What it's like to ride up infamous Mont Ventoux (Spoiler: It's hard)

— -- As sweat continues to drench my jersey and shorts, as irritating flies swarm my face and neck, and as my legs howl ("Can we please STOP?!!"), I glance to the roadside hoping -- praying -- the next route marker will indicate the incline will lessen over the next kilometer. But dammit, no! It repeats the gradient I have seen kilometer after kilometer. Nine freaking percent! Again! I shake my head and continue pedaling, wondering when this grind will ever end.

Or if the flies will at least go away.

I am riding up Mont Ventoux, one of the toughest and most infamous climbs in cycling. Or as French philosopher and cycling fan Roland Barthes once called it: "a higher hell."

An avid cyclist who loves climbs (but fears descents), I have ridden up Alpe d'Huez, the Col du Galibier, Passo del Ghisallo in Italy, Maui's sea level-to-10,000-foot summit Haleakala and the excruciating Zoo Hill near my home outside of Seattle. As I push my pedals this day, I am learning that Ventoux is the hardest -- as Tour de France riders know all too well.

Ventoux was first ridden in the Tour de France in 1951 and has been a climb in the race 15 times. It will be the finish of Stage 12 on Thursday. That is Bastille Day in France, so the road will be filled with thousands of fans celebrating and drinking and having the time of their lives -- not just because of the national holiday, but because they won't have to ride a bike to the top.

There are three locations to begin the Ventoux climb, but the classic route used most often in the Tour is from Bedoin, a lovely little town with restaurants, bakeries and bike rental stores. I have read that in the old days, Tour riders would stop in a bar here for a drink before beginning the epic climb.

They probably should have ordered several bottles of energy drink, or perhaps an oxygen tank, or maybe a gas tank and car, as well, because the ride is grueling.

Ventoux is a 21.5-kilometer route (13.4 miles) that climbs roughly 5,300 feet, with an 8-kilometer stretch where the average gradient doesn't drop below 9 percent. At times it reaches 11 percent. The final 1.5 kilometers are roughly 10 percent. But at least I prepared my body with something far more empowering than alcohol: a delicious cinnamon almond croissant. (I should have eaten two. Or three. Or four. ...)

Worse than the steepness, at times, is the wind. Ventoux means windy, and the powerful mistral of southern France beats this area up to 130 days a year. The wind was almost 45 miles per hour during the 1969 Tour and has been measured as high as 200 mph at the summit.

Fortunately, I am riding in almost perfect weather. It is sunny. The temperature is in the mid-70s. Best of all, there is zero wind. As the manager of the rental shop says, "This is the best it gets."

No wonder so many people are riding today. During my ride up and back down, I will count at least 175 other cyclists, three to four times the number of cars on this road. The cyclists range from a father and his teenage daughter slowly pushing their way up on bikes with few gears to many cyclists in their 60s and perhaps 70s. This is how revered a bike climb Ventoux is.

The route begins with a manageable 4 to 4½ percent grade the first 5 kilometers. But then it gets steeper. Much steeper. The grade is so demanding and so unrelenting that Barthes was correct when he said, "The Ventoux is a god of evil, to which sacrifices must be made. It never forgives weakness and extracts an unfair tribute of suffering."

At least I am occasionally distracted from the suffering by the old messages fans painted on the road for cyclists during a past race. I see messages to Mark Cavendish and others, along with a long stretch of obscene drawings that I cannot describe here but are as annoying as the gradient and the flies that keep buzzing my face.

I pass roughly 30 cyclists along the way. I shout "Bonjour!" and wave as I ride alongside the first ones, but as I get higher and the ride gets more tiring, my enthusiastic greetings lessen until they are merely a mumble.

Much of the road up Ventoux is surrounded by woods on both sides, but eventually I ride above the tree line to be greeted by the daunting sight of the white lunar landscape that is the mountain's summit. It is like the surface of Tatooine, only I do not have Luke Skywalker's landspeeder to power me to the top. But at least I am not hauling R2-D2 on my bike.

I see even more riders in this stretch, a few of whom look so old that I am absolutely mystified they can do this. It is both bewildering and encouraging, proof that cycling truly is great for one's health. Unless, of course, I crash descending at 50 miles an hour.

Clouds have accumulated, the temperature has dropped considerably and the wind has picked up as I cycle the final few kilometers. But the conditions aren't bad. And seeing the summit's tower, my energy is renewed. As photographers step out to take my photo and hand me business cards showing where I can purchase the images later, I smile broadly. I am excited. I am almost there.

And best of all, the flies have disappeared.

I pump harder and ride up the final rise, coming to the sign that marks the summit. I stop and lift the bike above my head in triumph. My time is 2 hours, 5 minutes, considerably slower than Iban Mayo's record of 55 minutes, 51 seconds, but faster than I had estimated. I buy a souvenir from the gift shop, snap a few photos and then pull on my sweater for the ride down, which is much faster -- I barely pedal at all -- and much cooler.

On the way down, I stop at the Tom Simpson memorial where the one-time world champion cyclist collapsed on his bike and died during Stage 13 of the 1967 Tour, just 1½ kilometers from the summit. Simpson had taken amphetamines that day and also stopped for a drink in Bedoin. Those were factors, as was the extreme heat, which I have seen reported from 95 to 130 degrees.

There are many water bottles and cycling caps scattered in tribute to Simpson, with other cyclists stopping for selfies. The memorial also has a plaque from Simpson's daughters with the inscription: "No mountain is too high."

Wise words. Although Ventoux comes close.