Colder than I expected. That’s how I’d describe Mont Ventoux if you were to ask me right now. Lots of other things too – beautiful, eerie, iconic, brutal, exposed – but also cold.
I’m working on my first Tour de France as a journalist, so despite many years here as a fan, yesterday was my first day up the top of Ventoux. I’d been on the climb in 2016, but down in the woods, hearing news filtering through that Chris Froome was running (really?) up the climb, nowhere near the iconic top – in fact, the race hadn’t even reached the summit in 2016.
Yesterday, however, I got to go to the top. And despite everything I know about the climb, how exposed it is, how high up it is, how windy it is, I did not expect it to be so cold. One borrowed puffer jacket later (thank you Hannah), though, and I was good.
Once we were up there, Hannah, who is a colleague from Velo, and I were first exploring like excited kids. This is our first men’s Tour de France, our first time up Ventoux, our first many things, and we want to enjoy it. For some members of the press room, who have been here for 30 years, the novelty has all understandably worn off, but for us, days like today are still magical.
After clambering up to the top, buying a million souvenirs, and eating a typical on-the-road lunch, attention did finally turn to the race.
Watching on a big screen several hundred metres away with inaudible French commentary is never really the ideal way to watch an event you have to write about, but that’s how it goes at the Tour, and we made the best of it, piecing together what was happening as best we could.
There are also not many days when you get to sit at the top of a climb and just watch the race, not working away at your laptop, so I was feeling lucky about getting to experience that rare chilled afternoon.
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After the chill, however – both figurative and literal – came the climax that is the stage finish. This is, of course, the most important part of the day, and it’s hard to describe how the tension just ramps up a notch. You have to navigate the teams, signers and riders, you have to quickly understand what has just happened, and you have to find the right people to talk to about it. Plus, what feels like 100 other journalists and TV crews are trying to do the exact same.
The only word that really works to describe what that’s like is chaos, and Ventoux was no different. Firstly, there was the usual level of craziness, but because this is the Tour and it’s Ventoux, there was of course, extra chaos.
Jonas Vingegaard had crashed past the line, which of course we didn’t see but heard, as you rarely see any actually racing at the finish. Then there was the fact that, due to the strict rules around driving up to the finish, several teams’ cars and soigneurs had not actually made it. Which made for the slightly weird scenes of seeing Visma’s top boss Richard Plugge handing out towels and drinks, alongside the team’s musettes. Other riders took jackets and whistles from rival teams, unable to find any of their own support squad.
Riders then had to find their way through the melée not to a car, but to ride all the way back down the mountain again, navigating fans walking down, and cars driving down. For how everything else in cycling is so dialled, the post-stage can feel like a total mess.
However, after the main riders had rolled through, it felt like a strange calm descended on the finish. It’s not something I’ve felt many times in those situations, but for a moment, things felt quiet, still. Maybe the wind had died down, maybe the finish line announcer had stopped talking for a moment, or maybe it was just the terrain.
Ventoux is, as I’m sure you know, a climb that sticks out on its own above Provence, not surrounded by other peaks like you are in the Pyrenees or Alps, and as a result, it does feel like you’re separate from the world up there. So maybe that’s why in that moment, as the far-back riders rolled through to grab jackets, take a drink, and ask who won the stage, the top of Ventoux felt like a microcosm of calm, rather than the pocket of chaos a stage finish usually is.
In many ways, that calm reflected the odd calmness that has fallen on the GC battle in this race. After two weeks of high-tension fighting, the rider that’s behind – Jonas Vingegaard – and his team aren’t reaching panic stations, they’re almost at a state of acceptance, a zen peace with the fact they’re up against an unstoppable Tadej Pogačar. They’re going to keep trying, but it’s not the end of the world if they lose.
After the stage, another colleague Jacob got dressed in his running gear and promptly ran down the mountain. As I put to another friend, I’d rather roll down the hill than do that, but I respect the spirit of covering the race, and also having fun, which is what I’ve been trying to do on Ventoux and other days. Appreciating the chaos, but also taking in those moments of calm, and using them to be grateful for what I’m experiencing.
Down the bottom we eventually arrived (by car, rather than trail run) and it’s actually colder in the air-conned press room than it was at the top, and we had a budget hotel to get to soon. So, the Giant of Provence has been conquered – by the riders and us – the chaos has returned to calm, and the race carries on. Back to chaos shortly.
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