2007 Pendergrass Tour de Force

STAGE 5

Tuesday July 17, 2007

We spent a good night in the wine country in the south of France, in the famous city of Bourdeaux. Along the Rhone River, (I think), we dined late after arriving from the northwest coast in the evening. It doesn’t get dark until late, about 10:30, and it was good to sit at a sidewalk café and watch the people go by.

We’ve had an unusually good experience with the French people; they have been very gracious and nice for the most part. It certainly helps when you are conscious of respecting others and their country.

We did not exercise at all since we are traveling from Brittany all the way to the Mediterranean Sea, then to the ancient city of Avignon. From there we will meet the group to spend several days chasing the Tour de France.

Wednesday July 18, 2007

STAGE 6

We have arrived in Bedoin, a village at the foot of Mont Ventoux. Among all the places I’ve seen, the Provence region, which we are in now, is the most beautiful. The "giant of Provence" casts a shadow from 9102 meters onto the surrounding vineyards for many, many miles, and the lonely weather tower at the summit seems to call for riders to attempt to reach it by bicycle, much as I suspect that Mt. Hood calls to experienced mountaineers.

Mont Ventoux became famous in the annals of cycling history in 1967 when British cyclist Tom Simpson perished one kilometer from the summit during the thirteenth stage of the Tour de France. Called the toughest climb in any of the Tours de France by none other than Lance Armstrong, it is distinguished by the fact that there are no switchbacks or relative flat areas on which to catch one’s breath. Basically, it is a 20 kilometer climb straight up, past the timberline and into the windy reaches that resemble a moonscape.

But before the attempt on the Ventoux, there was other business to attend to. On our first day in the area, the plan was to take a group ride of some 100 kilometers, and end up in the middle of a long flat stage to watch the Tour pass by. That ride featured a Category 3 climb of about 12 kilometers to start with, which le Docteur spun with minimal effort. I of course had a more difficult time, what with all the lack of specialized gears and other excuses I had. I considered flattening my tire on purpose halfway up the climb to hopefully conceal my potential failure, but held in there and arrived to watch the sprint. In the town of Oraison we all met, about twenty or so in the organized group, to watch the caravan and the race pass.

Arriving back at the hotel that night, the talk focused on Mont Ventoux and the challenge of tomorrow. While we dined on local fare at the hotel, my mind wondered back to the sound of Butch Sims’ voice on the telephone the day before we left for France. When I called to ask him what type of gearing I needed for my bike for climbing Mont Ventoux, he began laughing. I finally hung up after three or four minutes of insisting that I was serious, with him still trying to catch his breath, just the thought of me climbing Ventoux being too much for him to take.

STAGE 7

Thursday July 19, 2007

I read the biography of Simpson, Put Me Back On The Bike, the night before we set out to climb the mountain, which is something that I do not recommend for leisure reading the night before attempting the Ventoux. (Among other things, the poor soul Simpson had pushed himself past the limit and actually fallen off the bike 500 yards lower on the slope than he actually perished, but was put back on by his team and fans after pleading for help from them. He climbed awhile longer, began zigzagging in the road, then collapsed dead in the gutter on the mountain road, one kilometer from the summit. Among the things found in the pockets of his jersey after he died were a flask of cognac and a pill bottle of amphetamines. Efforts to administer oxygen and other assistance were in vain, and an autopsy later confirmed that Simpson had died sometime between the first and second fall.

Now I must confess that I thought about scoring some performance-enhancing gels or other fluids for the trip up the moutain, but nevertheless decided to do as Running Bear and the Ryders teach; that is, never do anything on the day of the event that you don’t do during training. (Although I didn’t do much training for this challenge, I thought better of it anyway.)

It was a clear, cool morning the next that I found Dr. Pendergrass outside with the rest of the group, wiping down his new personalized Trek Madone 5. something and getting ready for the challenge. We set off with the summit in view, it’s summits rocks magnified in the morning sun. It was time to climb the mountain.

About two kilometers into the climb, I saw the last of Pendergrass. I confess at that moment that I felt like Jan Ulrich watching Armstrong pull away. It was every man for himself, with much of the climb at a grade of between 9 and 11.5 degrees. I wish that I had the vocabulary to express just how steep that nine degrees is, but suffice it to say, if you stop and get off the bike, you can’t get started again. Seriously!

I confess that for the first three-fourths of the climb, I didn’t think that I would make it. Lagging far behind the rest of the group, I fell further and further back. Through the forest we climbed, then stopping for a few minutes at the ski station three miles from the summit, I caught a second wind. But after a few energy bars and fluids, I noticed that the famous mistral winds were blowing, making things none too easier as I set out again, the end just in sight. I stopped for a moment at the Simpson monument, the spot on the road where he died, a granite stone structure where offerings of flowers and other trinkets are left by fans, and looked around for more than a hundred miles in every direction out across Provence. At about the time I decided that I might be able to carry on, a smiling streak of an Ironman jersey came swooshing by on the way down.

"Bon courage!", he yelled, "Bon courage…"

I really would rather not write my thoughts about seeing Jean Pendergrass coming back down the mountain when I was still at least thirty minutes from the summit, so I quickly arrested my mind and began to concentrate on cranking and not falling off the side of the mountain.

The fellow who designed the route up the mountain more than a century ago must have been a sport. It is an optical illusion in the middle of delirium that makes the road seem so short to the top. The cruelest thing of all though is that the closer you come to the summit of Mont Ventoux, the steeper the grade becomes.

I finally made it to the top, and conscious of the fact that I was the last in the group to do so, I didn’t hang around there for long. It is worth the trip though, I will say, if only for the view.

Meanwhile, our hero Dr. Pendergrass was intercepted with an urgent medical call from one of our group hosts. As though he weren’t a big enough hero by translating our way around the country, now his medical services were warranted. Unbeknownst to me, who by now was riding both brakes down a slope with no guard rails, one of the guys in our group had crashed on the descent just ahead of us, and Dr. Pendergrass was summoned to the scene. After stabilizing the patient halfway down the mountain, the ambulance arrived and the good Samaritan was relieved of his duty. Later at dinner, they/we all toasted our great leader, Dr. Pendergrass. (The news later came that our friend Joe, from Dayton, had broken his collarbone, shoulder, several fingers, and three ribs. The next day he had surgery for internal bleeding, no less.)

We made it, and it was every bit as physical and psychological a challenge as one could ask for.

So much for the fun of Mont Ventoux…

STAGE 7

Friday July 20, 2007

Friday was to be our great day to actually ride with the Tour de France, and although I confess that I was exhausted, I rode anyway. We were given the choice of riding the whole stage, consisting of 212 kilometers, or just the last 60 kilometers. Although the distance seemed short, the 60K ride featured a Category 3 climb of 12 kilometers straight out from the start, and then a descent to the finish at Castres.

It may be the highlight of my trip, the climb from the village of Riols up the Montee de le Jeante, into the mist and clouds of what are known commonly as the Black Mountains. Even though it was difficult, the crowds that had gathered for the day’s stage cheered us on up the mountain. I felt stronger, probably by the fact that I had shed around ten pounds of fat in the previous seven days, but still couldn’t hang with the group. It didn’t matter though, I enjoyed every kilometer, knowing that I may never pass that way again in such circumstances or at all for that matter.

The farther we climbed, the colder it got, and near the top, the sleet pelted the face and numb hands. I emerged from the fog at the summit and immediately declared myself King of the Mountains, since I’m sure that if I’d had a compact crank, that I could have stayed with "Laurent" Pendergrass and the rest of the group. I enjoyed half a cigarette, a sandwich, and other aides on the way up the mountain, all provided by the spirited locals who had camped on the mountain waiting for the pros to pass by.

After the summit, I carefully coasted for nearly an hour, as usual at the back of the pack, and finally easing into a village on the route some 13 kilometers from the finish. I spotted our group leader waving for me to stop at a picturesque café on the road, and gladly dismounted and hoped that I had time for a coffee or at least to thaw out for a few minutes.

I entered the café and was half worried that our hero Jean, ( that’s John in French), had taken a fall, since I didn’t think that there was any way he could be so far ahead of me. But incredibly, there he sat inside the café at a little table, sipping an expresso with his legs crossed, his nose and mouth blue from lack of oxygen but still able to ask me "what had taken me so long…". The rest of the group slowly gathered back together, the weather cleared somewhat, and we began our ride into the city of Castres and the finish.

The people cheered, and we had a great time of it. At the finish, we enjoyed watching the day’s stage from a VIP area with the rest of our group.

Backstage, we met Frankie Andrieu, Bob Roll, Running Bear’s favorite Al Trautwig, and even got up close to many of the riders after the stage. We ended up a good day at a hotel in the ancient fortified city of Carcassone, where we dined with the group on cassoule and other exotic dishes. By then, we had made friends with the individuals of the group we were with, all of them from different parts of the world.

STAGE 8

Saturday July 21, 2007

On our last day on the tour, we traveled on a rainy day to watch what was supposed to be the decisive time trial stage in and around the city of Albi. It was fun again to see all of the festivities and the race, and after the race we got backstage again and stood around while Vinocourov and Contador, Boonen and the rest gave interviews.

We began our travels toward home with many good memories, and spent the last night in Paris before flying home. At the traditional finish line in Paris, we enjoyed crepes and walked around before retiring for the night.

We made it home safely and are thankful for a good, safe trip. I learned a lot about history, and often said to Dr. Pendergrass that "there is a lot of history here", which after about the tenth time that I said it he replied;

"Yes, and there will be much more by the time that I leave."

Well, in the end, I can say that we didn’t embarrass the Pine Belt Pacers, even though it will be a long time before I am allowed to ride with the Hattiesburg Bicycle Club.

Au revoir…