Mont Ventoux stands tall not only in the Provençal countryside but also in the legend of the Tour de France. “The Giant of Provence” taunts you from the start and towers alone above the region.

In 1967 it claimed the life of the British cyclist Tommy Simpson, the first man to die during the race.

I’d always been fascinated by the Tour, by the soap opera behind the scenes, by the story of Simpson. I ride my bike every day and I always wondered how hard the race really was.

I was about to find out. The challenge was to finish L’Étape du Tour — a 170km race for amateurs that recreates one of toughest stages of the Tour, from Montélimar to the summit of Mont Ventoux, at an altitude of 1,910m. Today the professional teams get their shot at it on the road to the finish of the Tour in Paris tomorrow.

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So it was on Monday that I found myself waiting, herded into pens with the other riders as the sun began to warm the air, one of 9,500 cyclists going through their private rituals to calm nerves — pinching tyres, checking brakes, then doing it all again.

“Trois, deux, un. Allez, allez!” the announcer screamed, and the race was under way; though we stood still, waiting, waiting. Finally there was a salvo of clicks as riders locked their shoes into their pedals, and we were moving.

Nearly 22 minutes later I crossed under the start banner to the cheers of the hundreds of Montélimar residents who, like most French people, have a deep love of cycling.

The early pace was fast, but I tucked into a group that numbered about 50 riders and we quickly made up places lost during the wait to cross the line. The road flowed out of Montélimar, past fields full of sunflowers. The first climb came and went.

The landscape was like a Van Gogh painting, white clouds against azure skies, ochre buildings nestled within golden fields. Riding in a group I was sucked along at their pace, hardly making an effort until a flick of the elbow from the French rider at the front signalled my turn to lead our little peloton.

The miles sped by. Quickly, almost too quickly, I felt, we reached Nyons. From there the road pointed skyward and we rode up the Col d’Ey, at 718m. I was feeling strong, taking my turn at the front of the group without being asked and then slipping back down the line before the whole cycle started again.

From the top of the Col d’Ey the descent was furious. The road flowed beneath my wheels so quickly that the broken white lines along the centre of it blurred into one.

Arriving at the feed station 2km later the race broke into a fight for water, food and fruit. Thousands of riders clambered, swearing, pushing, dragging bikes, over each other to get to the water point. Then, replenished, we were off again, hardly a breath taken.

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