Due to heavy winter snowfall, this route is also well known for its landslides, which is evident by the hillside scarring. The road is pockmarked where rocks have come smashing down. Not surprisingly, our speed increases through these patches.
Like the hairline of an aging pro-turned-director-sportif, the tree line continues to recede. Two massive switchbacks encompass a wide valley of steep cliffs and fallen trees.
As the climb levels, I cheat a look at the altimeter on my wrist watch: 4800 feet. I have no clue how long we've been riding for, but to gain that much elevation and not notice it is impressive, not for our snail pace, but for the simple fact that the gradient allows us to maintain a friendly chat and still make progress.
At long last, we round a corner and are greeted with a chorus of snow-capped peaks that would make the most scenic postcards blush. Amidst lunar-like rock and exposed alpine winds, I am reminded of what Mount Ventoux must look like. One final kilometer and we're there.
Framing the view is our final destination, the visitor centre. As we roll through the parking lot, the cheshire grins we faced at the bottom are traded for looks of awe and amazement. "Yes, we just rode to the top", I proudly think to myself as a family of not-so-cyclists stare in unison.
Dismounting and taking in the assembly of hill and dale, we breathe in the mountain air. It's a feeling of exhilaration and accomplishment you can't put into words. As I crack a well-deserved Coke I wonder why more people don't ride and challenge themselves to squeeze more potential from their bodies.
Then again, looking down at my pink spandex kit, I realize we are indeed crazy and it's probably just the altitude talking.
What goes up must eventually come down, and down we did. Fast. Like a bat out of hell, you can hold 70 kilometers per hour for about 45 minutes. That's right: 45 minutes of descending.
If the view at the top isn't a good enough reason for you to climb, then the trip back down certainly is.