The Lac Mont Cenis (Italian: Moncenisio) is a massive mountain range 3,612 m above sea level. The reservoir lake and the mountain pass itself are situated at an altitude of 2,081 m, connecting French Savoy with Italian Susa. Up until the 19th century, Mont Cenis was one of the most heavily used alpine passes in history. We decided it was high time to conquer it on road bikes.
Back in the Middle Ages, pilgrims crossed Moncenisio and the Susa Valley on their way to Turin along the historic trail known as the Via Francigena, with their ultimate destination being Rome. “Please, just let this be over,” we prayed, much like those ancient travelers.
In 1414, Niccolò III d’Este, the Marquis of Ferrara, traveled this exact route upon returning from Paris after meeting Charles VI. He famously described the Col du Mont Cenis as “a good climb, but a terrible descent.” After our ride, we slightly adjusted his legendary quote: “A terrible climb, pure heaven at the top, and an even worse descent.”
This is the very pass Napoleon marched his power-hungry troops through, and it is widely believed to be the exact crossing Hannibal used to march his war elephants over the Alps. And we figured—if a bunch of elephants could manage it, why on earth shouldn’t we?
🟡 Tour de France Showcase: The Gateway of Legends
Passo del Moncenisio (Col du Mont Cenis) is historically one of the most vital gateways between France and Italy. While it currently sits slightly in the shadow of the neighboring, ultra-famous Galibier, both the Tour de France and the Giro d’Italia have carved legendary chapters into these slopes.
- Tour de France Appearances: The Grande Boucle has crossed this rugged pass 5 times in total (1949, 1956, 1961, 1992, and 1999).
- Giro d’Italia History: The Giro has climbed the Italian side of Mont Cenis multiple times. The most heroic modern edition took place in 2013, when riders battled a near-apocalyptic snowstorm on the pass before Giovanni Visconti claimed a historic stage victory nearby.
- The Ultimate Tour Anecdote (The Battle of Giants): In 1949, Mont Cenis witnessed one of the greatest rivalries in sports history. Italian icons Gino Bartali and Fausto Coppi rode shoulder-to-shoulder up the brutal gravel slopes. Coppi crossed the summit first, secured the stage win in Briançon, and laid the foundation for his very first Tour de France title.
The Road Built by an Emperor
The paved road we are climbing out of Susa was constructed back in 1806 on the orders of Napoleon. Alongside the mountain route, engineers later built the monumental Fréjus Rail Tunnel. This 27.4 km railway tunnel connecting Chambéry and Modane with Bardonecchia and Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne (the town sitting right under the Galibier) diverted heavy commercial traffic deep underground, transforming the scenic mountain pass into an absolute cycling paradise.
From Bardonecchia to Susa
We roll out of our campsite early in the morning. It’s July, but the alpine morning air is crisp enough to make us grateful for arm warmers. The first segment of our day is a massive, high-speed 1,000 m drop from an altitude of 1,250 m down to Susa at 500 m above sea.
By the time we reach Susa, our joints feel as stiff as a piece of dry-cured ham. The valleys are brutally cold in the early hours. Berty, completely oblivious to the route and the upcoming elevation profile, grins and says: “Man, I wish every day of cycling could start like this.” He has absolutely no idea what I know. Ahead of us lies an 80 km loop with a soul-crushing total elevation gain of (gasp!) 2,934 meters.
According to advice from local veterans, I know that once we spot the massive dam wall and the power station, the worst is behind us—just one final set of hairpins and we are at the top.
But Susa represents the absolute rock bottom of today’s ride. As Berty gets his game face on, I find myself deeply contemplating the “Cappuccino Strategy”—namely, parking my bike at a local Italian terrace, ordering a rich espresso, a giant gelato, and completely abandoning the climb altogether.
Up the Mont Cenis
Our legs are put to the test in the very first corners. It’s not that we can’t handle it—it’s a steady 9% gradient—but it is relentless. Constant. It doesn’t give you a single meter of flat road to recover. This is a very different kind of poetry compared to the effortless descent from Bardonecchia.
As a decent mathematician, I start running the numbers in my head: 2,093 – 530 = 1,563 meters of pure climbing. And that’s assuming no intermediate drops. Plus, we still have to climb all the way back up to Bardonecchia at the end of the day. It’s a pure mental game, and I am incredibly glad I don’t have to suffer through it alone.
After the freezing descent, my legs feel incredibly heavy. I constantly want to stop and catch my breath. If I don’t initiate a break, Berty is right there to ruin my morale. Eventually, we realize it’s much better to stop riding on each other’s wheels. We give each other some breathing room and ride solo. For the rider in front, it’s always motivating to maintain the lead; for the rider behind… well, not so much.
I adopt a strict strategy: stop and breathe every 300 meters of vertical gain. Five stops must do the trick. The climb reward us with endless, sweeping panoramas of the surrounding massifs and the deep valley below. The historic stone houses (Case) along the route silently whisper tales of the pass’s bustling past.
The first major blow to our morale lands after the first vertical kilometer. We start using weather as an excuse. Berty cracks first: “Hey, looks like rain. Maybe we should turn back?”
“Let’s push a bit higher and see,” I counter.
Another 300 meters up, and the roles reverse. “Riding straight into those thick storm clouds is highly irresponsible. Shall we head back down?” I ask.
But Berty has found his manly pride: “No way, man. We’ve come this far, we’re finishing this.”
The Tale of Two Power Stations
And so, we keep egging each other on until we finally spot the power station. Success! We’ve made it.
But a tiny voice in my head tells me something is off. The power station looks incredibly small, and my GPS device barely reads 1,700 m of altitude. A massive betrayal. Nobody warned us about this: it’s a minor Italian hydro station, not the main dam at the top.
As we get closer, we look up and see the actual mountain wall looming ahead of us. It’s a disaster. There is no other word for it.
When I first started mountain cycling, sights like this would completely break me. Today, experience has taught me a valuable lesson: where there is a sheer wall, there are hairpins. And where there are hairpins (unless you are climbing the absolute hell of Zoncolan or Kitzbüheler Horn), there is a rhythm. You can always catch your breath in the apex of a switchback.
Lac Mont Cenis
I truly wish everyone could experience the exact moment you crest that final ridge. Seeing Mont Cenis in person is absolutely spectacular. The sight alone injects so much energy into your system that you effortlessly sail through the final 150 meters of climbing to the top of the pass.
Up here, you’ll find a charming little church and a very local tavern with an outdoor terrace. And sitting on that terrace are our friends Igor and Tomáš, happily devouring a giant salad.
I roll up to the terrace with immense pride, jump off my bike, hoist it high above my head, and scream with pure joy: “Mont Ceníííís!”
Everyone on the terrace bursts out laughing. “Is there something funny?” I look around, sit down next to Tomy and Igor, and order a cold beer and a salad.
Just then, Berty arrives. He dismounts, hoists his bike above his head, and bellows: “Mont Ceníííís!”
A few minutes later, another lone cyclist arrives. We had passed him near the reservoir wall earlier; he was suffering from brutal calf cramps and looked completely spent. Now, he looks reborn. He lifts his bike above his head and yells: “Mont Ceníííís!”
I burst out laughing with the rest of the terrace. I am finally starting to understand the local tradition.
A High-Speed Escape
An incoming alpine storm kicks us off the mountain much faster than we anticipated. We haven’t even finished our food when the first heavy raindrops start to fall.
Descending 1.5 vertical kilometers on a carbon road bike in a torrential downpour is a nightmare nobody wants to experience—especially when you still have to climb another 900 m back up to Bardonecchia to reach a hot shower and a warm bed. I don’t even have time to worry about whether a carbon frame acts as a lightning rod.
We spring onto our bikes and fly down. Photos? Forget about it; just look at the black clouds chasing us. On the descent, we hit speeds of 50 km/h in the pouring rain. It gets heavier by the minute, but it’s still better than getting struck by lightning. We finally pull over in Susa, absolutely drenched to the bone.
But another legendary climb is officially in the books. If Hannibal managed it with a herd of elephants, there was no way on earth we were going to give up.
(Note: The pass is not open year-round. You can only experience this alpine wonderland during the summer months, typically from May 15th to October 31st).
