunch of French riders who were none to happy to see a Brit going so quickly. They were even less happy when I had to infiltrate them so as not to have an interesting discussion with a couple of motorbikes which I’d seen coming the other way at some speed. Having survived the infiltration I set off again only to hear the word ‘Bennett’ pronounced in the same way as ‘boeuf’. Mind you, given the speed I was climbing (for me!), I wasn’t all that bothered and carried on to the top where I stopped and waited for Alex and made use of the, er, facilities. Unlike some of the competitors I tried to find somewhere where the mother and two children couldn’t see me.
Next came 15km of descent. Alex dropped back at one point and I sat up until he came hammering past having latched onto the back of a huge Belgian rouleur and I had to do a quick sprint to get onto Alex’s wheel. The Belgian lad knew we were there, but didn’t seem bothered; this is probably because he was one of those guys who, once the spring has been wound up can keep going at an obscene pace even up the smaller hills that were between us and the feed stop. I suggested to Alex that we sit up and keep our powder dry for the major ascent at the end of the day’s ride, he concurred and we surrendered.
As we trundled along, we were gently passed by another rouler type guy – French this time – and Alex decided it would be worth hopping on the back. So we did. This time he wasn’t so pleased and did a fair bit to try and dislodge us, which failed until about 1km from the feed stop we sat up and freewheeled in so as not to be too obnoxious.
This feed stop was, well, rubbish. The guy with the water would only 3/4 fill one of my two water bottles and wouldn’t touch the other one. As the whole thing was a van with a couple of tented tables in the middle of nowhere, I suspect they were running out of water. There was Coke, but no cups into which one could decant it. There was no real food, just some orange segments which my body told me it really didn’t want. Fortunately, that extra water meant I could stick one sachet of energy drink mix into my bottle which would be more than enough to get me the 20km to the next feed stop.
Back on the road and back into the headwind. As chief Diesel engine, I sat on the front and towed Alex along for the next however many km, and it was riding through Sault I realised, somewhat surprisingly, that I was feeling pretty good at this point. Normally the fatigue begins to set in, but not today.
Just past Sault, we were passed by a freight train of a group doing the full through-and-off thing at about 10-15km/h quicker than we were travelling. Then another guy came past who was only about 5km/h quicker and Alex suggested we hop onto his wheel. I wasn’t sure this was a good idea as we still had a canny distance to travel before hitting the bottom of the mountain, but Alex thought it would be OK. I decided to give it a go and, to his credit, Alex was spot on: we got onto his wheel and rolled along quite nicely. It helped that the terrain had changed to slightly downhill which meant that it was quite easy for us to roll up to him.
Then the three of us caught the big group. Quite how this happened is something of a mystery as they were flying when they came past us. And then it got weirder: the guy who was towing us seemed to know the group and summarily plonked himself at the front in primary position and then had a conversation with the guy next to him. I decided to ignore all this and concentrate on doing the right things in a large group as I know French pacelines are pretty well disciplined and you get yelled at straight away if you don’t do it right. So I tucked right onto this guy’s back wheel and concentrated like hell to stay there. Physically it wasn’t hard, but it took a lot of mental effort.
Then the group rotated. And I ended up on the front. Damn2. I kept the concentration going to be smooth and stay dead level with the guy next to me. This worked well until the combination of oncoming truck and parked car was such that the gap between them wasn’t all that great. I knew we’d get through and, as per paceline etiquette, didn’t want to put my brakes on unless it was an emergency, so I breathed in, got as close as I dared to the handlebars next to me and kept the power on. The guy next to me wasn’t as brave/sensible/stupid and backed it off a bit so the next thing I know is I’m riding off the front of a paceline. Oops. Strangely, there was no shout, or anything. It transpired that the reason for this is that they were all working pretty hard and had no breath left. Even when I sat up a bit, I was still riding away from them. So I left it in the big ring and carried on riding until I was a couple of corners in front of them where they couldn’t see me and dropped it in the small ring so I could finish the climb at an effort that wouldn’t cause me a problem later on.
The Gorge de la Nesque is a lovely stretch of road. The climb up from Sault is only a few km long at a maximum of 3% and it’s dead smooth and steady. It was, however, starting to get rather warm by this stage and I was pleased to see the top of the as it meant I could have a little break until Alex arrived and we could then freewheel the 10km+ down into Flassan. It’s a fantastic descent. I let Alex go in front and he did a fantastic job of the descent until it became so shallow that we had to pedal (headwind!) and I took over again and remained there until the feed stop just past Flassan.
In complete and utter contrast to the last one, this feed stop was brilliant: it had water, Coke with cups, bread and ham, bread and cheese, bananas and biscuits. Yes, there were the obligatory orange segments too, but, once again, all the riders were ignoring them completely… And, for some reason, at just this feed station, they had young ladies to hand out the fluids to riders. No, I don’t know why this one was different, either…
Alex and I got going again reasonably quickly and managed to find a wheel to tag onto for a little bit, but I suggested we should drop off the back as he was going more quickly than I reckoned Alex should have to deal with: I was OK, but I knew from the effort level that it would cost too much given the climb that was to come.
On we trundled towards Bedoin. Into the headwind. I just sat at a sustainable pace and kept it rolling. Somewhere along the way we must have picked up some passengers, because, about 2km out from the bottom of the mountain this massive great French guy rolls past and parks himself in front of me. Now, I hadn’t slowed down and we didn’t seem to go that much faster on his wheel so I suspect it was him paying me back for the turn I’d been doing and I’m cool with that. About 500m from the start of the mountain, he pulls over and I continued to roll it along on the front.
We turned for home about 1.6km out from Bedoin so, technically, we didn’t ride the entire Bedoin ascent. Not that either of us cared: I’d already ridden it earlier in the week and it’s a difficult enough 20km so the addition of that extra 1.6km was unlikely to feel like a good idea.
And, once again, the little group continued to sit behind me as I tapped out a steady tempo. I knew that things were going to get harder once we left the scenery of the vineyards, as did most of the people behind me, I guess, as very few came past. There were odd bits of times when there was a bit of elastic between Alex and I, but I sat up and waited for him and, eventually, the bottom of the forest loomed.
We turned into the forest section and, as Alex started to power up, I said ‘this is us for the next six miles’ and he slowed back down again. This was the Right Thing to do. He then spent a few hundred metres finding a pace that suited him and began doing the only thing that you can sensibly do when you’ve got 10km at a pretty steady 10% to ride, which is just to keep turning the pedals.
It was rather warm at the bottom and didn’t take long to reach stifling: there was no air and no room to breathe given the proximity of the trees, and there was the heat given off by the significant numbers of other riders. In other words, it’s just unpleasant and you know that you’re stuck with it for the thick end of an hour. I was OK, but Alex’s pace dropped a notch so I just pushed the pedals round and kept giving encouragement. And we kept passing people – slowly, mind, but we were definitely passing more people than there were people passing us.
As the climb went on, the temperature rose further and Alex’s energy reserves shrank. I asked if he wanted to stop at the water station about 6km into the forest, but he said that he’d prefer to keep going and make it to the one at Chalet Reynard, because he’d know he was clear of the hardest section by then. I saw the logic of it at the time, but, looking back now I think I should probably have suggested we stop.
The last 1.5km off the forest were spent alternately encouraging and cajoling Alex up the climb. It’s no fun in there if you’re not in the zone and, by this point, he clearly wasn’t. All you can to is remember that it does end eventually so you try to keep turning the pedals. The sight of the wooden chalets cheered me immensely as I knew we were close to the top and ‘not far now’ became more like ‘400m to go’, which sounds oh so much much better when you’re suffering!
We got out of the forest and up to the feed stop, which had no Coke. This wasn’t good as I’d spent the past 3km using this as a carrot to keep him going. This, I suspect, will be a running joke for a while at my expense: it’s fine, but, in my defence, all the previous aid stations did have Coke (although cups were optional.) I suspect it had all been drunk by other riders. Oh, well, we snaffled what we could. I also told him to have a gel, which seemed to work for a while, but, again, in hindsight, he should have had more than one and, possibly, one in the forest section too. I was still OK as I had carbohydrate drinks with me, but they can be really gloopy and sugary after a while so the taste of pure water at the aid station was a nice change.
I kept Alex going as best I could after this – the smile that became a grimace was now a pretty fixed rictus and I knew he was going through it. At least it looked a bit like a smile, so the photographers were happy. They all ignored me as it was, apparently, obvious, that I was having a much better time of it and, thus, wasn’t worthy of the image. For comparison, Mrs W, who’s far more photogenic than I am, has 47 official photos to her name from the mountain and I have 8.
At least this upper section of the Mountain is a little less steep than the forest, but, by the time you get there the accumulated fatigue means that it’s still hard work. It doesn’t help that you keep getting glimpses of the top of the climb as the road winds around, because it never seems to get any closer.
And then, eventually, it was the top, which meant it was full of people stopping you getting where you want to go, which is off the top of the mountain. The lady handing out medals didn’t seem to want to give me one, because I’d put my bike against the railings so that I could get that photo of Alex. Eventually she relented, but I got the impression it was with bad grace. Thanks!
I wanted off the top, because it was a bit breezy and, at an altitude of 1909m (and shrinking), it was a bit chilly. If you stay there too long, you get cold and then have 20 minutes of descent where you can have the joys of getting even colder whilst travelling at 30mph+. To mitigate this, the five of us had a Plan, i.e. the first person at the top would decide what they wanted to do and send the rest of us a message. In this case, it was Paul who’d dropped down to the town of Malaucene at the bottom of the mountain and found a café in which to wait. As the only two riding the longer route, Alex and I were the last ones down and we joined the other three in the café where I had a milkshake that disappeared so quickly that the others thought I’d been given an empty glass…
We then had another 10km or so of main road to get back to Vaison where we could have our post-finisher meal and, if we wanted, a chance to stand on the podium like we’d won it. The food there was pretty good – the meal voucher could be taken to pretty much any café in the main square and redeemed against a set menu which wasn’t bad, apart from the very dry lentils. Mind you, it could have been cactus spines en croute for all we’d have cared: there were some very tired legs around the table as we reminisced over the day we’d had.
Not that it was over: we still had 4 miles back to the hotel, most of which was uphill. It took a little while, but, eventually, we rolled in, had the ‘after’ photograph taken and, finally, had that celebratory beer…
It’s a great event and, overall, we had a fantastic day out. Even if the event isn’t your thing, I’d say that the area itself is a must for any cyclist wanting to try something overseas: it’s not all Cols out there as there is plenty of flat riding around the vineyards and, with it being rural France, there’s plenty of good food and drink to be had too! Get yourselves out there – it’s worth it!
If there are any other road climbs, or rides, you’d like me to take on, the more ridiculous the better, then please send me a message on my FaceBook page https://www.facebook.com/wheelygoodcycling/ or email me on wheelygoodmail@gmail.com and let me know…
