It was while nibbling in the village square of Nyon, a strangely tropical town on the south side of the Alps town that’s farther north in latitude than Vermont, but boasts palm trees, that I came across this sentence in the guide book: “The road that slides up the 1900 metres and down again with such consummate, if convoluted ease was built for the purposes of testing prototype cars...” I read on with increasing interest. The road to which the book referred was not many kilometers south of us, and pretty much along our intended route. It ran over a peak called Mont Ventoux, and was something I needed to experience. Without mentioning to Mother the sentence that had caught my attention, I casually suggested we take a slight side trip up and over the mountain.

On Saturday, July 25, the cyclists of the Tour de France will, as they have before, tackle Mont Ventoux. This year, in order to extract the the most drama from the horrendous climb, the 100-mile stage that ends just beyond the summit has been scheduled for the next-to-last day; the following day is a relaxing 100-mile downhill run to the finish line at the Champs Elysée. I’ll be far from a radio that Saturday, but I’ll be thinking of those guys and their 20-kilometer climb.

The Tour will be crossing the mountain in the hottest weather of the summer. Almost at the summit is a memorial cairn to Tom Simpson, a great English cyclist who died at that spot in 1967 from heat exhaustion and amphetamines. His last words were,”Put me back on my bike.” The monument is still fresh with little tributes – flowers, cycling gloves and shoes, and sunglasses.

Mother and I crossed the mountain in early November and had no problems with heat. As we started up the long grade in our French turbodiesel, I fancied myself 007; Mother acted more like Q. We passed through rain showers that, as we climbed, became sleet showers, and finally at the summit – a bare, white limestone dome – a full-blown blizzard. I had also neglected to mention to my companion that the mountain’s name derives from the fierce winds that scour its summit. I had, however, mentioned the view, which ranges from the Alps to the north to the Mediterranean to the south. Our view, I’m afraid, was restricted to what little of the white line we could see in the middle of the road whenever the wind blew the snow away.

The storm abated quickly as we descended the south side of the mountain by a squiggly, twisting road. Both sides of the road were lined by large drainage ditches of cut stone blocks, about a meter wide and a meter deep. I was just thinking what a calamity it would be to drive off into one of them, when we came upon somebody who had. Two young men in a rickety French economy car about the size of a large black bear had driven straight off the outside of a curve and into the ditch. I stopped to help. The grill was up against the far wall; the headlights hung out on wires like those comic eyes on springs you see at fairgrounds; the front, driving wheels hung in the air. The two young fellows were trying to lift it out, but they had the heavy end and could barely budge it.

Then here came a guy in an old International Scout, who stopped and pulled out a chain – a set of tire chains. He hooked the ends around his bumper and the other car’s, backed up, and began pulling, his wheels smoking. Suddenly I thought, “Here I am in a stone ditch with two Frenchmen I’ve never seen before, standing under a car which, if that chain breaks, will squash all three of us!” I stepped discreetly to the side and yanked ineffectually at the door handle, which threatened to pull off in my hands. A few seconds later the little car popped back out onto the road. Thanking everyone profusely, the two boys jumped back in, started it up, and took off down the mountain with their headlights swinging in the breeze.

That’s the hill the peloton will be climbing on the 25th. The trees on the south side will shade them a bit. The sharp curves will relieve the monotony and give riders places to jockey for position, but it’s about 12 miles of unremitting racing to an altitude roughly the same as that of Mount Washington. And they climb almost all the way standing up! Incredible fitness!

After having warned me all the way down the mountain about my driving too fast, I don’t recall that Mother even once said, “I told you it was dangerous.” We motored slowly down the rest of the way to a pre-Roman Celtic walled town where the only room we could find was at a hotel whose name translated as “The Bold Cock.” The desk clerk, a disgruntled man whose American ex-wife had left him, he said, with a bitter feeling toward Americans, gave us a room the size of janitor’s closet with a TV set jutting from the wall on a steel bracket just above eye level. Twice during the night it knocked me flat and left a big blue lump over one eye. I recalled my earlier yearning for some adventure, and was thereafter more careful what I wished for.