Travellers’ tales: joining cycling’s crazy club

“You’ve got to do it. He hasn’t stopped going on about that mountain since he came back. He won’t shut up about it!” Matt was talking about his brother, Simon. Simon had climbed Mont Ventoux, not once but twice in the same day. A staggering feat which had immediately awed my brother Rob and me.

As we chugged beers with Matt, we pondered equalling Simon’s epic feat. I’m a big unit, not built for going upwards. I’m 97kg, having (impressively) dropped 13kg in a year since we last went on a cycling holiday. But even now, the forces of gravity weigh heavy on me.

A quick Google of the challenge spelled out everything. We were to join Le Club des Cinglés du Ventoux, translated as the ‘Mont Ventoux Crazy Club’.

There are three routes that lead to ‘le sommet du Mont Ventoux’. The first starts at Malaucéne, a small town with quite a cycling tourist vibe. The second is from Bédoin, a famous village that sees the Tour De France roll through it with some regularity. Bédoin has many cafés, restaurants and tourist shops (mainly cycling related).

The final climb starts at Sault, another predictably quaint purveyor of tasty snacks and treats. To join the crazy club, you climb each of those three roads to the top, in one day. We planned to climb the mountain in November 2024. The group would be Bruce, Tom, Neil, Rob and myself.

The challenge before us

Driving down from Lyon, we saw the mountain long before we arrived at our villa. It felt like I was looking into the future, studying the distant slopes blanketed in thick forest until the peak pushes up to an altitude where it transforms into lifeless rock.

It is on those upper slopes that riders test their mettle and attempt the ride up to the red and white telecommunications tower at the top. And even then, only when the mountain lets us. There is a side to this mountain so treacherous and quick to turn that I have found a new respect for early signs of imminent weather changes.

The road bikes were delivered to the villa on the evening of our arrival. I asked Bruce what my chances were for completing the triple. Bruce is so attuned to cycling, and in possession of such a sharp mind, that anything he says in response to such a question should be treated as solid fact.

Bruce doesn’t guess, he tells you the percentages based on complicated formulae. He paused and contemplated the query. “Above 50%” he said. I was on my second or third glass of wine and felt those odds were excellent.

The trip started with cheese and wine, and rolling countryside. Hot sun, not even hinting at the autumnal changes that were whipping around the UK at the time.

Now that we were on the bikes and pedalling around the foothills, I was no longer fretting about being good enough to keep up. Like most groups of friends, we are a mixed bag of abilities, ranging from Rob at the top, to Tom and me at the bottom.

Ready for climbing

Bruce was out of the equation due to injury and would be rambling when we were pushing our heart rates. Rob had spent the last two years mainlining Zwift in the garage and supplementing his virtual rides with plenty of outdoor top-ups. He is currently a beast, and at 84kg, ready for the climbing.

Neil and Tom made it very clear they weren’t interested. Rob was locked in, and I felt oddly moody about the whole thing. I wanted to give it a go, but I’d not been cycling much. I fully expected to hold him back if I went and knew he might not attempt it if I folded.

I didn’t know if I could complete the three ascents, and if I would it be fast enough to finish in daylight. We had no lights. There was a lot to consider, and that was before the fuelling and hydration strategy for the day.

“Are you gonna do it?” became the question of the week. We went to Bédoin and found a beautiful shop selling cycle clothing. There, hanging in front of me when I walked in, was a cycling top with the three climbs on the back of it, the tower above them. It looked great. I wanted that top.

Tom saw me pawing it reverentially and said with the confidence of an adult talking to an unrealistic child: “Chewey, if you manage to climb Ventoux three times, I’ll buy you that top.”

Tom knows, as he’s ridden some pretty insane rides with me over the years, that I love a challenge. But he seemed to have done the maths and found the old Chewey missing from the equation. I got moodier.

Ready to go

That Wednesday night I ate well. Very well. I politely declined any red wine and turned in early. I set my alarm for 6.15am and tried to fall asleep immediately. I had been struggling to sleep most of the week due to the heat but that night I dropped off without any trouble and woke two minutes before the alarm.

We set off from Malaucéne at 7.06am, just as the light afforded us enough visibility to thread our way through town and onto the climb, which starts on a turn out of town. The sign indicated the mountain was open for business, and I settled into steady cadence.

This is the least famous climb of the three. The other two merge at Chalet Reynard, a famous rest stop near to the end of the treeline and continue upwards on the route seen so often on the Tour De France. It was forest, and more forest, and silence.

We were passed by a group of 20 riders from the Netherlands. The slower two at the back explained that they would be climbing to the top and there a van would collect the inexperienced ones and bring them back down, while the others would ride back down. Rob explained they probably hadn’t climbed a hill before, never mind a mountain.

I tapped away, watching my heart rate, interspersed with Rob saying “Wattage?”. I would report back, and if it was over 210, he would tell me to calm down. My heart rate was around 140-145, and that gave me a lot of confidence.

I’d been riding to keep up with Neil and Tom the other day, and it hadn’t dropped below 160. I felt comfortable. I could chat with my brother without gasping for oxygen.

Easy start

The first climb was remarkably easy. Rob had kept my enthusiasm and legs under tight control, and I’d kept my head down near the top. The views, when I did look off the side of the mountain, words don’t justify them. I recommend you go and visit.

We started to climb out of the trees, and from that point onwards, I kept my eyes on the road ahead and not the climb above. So much so, when Rob suggested we ride up a pathway at the side of the road, I thought he’d lost the plot.

Why ride a pathway when we needed to get to the top of the mountain? I shook my head and rode another 50 metres before realising on the next bend we were at the top of the mountain, in the clouds! Climb number 1, complete.

We didn’t hang around. It was around 10am and we needed to get down to Bédoin, fast, but safe. The descent was a complete rush. Even I hit speeds of beyond 45mph on the long straight roads. Towards the bottom of the climb proper are some gorgeous chicanes that add extra salt to your downhill feast.

We had lunch at a very chic café/hangout/Rapha shop. There were deckchairs and cool bike stands. We stayed too long in Bédoin. It should have been 30 minutes maximum. It felt like 45, minimum. But lunch was yummy.

Starting again

We left the way we had come in and rode back up a gentle slope towards the climb proper. This was the famous Bédoin ascent, most well known of the three climbs. And it was awesome. “Watts?” Rob enquired. “Watts 220, heart rate 155”, I replied. I was feeling pretty good.

“That’ll be all the sugar, drop the Watts a bit. Your heart rate is probably 10 higher because you’re digesting food.” Rob explained. He was full of useful information, and incredibly patient.

I concluded that he’d decided that the only way to complete the day was to manage me. Normally I’m telling him how to fuel and how to approach a challenge. On this day, he became the mentor and was knocking it out of the park.

This second climb was beautifully painful. It was thronged with riders, and I was starting to notice a bit of a trend. We had discussed this as a group earlier in the week, but it became more obvious as the day went on; the cyclists on and around Mont Ventoux were old. I’m 52 and I felt young.

The number of teak-varnished legs, calves bulging like old rope, propelling old-aged pensioners up the mountain was astonishing. Later in the climb, a lady went past me, riding nothing more impressive than a bike you would take to the shops. She was easily 60 years old. Yes, I checked: there was no motor.

At this point I wasn’t waiting for the top or waiting to fail. I was just turning the pedals and riding upwards. Occasionally I would see a landmark I’d noticed on the way down, but it was such a blur I had no idea how far from the top or bottom it was. I’d answer my brother, reporting in the Watts; they were generally around the 200 mark now.

At the top, again

After what felt like a very long time, and very much into the afternoon, we reached the top of Mont Ventoux for the second time. It was such a relief.

I’d been saying to myself throughout the week: if I get to the second ascent and I can ride to Sault, I’ll ride to Sault. And if I ride to Sault, there’s only one reasonable way back to Malaucéne, and that’s back up the mountain. We dropped a live location on WhatsApp to the lads and rode back down towards Sault.

The descent to Sault is more gradual. While the other two climbs are steeper, this one is longer at 25.5km compared to 21km for the others. Also, Sault is a little higher up and so the descent involved a little bit of pedalling. It was less breakneck, and a bit more pedestrian.

We got down to Sault by climbing up into it. There’s a five-minute climb into the village, which felt like nothing, and then we settled down for some traditional French fare.

When we left Sault, we got lost. Instead of descending the small twisty ramp to the base of the mountain, we descended a sharp slope to the other side of the village. We almost rode off in the opposite direction to the mountain and were only saved by asking a French dude who pointed us back up the road.

We circumnavigated Sault and rode up and down a very steep ramp a couple of times. It was a borderline disaster, and spirits were only slightly raised when we found the sign for Mont Ventoux, and we started our third ascent.

The hardest climb

This climb was difficult. I think it might be more difficult because everyone says it’s easy. It’s not, because just when you think you’re going to trundle to the top of the mountain on forgiving gradients, you get back to Chalet Reynard. On this occasion, the approach out of Chalet Reynard was blanketed in sheep and sheepdogs.

The climb was becoming brutal again. At this point I must make a public safety announcement. Past this point of the ride, when descending, there is a sign that warns of sheep. In England, we see signs like this for deer and pay scant attention. When you’re coming down a mountain at around 50mph, and you choose to ignore a sign for sheep, you do so at your own peril.

Some minutes later, a sprightly rider came alongside me as I lost Rob’s wheel. The slight creaking and panting that he would have been gauging my efforts with were seamlessly swapped out with another rider, and I found myself falling behind the pair as my Watts dropped under the final steep climb to the tower.

You can see that tower for a long time. Especially when you’re riding as slowly as I was. It might have been an hour before the final steep ramp up to the summit was under my wheels. Rob joined me for the final ascent, and we hit the summit late in the afternoon. It was cold and windy. We took a third photograph, and I put my gilet on.

Cold comfort

As we took in the enormity of our achievement the cold started to seep into our bones. Gusts of aggressive wind whipped around us, and we decided to get off the mountain. It was becoming dangerous up there. You could feel the change, and it was getting hostile.

I was so cold going down that my hands were numb and white when I eventually started to feel warmth in the lower part of the mountain. Near the start of the descent, I saw a young woman climbing cheerfully up to the top of the mountain, unaware of how cold and aggressively windy it was about to become.

She was wearing Lycra and there was no sign of extra clothing. I was too late to issue a warning. It became clear to me why a lot of the old folk cycling around these parts were in jackets or wore many layers. It might be 25 degrees down in the valleys, but right now at the summit it felt about 4 degrees.

The evening was spent rehydrating. The next day Tom bought me the cycling jersey, which I’ve framed. I sent Matt a message that evening, knowing he’d want to know if we’d done the triple. After all, brotherly love and sibling rivalry go hand in hand.