Today’s blog starts the previous night with much anticipation of the accent up Mount Ventoux. Some had sworn off alcohol, others a strict meat diet, still others turned to prayer; anything to appease the mountain gods into providing a kind day.
The hotel we stayed in appeared to be a renovated mental institution and as each of us laid in bed, tossing and turning, we could hear the distant insane laughter of those that had tried to concur this mountainous mistress. ‘Those are the lucky ones’ we thought as many before us had a fate worse than a small padded room to enjoy ones own company.
In the early hours of the morning the mountain was calling us, like a spider beckoning us to play upon its web-like slopes, ready to devour the weak, to break the fearful and to destroy the reckless.
At breakfast the usual banter was replaced with solum reflection of what was before us. Richard tried to lighten the mood by recounting his Dodson days, but this was met with stoney silence; today was not a day for nostalgia but a day for either creating history or removing yourself from society in shame.
We had all ridden for 10 days; some where good days, some were not so good, but we had all come here to conquer this mountain. Each of us had to stand at the edge of the abyss that was our soul and peer in. Some saw certain victory, others uncertainty. The time for vacillating was over, it was now time to ride and see what we are made of.
As we assembled for the morning briefing the tension was palatable. A few short pointers from our experience guides which amounted to ‘just don’t die up there’; loved ones were farewelled and we rode into the unknown.
The English gentlemen was now where to be seen and rumours that he was to try a double accent run through the group quickly. It would appear that this English gentlemen doesn’t wait for the midday sun to expose his madness.
As we rode towards the mountain it loomed larger with each kilometre, there was no turning back. Those that represented the Jack Pack would be sorely tested today, and only the strongest expected to see loved ones again.
At the 16 kilometre mark we turned and started the accent. Quickly the group split with the lighter and faster riders scoffing at the initial parry of 8 – 10% climbs. Eagles soared overhead, following the leading groups; likewise vultures hovered over those that lagged, waiting for the weak to fall.
Rob had left early in the hope of catching this mountain by surprise, but she had been waiting for each and everyone of us. No kilometre was the same as the last, climbs became steeper as we pressed on, but no one blinked.
When it become obvious that we would not be broken by slopes the Mountain chose roadworks to disrupt the rhythm. This was not a few pothole repairs but endless kilometres of sticky tar and loose stones. Tar stuck to the wheels like molasses to a blanket and picked up stones causing them to lodge in the brakes and frame of the bikes. Many time riders had to stop to clear stones that threatened to damage gear assemblies and carbon frames with impunity.
As we continued further heavenward the sun beat down and the trapped heat within the canopy of the trees forced many to use precious water reserves; but the Mountain was not finished with the group yet. A stretch of climbs awaited each rider that averaged over 12%, and while the views from this height was stunning the legs screamed for mercy.
Finally with 3 kilometres to go we exited the tree line to be confronted with the moonscape. Nothing survived up here and the Mountain would have one more trick to play. Strong winds and sheer drops played havoc on the weary minds and bodies alike.
The ‘white wall’ loomed up and the sight of the tower on top signalled our goal, but 2 kilometres of torture lay ahead. The bile in the backs of our throats were strong, but with each pedal rotation it was infused with the sweet taste of victory as we neared our goal.
Finally with one last push the mountain was beaten. While she had been a formidable foe the strength and determination of the Jack Pack had bested her. She had no reply, but instead waits for tomorrow when more will come and play upon her slopes.
During the decent we stopped off at a cafe, regrouped and congratulated each other on their victory. RAA Andy and Alan decided to ride back up the top from the other side and enjoyed the windswept climbs that threatened to dislodge even the most sturdy of riders.
And what of the English gentlemen? He did ride the Mountain from both sides, ran out of water and nearly died from heat exhaustion. There will be many stories told tonight over dinner, but none will be of the Mountain beating the Jack Pack.