Mont Ventoux

A few hardy souls in our group had tackled Mont Ventoux on Wednesday; although they escaped serious rain, they rode in the clouds and saw nothing at the summit.

If the rest of us were to ride this legendary climb, today was the day. After yesterday's winds in the valley, we were prepared to be denied. The wind speeds on Ventoux reportedly exceed 56 mph on 240 days of the year.

Our hosts delivered us to Bédoin; the pass was open. I settled in for a long ascent. It was not particularly windy ... at the bottom.

Some Dutch cyclists on mountain bikes gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up as they passed. There are always cyclists on this route, and I received plenty of encouragement from fellow riders, their support vehicles, and everyone else.

Bonjour!
Allez, allez, allez!

Along the way, pedestals indicate the distance remaining to the summit and the average gradient over the next kilometer. "Reminiscent of gravestones," I thought, and then pushed that out of my mind. These road markers are common in France, absent the gradient details.

Taking a break in the last few kilometers, I was passed by an older Frenchman whose wife was leapfrogging him in their car. After my brief rest, I soon passed him effortlessly. Despite my limited vocabulary, I got the gist of his reaction: Not good for his morale!

I passed a weary couple who were walking their bikes. "Fini," they called out.

I paused by the memorial to Tom Simpson; 45 years later, people are still leaving mementos.

About one kilometer from the top, I rounded a bend and met the full force of the wind. On the barren upper mountain, it had been blowing steadily at 20+ mph, with gusts in excess of 50 mph. Here, I was blown to a complete stop. Stunned, I unclipped from my pedals and gripped the brakes to avoid sailing backward.

The only possible way forward was to walk, and that alone was a challenge. Approaching my French friend's car, I shook my head to express my amazement with the wind. "Col de Tempêtes," his wife explained, pointing to the sign on the stone wall.

After about a tenth of a mile, the mountain offered some shelter from the gale and I remounted the bicycle. The final few meters to the top are steep and chaotic: pedestrians, cyclists, and vehicles moving in both directions along a narrow driveway. To be safe, I dismounted and walked up.

I expected to reach the summit in three hours; excluding breaks, I exceeded that by four minutes, penalized by walking into the wind. From our starting point, I recorded 13.3 miles and some 5,180 feet of climbing.

I descended with abundant care, reaching town in about 38 minutes. Tucked into an aggressively aerodynamic position on the bike, I was mightily buffeted by the gale near the top but managed to compensate for the wobble it induced.

The fastest pro rider has summited Le Géant de Provence in less than 56 minutes; that is, a mere 18 minutes longer than it took me to descend it. Just to keep things in perspective.

Les Ocres en Vélo

Allons-y!

The rest of the group has been here for a few days and tell me that I have brought sunshine and cooler weather.

Our plan for the day was to follow one of the local cycling circuits, Les Ocres en Vélo, in the clockwise direction. We collected some brochures at the tourist office in Cavaillon yesterday; if you are planning a visit here, you will find the same helpful information at the Vélo Loisir en Luberon website.

Riding from the hotel lengthened our loop. Not long after we merged with the published route, we began to pass other (American) cyclotourists (Backroads, Trek Travel). Think of our style as akin to a loosely organized club ride; their ambience is more like an orchestrated cycling event. We have the freedom to stray and get lost; they are shadowed by support vehicles that keep them on track.

We started in the heart of lavender (and wine) country; the fields must be spectacular in the spring, in full bloom. Continuing on to Roussillon, we admired the ochre cliffs, explored the town, and studied the distant contours of Mont Ventoux across the wide valley.

Diverting from the official route onto some real backroads, we headed down a rutted dirt and gravel track before turning back to find lunch in Rustrel. Facing winds blowing steadily at 25 mph, with stronger gusts, we opted for a more direct route back to Coustellet—a route that included cycling over the Pont Julien, a Roman bridge dating back to 3 BC. That is not a typo: the bridge is more than 2,000 years old.

Having climbed some 2,445 feet over 51 miles, a few of us headed straight for La Vie en Rose—a pink palace of a patisserie, improbably situated in the local strip mall.

Coustellet

Reunited with my luggage, I was ready for my next challenge: acquiring a French SIM card for my smartphone, and activating data service. The problem with knowing even a little bit of a foreign language is that you may have enough words to ask a question, but not to understand the answer. When the vocabulary is specialized ... well, good luck with that.

Having done my homework in advance, I visited a local Orange Boutique and muddled through the process. I needed to reassure them that the phone would work (unlocked, at the right frequency); they must have seen their fair share of unhappy foreign customers.

I was anxious about the French reputation for being rude to those who do not speak the language, or who do not speak it well. I was relieved (and pleased) to find little evidence of that. The Orange staff were patient and helpful. And, when I understood that my service was prepaid for un mois, they were clearly delighted.

The final challenge of the day: Reassemble the bicycle. For me, pulling the bike apart is easier than setting it up again. With the skies threatening (and delivering) some rain, I was not sorry to give up the chance for an afternoon ride.

Bonjour, Provence!

Le Grand Départ

Bike disassembled and packed, bags packed ... less than 24 hours after returning home from the Best Buddies century, I was on my way to the airport. Destination: France.

I caught a shuttle to the Millbrae BART station. After hauling everything up and down two elevators to cross platforms, I learned that there was no direct service to SFO. To reach the airport, one must board a northbound train to the next station, then transfer to a southbound train headed for the airport.

You can see the airport from here. Bay Area Rapid Transit? Not.

I hailed a cab.

Later the next day, I was surprised to see my oversized bike bag pop off the conveyor belt onto the luggage carousel in Marseille. I was equally surprised not to see my tiny suitcase, despite both bags having been tagged with red "priority" labels by the airline.

My decision to spend the first night near the airport had been a fortuitous one.

The hotel took good care of me, from the brilliant design of the air conditioner in my room to the pain au chocolat for breakfast.

The Coast is Clear

Four out of five runs down the coast have been foggy. For my sixth return to the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge, my reward was a crystal-blue-sky day. Oh, the splendor of the central California coast!

Strategically positioned at the front of the pack, I did my best to hang with the group for as long as I possibly could. On this "neutral" roll-out from Carmel Valley to the coast, I averaged slightly over 19 mph for the first 10 miles. Surprise!

Ostensibly, I am a member of a small team of co-workers for this event; we managed to assemble for a group photo at the first rest stop before they sped south. I am in less of a hurry to get to the finish line, especially on such a picture-perfect day. [Not that I could match their pace.]

Shortly after the second rest stop, a few large birds circled overhead. Turkey vultures are a common sight, though usually not along this stretch of the coast. There was something different about these birds. After I spotted a photographer with a very big lens, a fellow cyclist excitedly confirmed my hunch: California Condors!

This being my first ride since last week's big wipe out, I was feeling a little tentative on the bike. I was not trying for a personal best this year, but still managed a faster pace than last year's jet-lagged excursion.

Nonetheless, the late climbs seemed particularly interminable this year. For the first time, there were no cyclists walking up. At the third rest stop, SAG vehicles were running at capacity: many riders know what is ahead and are not shy about hitching a ride over the top.

At the finish line, an announcer provides a running commentary to entertain the crowd. Straggling solo across the line, he nabbed me. "Here is one of our top fund-raisers!" he called out, thrusting a microphone in front of me.

What time did you leave? [With everyone else.]
Do you know what time it is now?

"Yes, I have been sitting on the saddle for 7 hours and 24 minutes," I explained.

I scored a much-needed massage this year, but was still feeling stressed by the time I got cleaned up for the evening. For the slow, there is no margin for down time: head straight to the barbecue and concert (Blues Traveler, this year). Unexpectedly, I ran into a friend who apologized for not donating this year. "Get a picture with one of those hunky lifeguards at the pool," she teased, "and I'll double my donation next year."

Thanks to the generous friends who supported my fund-raising, I enjoyed the special post-barbecue party again this year. For some, this is an opportunity to mix with celebrities and movers-and-shakers. For me, it is a glorious night under the stars in a legendary pool. I chatted with an amiable fellow swimmer/cyclist who recognized me from the road. He introduced himself, modestly responding that he worked for the legislature when I asked.

Later, I looked him up. Legislature, indeed: a State Senator. Movers and shakers, in the Neptune Pool. And me.

Slip Slidin' Away

Warning: loose gravel.

There is always loose gravel on this road, of the natural variety (shed from the hillside). The signs were posted because Mt. Hamilton Road has been freshly chip-sealed, from mile marker 9.0 to a level just above the Twin Gates trailhead (Joseph Grant County Park). The surface is rough, but there was scant loose gravel after the first few turns.

With September promising to be a busy month, I decided it would be best to climb Mt. Hamilton today. My usual ride buddies had other plans, but a cyclist is never alone on this route. For that, I am grateful.

I was strong on the climb, and cautious descending on the rough road. Taking a tumble on that would be, in a word, gruesome.

As the saying goes, there are cyclists who have crashed and there are cyclists who haven't crashed yet. [Can you guess where this story is headed?]

With less than a mile and a half to the end of the road, I rounded the final hairpin bend. The bike slid out beneath me. In the instant that the wheels lost traction, I knew this one was not recoverable. The road was smooth and dry; perhaps I braked too aggressively and locked the rear wheel.

The stats: My speed dropped from 30.4 mph to 0.9 mph in five seconds. My heart rate accelerated from 125 bpm to 147 bpm in those same five seconds.

Miraculously, the bicycle and I are intact. We slid together, and nothing came unhinged. Water bottles stayed in their cages. My sunglasses did not fly off. Most importantly, my head did not hit the pavement. Once I stopped sliding, I sat up and thought "Huh. That wasn't so bad." I thought back to my favorite Jonathan Vaughters quote:

Next time you're in your car at 50 mph, strip down to your underwear and jump out the door. And that's what it's like to crash in a professional bike race.

My right outer thigh took the brunt of the impact (a fine hematoma, there), and my right arm got most of the road rash. Toward the end of the slide, the edge of my helmet visor grazed the pavement. My bike jersey and shorts? Grimy, but not torn.

Being only somewhat the worse for wear, I declined a ride from the kind motorist behind me. I found a safe spot to collect my wits, pulled out my first aid kit and cleaned up the messiest bits.

The bike seemed rideable, until I noticed that the brake hoods were askew and the stem was not aligned with the fork. As I hiked down the hill, the first ascending cyclist stopped to help. He tugged the hoods into place, realigned the stem, and checked the bike over. Worried, after watching me get off to a wobbly start, he turned around and generously accompanied me back to my car.

Thank you, Monta Vista Velo guy. I apologize for being too rattled to ask your name.

High on a Hill

The climb was steep, but the view across the valley was worth the effort invested. Following the group on a route new to me, I paused for a brief recovery when my heart rate reached 180 bpm and the end was not in sight. [The end of the road, that is.]

Curiously, the path to the left in the photo appears to be part of the Novitiate Trail on a map, but it traverses private land before entering St. Joseph's Hill Open Space Preserve and was clearly marked "No Trespassing." That was okay, though; hiking, we were not.

My legs protested this after-work foray, but I managed not to fall too far behind the rest of the group. Our route was long enough to press against the limits of daylight; our evening ride series will soon close as summer drifts into fall. On this particular night, it was a treat to slip home through the back streets after dinner in the light of the (almost) full moon.