I worried as a cycling fan that the anticipation of a day at
Mont Ventoux could never be lived up to. Not the case in the very teensiest
slightest.
Felt a bit crap this morning. Accidental overindulgence
(moi???) last night, after too long a day. Well, if they will put stone jugs of
wine on my dinner table, what do they want exactly? At least it got me to the
stage of telling people my name is not Margaret. It was a bit of a nuts
evening. I seem to have hit it off with the guide and the driver most of all
(ever the teachers’ pet) and the positive glut of lesbians there are here (I
kept muddling them up; finally sorted them out as the couple who drink a lot,
the couple who don’t drink at all but behave worse than the ones who do and the
couple with one who drinks and one who hasn’t drunk for 26 years but did last
night and was last seen wandering round and round the pool teaching herself how
to count to ten in French). The couple with a child I am ruthlessly exploiting
but have nothing in common with (surprise!) and the weird Australian man and
the scary woman have made it clear they hate children and also me for daring to
have brought a child into their presence, so that’s the end of that.
So, my hangover was not allowed to settle and off we went. Jesus,
I usually hate food porn writing and overly sentimental descriptions of
landscapes, but this part of Provence … Fields of sunflowers, air heavily
scented with lavender, immense views of devastatingly beautiful countryside
with villages clinging to the rocky outposts; then we have apricots and
nectarines and peaches and plums and cherries that are so sweet your head
nearly explodes, and whose juice drips down your chin … yeah, we’re well into
food porn territory here, I’ll stop.
Ventoux is exactly how it looks on TV. I know, I know, but
for some reason that was surprising. We had a fantastic spot for viewing. I’m
bloody glad I didn’t run this morning though – I had wanted to but was too
headachy. Had to walk 5km up to our spot, and did it with Tam on my shoulders
(she settled in for the way down too). Way heftier work than my usual daily
runs. Need an osteopath now.
The rest of the group tiptoed around the posh catering gingerly
taking cheddar, white bread, sliced ham. Tam roared in and helped herself to a
plate of olives, foie gras, couscous salad, boeuf en croute and grilled
asparagus. I love my girl. She was a superstar all day – got well into it,
nearly exploded with excitement at the caravan (which was the weirdest
experience of my life, totally against my principles but nearly pulled even me
over to the dark side), screamed for Froome and Porte, refused to support
Contador (“We don’t like him, do we Mummy?”) but cheered every other cyclist
because they had worked so hard. She shouted extra hard for Geraint Thomas –
still doing well with a fractured pelvis, they make ‘em hard in Wales.
Cycling bit: what the hell can I say? What a victory. What a
bloody stage. We watched the break as Richie handed the lead onto Chris.
Totally textbook, so well scripted, so well executed and completely effective.
And then to destroy Quintana as well???!!! I never thought he would take the
stage as well as another minute forty out of Contador. Incredible. It felt like
history in the making today, and one day after the anniversary of Tom Simpson’s
death on Ventoux. I can’t explain the feelings, especially that of having my
daughter right next to me cheering the whole thing too.
Tomorrow is a rest day thank goodness. Off to Avignon.
Note: I gave up on photos. I wanted to watch. I got one of
Chavanel before he was caught (surprise!) And there are loads of people here with
better cameras than me who hopefully will send them on (like you care). I like
the one of me and Tam though – shame I’ve got chewing gum falling out of my
mouth, but never mind.
Note 2: Too tired to read this for spelling/mistakes. Sorry.
NEWSFLASH: I think the Australian man just tried to flirt
with me. I thought at first he had something up his nose. It was very
ineffective, whatever it was.
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