Cycling the Penserjoch Near the Italian-Austrian Border
June 25, 1999

Distance: 96 miles/155 kilometers
Elevation: 10,552 feet/3,215 meters
Difficulty: 7.5/10
Scenery: 9/10;
Route: Bolzano-Sarentino-Vipiteno-Sankt Leonhard-Merano-Bolzano

Passes Covered:

Penserjoch (Passo di Pennes)--2,214 m
Jaufenpaß (Passo di Monte Giovo)--2,099 m

The last of the rides I did on my trip to Bolzano was an interesting variation on the theme of high-pass cycling. The route described a long, thin oval comprising two extremely long climbs and two correspondingly long descents, starting and finishing in Bolzano. The "out" portion of the route headed north near Brenner Pass on the Austrian-Italian border, while the "back" portion headed south through Merano and back into Bolzano.

Although I was a bit put off by OCD’s description of the climb to Pennes/Penserjoch ("the climbing [is] rarely hard") I was greatly interested by the route, as it was suggested by its appearance on my Michelin map. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a climb that was 67 kilometers long. If Passo Pennes were part of the Tour de France, I’m sure that it would rate an "hors categorie" status. The elevation difference between Bolzano and Passo di Pennes is 1,953meters (6,300 feet). By comparison, Galibier from St. Michel de Maurienne gains approximately 1,730 meters (not counting the downhill from Telegraphe). Needless to say, Passo di Pennes had the looks of a serious climb.

I left Bolzano through Via San Antonio early in the morning and headed north on the road to Sarentino. Right outside Bolzano stood a very formidable-looking castle, called, I believe, Castel Roncolo/Schloß Runkelstein. Unlike the ones I saw in my rides the last few days, this one was not on a high-cliff or camouflaged in a forest of green—it was right by the roadside, “dumb like a gold medallion to the thumb" (I think that was Archibald MacLeish’s). A few meters beyond Castel Roncolo, and perched on a higher hill, was Castel Novale.

(Above: Castel Roncolo on the Via San Antonio)

The climb to Passo Pennes could be deceptive, especially if one were to look only at the elevation and the distance required to attain it—on paper, 1,950 meters spread over 67 kilometers suggests mild slopes. But 700 of this 1,950 meters are gained in the first third of the course as the road climbed out of the Adige valley. True, the middle miles are flattish, but this stretch is long and strength-sapping. The six finishing kilometers are the most difficult.

Like most other roads out of Bolzano, the first 5 or so miles of the S508 were steeply uphill as it climbed out of the Adige valley and up the Sarentino plateau. Coming from Bolzano, starting early is a must as there are quite a few nasty tunnels a few miles out of Bolzano. I lost count, but there were at least a dozen (yes, a dozen as in 12)—some lit, some unlit; some straight, others…. The lit ones were the longer ones further up the road. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that the unlit ones are extremely dangerous to a cyclist—for this reason I would strongly urge anyone considering riding this road to carry a bike light and, preferably, reflective clothing. Though I left quite early, there was enough big-bus traffic to make the experience nerve-wracking. One motorist, bless his considerate heart, "paced" and protected me through a particularly long, dark and roughly paved tunnel. Good Samaritans are not extinct after all.

(Above: Looking south on the S508 a few miles from Bolzano)

Like most mountain-and-gorge scenery, the area between Bolzano and Sarentino was one of rugged beauty. I pulled over a couple of times to peer at the deep chasm below, whereupon my fear of heights took over and sent shivers through my body.

There were sustained 10% climbs, particularly just before the town of Ponticino, 20 kilometers from Bolzano. After Ponticino, the road levelled off, though it continued to gain elevation, albeit almost imperceptibly. At this point the S508 temporarily diverged from the Talvera river, and entered a high valley of pastoral grandeur.

It was in Sarentino that I had noticed a guy on a mountain bike determined to overtake me. I had met him earlier as he was going the other direction; he must have turned around in Sarentino. Anyway, I don’t much enjoy these impromptu, my-bike-can-beat-up-your-bike challenges especially when I still have a long way to go and need to pace myself. This guy, whose name was probably Jurgen Metzer, kept powering along, eventually overtaking me as we reached a slightly downhill section just past Campolasta. I wish I could say that he only managed that feat because I was too engrossed by the beautiful surroundings, and that my savage beast was much too soothed by the mellifluous rushing of the Talvera to rise to the challenge.

(Above: The level stretch near Sarentino)

That was my cue for the obligatory wry observation on human behavior. Why is it that men cannot stand being second best? I have noticed this trait in almost all sporting (and non-sporting, for that matter) activities in which I indulge. In organized foot races, for example, I would notice that someone would blow by me like a bat out of hell. Five minutes later, he’s still ahead of me, but no longer gaining. The poor sap would expend precious energy overtaking me. His ego assuaged, he would settle into a more manageable pace—10 feet in front of me, neither gaining nor losing.

So it was with Jurgen. He couldn’t actually hold his "lead" after the road started undulating. Of course he was "oblivious" to my presence—and would probably act "surprised" if I came up to him and said "hello."

Jurgen: "Uh, hello. Sorry I haven’t noticed you before although you’re the only other human being within sight in the past 10 kilometers."

Me: "And you just happened to overtake me?"

Jurgen: "Oh, that! Uh..he..he..I hadn’t (gasp, wheeze, pant) really noticed."

Jurgen paid the price for his machismo—I slowly pulled away and I continued plodding my way towards Passo Pennes.

(Above: Rounding Pennes and approaching Asten. The man walking in the road
was carrying a sickle which I thought was a macabre omen.)

It had been approximately 18 kilometers since the last noteworthy uphill. I glanced at my map as I reached the town of Riobianco/Weißenbach: I had less than 10 kilometers to go to the summit of Passo di Pennes and had barely gained any elevation from Sarentino. The relative lack of elevation gain was an ominous trend—I was running out of distance over which to spread the necessary altitude.

I rounded a bend and arrived in Asten (1,512m), a small village with a pretty church, built upon gently rounded slopes that tumbled down the Talvera. Ahead of me was an uphill road that bent left: it had "steep" written all over it. Here, the road became rough and washed out in places, perhaps due to spring runoff.

(Above: Asten)

Asten marked the final—and most difficult—phase of the climb to Penserjoch. I was to gain 700 meters in less than 10 kilometers. The finishing climb started out with a steep climb out of the village that crested on the lip of a deep gorge spanned by a narrow steel bridge. Ahead of me were spectacular views of Pico di Croce and of other mountains to the northeast. And I had them all to myself—the bridge, the view, the faint sound of the rushing river far below, the mid-morning glare of the sun, the shimmering fields of snow that were worn like patches on the shoulders of otherwise barren peaks—these, and the exhilarating sense of freedom and accomplishment that crown every mountainous ride, were there for the taking. (Cue for a holier-than-thou musing…) No worries about the dawning of the age of e-commerce, or of political maneuverings to get ahead in the office. I got off my bike and sat on a rock just to look around and to listen.

(Above: Looking north--the steep finishing climb begins)

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