This are article was first published in Issue 138 of Rouleur

Col de Marmare, Pyrenees

Peter Cossins, author of A Cyclist’s Guide to the Pyrenees (Great Northern Books)

Over the nine years that I’ve lived in the Ariège in the French Pyrenees, I’ve constantly honed my taste in climbs. Initially, I was in list-ticking mode, working my way through the names that I knew from covering the Tour de France and other races – Plateau de Beille, Port de Pailhères, Col de la Core, Col de Péguère... Over time, my focus has gradually changed, notoriety edged aside by characteristics that I’ve come to regard as quintessentially Pyrenean.

I love a view but also forest routes, smaller roads than those that have been significantly engineered like the Tourmalet and Peyresourde. I prefer an inconsistent gradient to a regular one and expect (but don’t appreciate!) a downhill stretch at some point. Above all, I love a bend, partly because I don’t like seeing too far ahead on a climb, but also because they tend to herald an easing in the angle of attack and bring a change in perspective. Finally, the road surface should be gravelly rough and not snooker-table smooth.

One other factor also comes into play – age. When we first arrived in the Pyrenees, I was quickly won over by the Pailhères, one of the few 2,000-metre passes on the French side of the chain. Its northern flank from the upper Aude valley is magnificent, the views long both down the climb and across the mountains running away to the east. It is, I’ve been told, one of Tour boss Christian Prudhomme’s favourites. If so, it should be in the race more often. For the 61-year-old me, though, it’s become a savage test, its final hairpins heaped beautifully one on the next, but so steep that I now spend the whole climb dreading them.

I now feel more at home on the Col de Marmare. Like many Pyrenean passes, there are several ways to tackle it and my preference is to approach it via the Corniche road that runs high on the eastern side of the Haute-Ariège valley, looking across to Beille and Ax 3 Domaines, before the left turn where the road kicks higher towards the Marmare. Quite soon, you reach a stunning panorama point, its sign detailing the geological formation of the area 20,000 years ago, when the valley was filled with an ice sheet a kilometre thick.

Above the panorama’s sweeping bend, the road burrows into thick forest that’s a haven on hot summer days and eerily quiet in winter. The gradient changes too, the steeper sections now behind you, the road rising at four, five and six per cent. Climbing it, I’m halfway down the rear sprocket. On the very good days, I can switch into the big ring. I’m moving quickly, feeling a thrill that doesn’t come so often nowadays, of speed, of power, of youth. It’s transformative. I’m flying rather than labouring.

Cresting the pass, the Col de Marmare, like many Pyrenean ascents this side of the Franco-Spanish border, has one final ace to play – the next climb is never far away. Turn left towards the Plateau de Sault and you can seek out the hidden Col du Pradel, to the right is the Col de Chioula and, soon after, the Port de Pailhères. I usually turn back, though, to enjoy a descent that’s almost traffic-free and not frighteningly quick and for a second look at that panorama and the Corniche road.

Coll de Sa Batalla, Mallorca

Rebecca Charlton, television presenter and journalist

Beyond childhood parties I’d never really been one to drink Coke, the sugar rush always gave me a bit of a headache and so it wasn’t until my first cycling trip to Mallorca in my mid-20s that I discovered the pure joy of sipping an ice cold can at the summit of a long, hot climb and it became a ritual.

The other habit I wasn’t accustomed to was climbing for distances in excess of 10 kilometres in one go. Having grown up as a track rider, I didn’t have much desire for inclines beyond scaling the banking every lap, but on the long switchback climbs of Mallorca, I discovered my rhythm.

It also wasn’t until it came to writing this, and choosing the idyllic road that immediately occupied my mind, that I realised I needed to look up its name because I’d only ever referred to it as the Repsol Garage climb. It’s a familiar Strava segment for many riders and the much easier way to challenge yourself to a PB than its much bigger and more famous sister, Sa Calobra.

Basing myself in the cyclists’ paradise of Port de Pollença I would ride a loop, via Caimari, up to the garage, which now I have checked, I can confidently call the summit of the Coll de Sa Batalla, sink a Coke and then perhaps even follow up with a light lunch at the Lluc monastery cafe, the lesser-known quiet spot, before riding back.

On one of the most memorable occasions that I reached the garage, I had been passed within a couple of kilometres of the top by BBC presenters Jeremy Clarkson, James May and Richard Hammond. It may not have been in that exact order, it’s testing my memory now, but they were filming the Mallorca Challenge episode of Top Gear, taking on a time trial rally around the Balearic Island. When we all stopped at the petrol station I recall Clarkson asking my friends and me why on earth we would cycle up, exclaiming, “You could have just driven up, you know?” In my exhaustion I don’t think I had formulated a response before they shot off down the other side but the truth is, it feels like magic. Turn after turn, pure focus on each pedal stroke, absorbing the stunning vistas surrounding you, knowing there’s a sweeping descent and respite part way up but it’s short-lived before you’re back in position for the approach to the summit, with fresh enough legs to really push it.

I once attempted to better my previous time, recruiting a method which could be described either as resourceful or completely cheating, hopping between groups of riders who were able to set a much quicker pace than myself, sitting on until I cracked then picking up the next group to pass me and gluing myself to the wheels. I must add, I maintained my cycling etiquette by communicating my intentions, although that said, I was met by an array of languages and so my attempts to convey my plan in the broken remnants of my GCSE Spanish, all the while gasping for breath, may have been fruitless.

Mallorca, and this area in particular, holds a very special place in my heart. It revealed a world of climbing where I finally felt like I belonged, a gateway climb perhaps. The sun worshipper in me felt very at home scaling the smooth, warm tarmac, promising what felt like free miles compared with the harsher surfaces of Surrey. As long as I am able to, I will return to this beautiful part of the world for all the warm memories it evokes, in every sense.

Kirkstone Pass, Lake District

Amy Sedghi, cycling journalist

Exploring the rugged, expansive landscape of the Lake District on two wheels means coming across a climb sooner rather than later. The annual Fred Whitton sportive packs in some of the most epic and fearsome, among them the Hardknott and Wrynose passes. A favourite of mine – one that often gets swiftly forgotten being the first of eight significant climbs on the route – is Kirkstone Pass. Riding through the picturesque village of Ambleside and towards Troutbeck, after a short downhill, the main Kirkstone road then steadily climbs, winding past stone cottages and flower-filled gardens as views of the fells and lakes glimmer through the morning mists. As well as giving your legs a taste of the climbing on the day’s menu, a special mood descends: you’re doing it and on your way to completing one of the first big climbs of the route. It’s a rude wake-up call for your body at 6am but the unspoiled beauty of the landscapes is a memory that will last longer than the burn.

At approximately 5.5 kilometres in length, with an average gradient of 5.5 per cent, Kirkstone Pass isn’t the steepest or most challenging of the Fred Whitton climbs, but as your legs turn and you pass by other riders – or most likely, are passed by those chasing a fast time – there’s a unity in pushing up, up, up this steady climb. The maximum gradient is 16 per cent - a mere tickle compared to what’s coming up later in the day. But reaching an altitude of 454 metres, it still feels like ascending into the sky. At the summit, a white stone building looms: the centuries-old Kirkstone Pass Inn, the highest pub in Cumbria. Along the road are dotted friends, family and locals out to cheer the riders taking on the Fred Whitton Challenge. To the left, a glance down the pass reveals the snaking roads of the Struggle, a far more imposing climb used during the Tour of Britain in 2016. When I first cycled up Kirkstone Pass in 2018, the scrawls decorating the tarmac for the professional riders were still visible, invoking scenes of excitable fans, cowbells ringing and cheers echoing as the peloton’s brows sweated racing up the climb.

I should have prefaced this piece by saying I’m not a climber, and yet I have completed the Fred Whitton cycling challenge in the Lake District three times. For me, the joy of a climb comes from the views that make the burning in the legs worth it and the lure of a sweeping descent. Kirkstone Pass doesn’t disappoint; a long and steep downhill awaits, imprinting the dramatic yet serene surroundings of the Lakes. Sheep lazily munch grass as you whizz by, the road taking you further into the bewitching landscape. It’s taken something out of you to pound the pedals up the climb but it’s left you with so much more.

Mont Ventoux, Provence

Jeremy Whittle, cycling journalist & author of Ventoux: Sacrifice and Suffering on the Giant of Provence

“The Ventoux is a riddle, an elusive summit, whose obsessive power and whiff of tragedy addle the mind.” — Philippe Brunel.

At night, because nobody lives there and there are no cosy bars, chalets or restaurants huddled on the slopes, Mont Ventoux is shrouded in complete darkness.

From a distance, there is just the lonely, muted red blink of the warning beacon on the top of the meteorological station.

Occasionally, sweeping headlights can be seen, hurrying downhill through the steep windswept bends below the summit, in the aftermath of a coucher-desoleil that turned the white rock burnt orange as the burning sun sank into the Rhone.

Then, the giant mountain is dark again, an ancient hulk of stone and mystery under a clear night sky. The wolves, wild cats, deer and wild boar have the vast and oppressive forest to themselves, the hidden cliffs and dark combes once again their terrain.

The wolves are drawn to the strange mountain, just as strongly as we are, because it stirs some forgotten primeval connection. The 200,000-year-old bones of Neanderthals have been found there, the fossilised remains of carnivorous bears.

The mountain is both familiar, the summit reminding us of childhood spaceships, but also, as you get further from the road, alien and daunting. That is why the Ventoux, the final giant ripple in a rumpled geological quilt, is not a place to linger after dark.

Despite that, it is now a bucket-list climb, a playground for on and off-road cyclists, for hikers and mountain bikers, and still a beacon to passing aircraft. But there is more to the Ventoux than cycling.

Because of its location, the Rhône over one shoulder, the winding roads of the Drôme and Vaucluse over the other, the mountain has a cultural significance far greater than the Alpe, the Tourmalet, the Angliru.

The Ventoux’s cultural history brings together Samuel Beckett and the French Resistance, Charly Gaul and Alastair Campbell, Eden Hazard and Alain Prost. The villages around the mountain have long been home to artists, writers, political figures and athletes.

I lived at the foot of the Ventoux for 20 years. The weather was a constant factor. Crushing heat in July and August, ice and snow in February and March. Downpours in the Rhône valley became whiteouts at the summit, a warm breeze through the olive groves became a howling gale near the top.

My favourite seasons for spending time on the mountain were spring and autumn, when the sun is warm, rather than hot, and the roads are quieter. In spring, there is still snow at the roadside, while in autumn the leaves are a blaze of red and gold.

I rode up it and I rode around it and I learned that the Ventoux is always eerie. Pause at Chalet Reynard, Chalet Liotard, or at the summit for too long, and the suffocating heat of the climb is quickly replaced by a chastening chill from the exposed slopes.

The unsettling nature of the Ventoux is captured when bike races visit the mountain. The riders are cheered up the steep grades, then pedal leadenly across the vast calcified desert to that inimitable rocket ship at the summit.

Soon afterwards, they are all gone, wiped down and whisked away by their buses to their hotels. The pop-up podium is packed away, the wind whips up once again, the camper vans descend and dusk settles on the mountain.

And, as night falls, the wolves emerge stealthily, from the dark woods.

Passo della Crocetta, Liguria

Maria David, cycling journalist

One of my favourite climbs is Passo della Crocetta – the one in Liguria, rather than its other namesakes in Italy.

There are dozens of climbs across ‘the Boot’ that I could label with a panoply of superlatives for their beauty, how spectacular they are, and their quad-busting pedigree. But I have chosen Passo della Crocetta as it’s a hidden surprise, nestled in the coastal hinterland, away from the hugely popular cliffs in Cinque Terre.

I rode Crocetta for the first time at the end of a day-long odyssey from Milan to Rapallo. Having sped down the canal path to Pavia and over the hillside vineyards of Oltrepò Pavese and the peaks of the Ligurian Apennines, I reached Cicagna. From here, it would be a small climb to Rapallo – similar to the Cipressa, near Sanremo. I was wrong. Crocetta was steeper and longer. As I began the climb at Pian dei Manzi, with fatigue setting in, this was not the right time to be wrong.

The climb started with a one-mile eight per cent ramp, passing through mini settlements of stuccoed pink and apricot-coloured houses with balconies looking out onto surrounding verdant hills. The road was practically empty on this Saturday evening as folk were enjoying aperitivi by the river. But I pressed on, focused on reaching the coast. The road twisted and turned in a rapid succession and became steeper and steeper. I willed myself along, but it was disconcerting and disorientating to be going up and up when I was meant to be nearing the sea.

Although this midsummer evening was still bright, my road was dark in places under the tree cover. I had to just keep pedalling. The road surface was smooth, I was surrounded by orchards, olive groves and fragrances from pine trees, plus I was being treated to stunning views of the Ligurian hills. I convinced myself that the landscape was my friend and I would reach Rapallo before dark.

A brief respite in the switchbacks and a lessening of the gradient lured me into a false sense of security, only to be challenged again up to Coreglia Ligure, a deserted hamlet with a small church. My heart sank. I should have stayed in Cicagna with the locals.

Then, from out of nowhere popped a dog – a random pooch in the middle of the road. Was I hallucinating? No. My transient canine friend walked up to me as if to say hello, and bid me safe journey! Somehow, that brief encounter soothed and motivated me, as I tackled the remaining couple of miles on a 10 per cent slope. Reaching the summit was such a relief I almost cried.

My sunset descent into Rapallo was exhilarating as the road gyrated left and right, doubling back on itself like spaghetti. Care was required, particularly as I only had commuter lights.

Once on the outskirts of Rapallo, near the cable car, the Ligurian sea in its full glory came into view, like the big reveal of a masterpiece.

Passo della Crocetta is by no means iconic, but I appreciated that raw moment of testing your resolve and being rewarded by something more beautiful than you had anticipated.