It stands as one of the single toughest alpine cycling ascents on the European continent. Mt. Zoncolan—the undisputed gateway to road biking hell. The Giro d’Italia races here regularly, and it will test every single fiber of your being.
If you unclip your shoes in the small village of Ovaro, you still have a fleeting chance to change your mind. While you won’t find a single flat square meter of asphalt on the local town square, there is a lovely pizzeria and an espresso bar with a nice outdoor terrace. A highly comforting thought. However, a completely different reality was waiting for us.
Mt. Zoncolan: the gateway to hell
The climb stretches across 10.5 km with a devastating overall average gradient of 11%. The opening kilometers aren’t overly punishing, but even there, the road spikes to a staggering 22% incline on several hundred-meter stretches. That part is still manageable. But right after a brief, deceptively flat recovery zone, the true executioner arrives. At kilometer three, the hardest section of the mountain begins: a 6 km stretch that averages well over 15%. If you can survive this particular segment, you can survive anything. The moment you spot the stone entrances to the tunnels, you know you’ve won. At that point, the seemingly laughable 12% gradient for the remainder of the climb won’t even faze you.
Along with the Mortirolo Pass near Bormio and the Kitzbüheler Horn in Austria, this is easily one of the steepest and most feared climbs in Grand Tour history. The entry gate to the mountain lets you know exactly what you’re dealing with.
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The Terrible Emperor of the Carnic Alps
Monte Zoncolan (1,750 m), fiercely nicknamed Il Mostro (The Monster) or The Kaiser, is widely considered the most brutal and unforgiving climb ever featured in modern European Grand Tour racing. Making its debut in 2003 (and introduces from its most terrifying side from Ovaro in 2007), it instantly became a mythic arena of suffering.
The Ovaro Machine Overhaul (2007): When the pro peloton first faced the Ovaro side, team mechanics faced an unprecedented panic. To prevent world-class riders from grinding to a dead halt on the 22% ramps, they had to modify purebred road racing specs with compact chainsets and mountain bike cassettes—ratios previously unheard of in pro road racing (such as a 34×32 setup).
Postcards from Purgatory: Two-time Mt. Zoncolan stage winner Gilberto Simoni described the mountain with chilling precision: „It’s pure, unadulterated torture. On this hill, you cannot attack, you cannot accelerate your pace. The only thing you can do is engage in a grueling, hour-long fistfight with your own body just to keep from falling off the bike.“ Francesco Casagrande was even more brief: „Mt. Zoncolan is a slow, agonizing death.“
The Illusion of Choice
La Porta per l’Inferno. The Gateway to Hell.
It always starts with warnings. First, you see your cycling buddies wearing casual t-shirts decorated with a grim reaper motif, the bold word Zoncolan, and the chilling number 22 stamped underneath. You listen to endless chatter about steep walls that are practically unrideable, where even the seasoned pros of the Giro d’Italia crack, dismount their carbon machines, and choose to push their bikes on foot instead.
Then, your rational brain chimes in: This is complete nonsense. Why does anyone choose to destroy themselves like this? What are they trying to prove up here? It’s completely irresponsible, utterly pointless, and people actually pay money out of their own pockets for this privilege… I mean, Turkey, Egypt, Greece—there are so many beautiful all-inclusive resorts out there. Yet, a bunch of cycling lunatics choose to ruin their knees and completely blow up their engines for absolutely no logical reason…
“We can do this, Peťo! We’re going to rip this hill apart,” Ignác suddenly blurts out, and just like that, the debate was settled. We find ourselves standing in Ovaro, carefully unloading our road bikes from the rack and changing into our cycling kits.
We roll out with extreme caution. I surge ahead right from the start, pretending I just need a bit of a headstart to warm up my muscles. In reality, my sole objective is to build even a tiny, negligible gap over the guys. As I pass the final village sign, we officially step straight into hell. Fortunately, we are riding completely outside of the Giro schedule and the tourist season—and the sky is heavily bruising with incoming rain.
We are the only souls on the mountain. Honestly, that’s a massive relief. The fewer people there are to witness the exact moment I throw in the towel and turn back down, the fewer people there will be to laugh at me.
During the very first kilometer, I find myself asking: “What is everyone making such a massive fuss about on the Mt. Zoncolan?” It feels fine. My 34×29 gear ratio is locking things down nicely. Second kilometer—alright, things have tilted up significantly. Third kilometer… “Oh, holy crap, what on earth is this?”
Pushing the Absolute Limits of Physics
At one of the sharp switchbacks, I make a fatal mistake: I unclip and get off my bike to stare in absolute disbelief at the vertical wall of asphalt rising ahead. I should never have done that. The road is so impossibly steep that I am physically unable to clip my shoe back into the pedal while trying to launch upward. I am forced to turn around, coast back down into the apex of the turn, click my shoe in, and attack the wall with a rolling start.
I slowly hammer my way upward. My altimeter calculates a seemingly “merciful” 17% gradient at this spot. My ears are throbbing with my own heartbeat, and my stomach feels genuinely sick from the sheer exertion. “Just quit now while you still have some dignity left,” a dark, persistent thought beats inside my skull.
I am incredibly glad I’m not suffering alone. Your ego refuses to let you quit when your buddies are nearby, and it drags you up the slope. You feel every single gram of excess body weight—and trust me, I have plenty. The primary qualification for a true mountain climber is a total body mass of around 50 kg. Gravity simply does not care about your feelings up here.
After two kilometers of intense suffering, you manage to establish a loose rhythm. If you can even call it a rhythm—your cadence is so painstakingly slow that you are constantly on the verge of losing balance and tipping over. And then, the true hammer falls. 22%, then a brief 17% rest bite, and then right back into 22%, followed by another 22%. Your heart rate is actively assaulting your vital life functions, and your entire biology screams at you to stop. This feels humanly impossible.
The Mental Boxing Match
“You idiot, you absolute idiot…” a voice inside my head is screaming insults at me. “Why did you need to do this? What did you think was going to happen?”
I vividly remember when Noro tried to explain to me what climbing Mt. Zoncolan actually feels like. “Load a 20-kilo barbell onto your shoulders and start doing steady, continuous squats. Keep going for an hour, maybe an hour and a half. If you can survive that, you’ve ridden the Zoncolan,” he stated back then. He wasn’t far from the truth.
Every single kilometer of the Zoncolan is marked by a memorial plaque dedicated to a cycling hero. I grind past one featuring a photograph of a historic rider whose tongue is lolling out of his mouth like a tie, with a half-meter trail of drool hanging down. I can’t recall his name anymore, but I remember that exact feeling perfectly.
Salvation in the Dark
The holy tunnels. The moment your front wheel enters those dark concrete passages, an immense wave of relief washes over you. You know the worst of the nightmare is behind you. The sight of the tunnels injects a sudden burst of adrenaline into your legs for the final two kilometers.
And just like that, you are at the summit. Was it worth it?
Monte Zoncolan isn’t exceptionally high in terms of raw altitude, but it is deeply demonic and utterly intoxicating. The feeling you experience at the top is incredibly difficult to put into words.
I roll across the finish line dead last. Instant euphoria, cheering, wild celebrations, high-fives, and a massive rush of endorphins pulsing through your veins. You are absolutely thrilled. Yes! The mighty scalp of the Zoncolan is officially tucked away in the trophy drawer. Dozens of photos are taken. It was worth every single ounce of suffering.
But let’s be honest—preferably never again.
Deep down, I know that feeling will pass. It passed after our first successful ascents of the Stelvio, the Gavia, the Mortirolo, and all the other magnificent giants of the Alps. This brutal struggle is our exact definition of paradise—not lounging on a resort sunbed next to an all-inclusive buffet. Although, right now, I would gladly devour an entire buffet table without blinking.
