Conquering mountain passes is his great passion: TOUR author Dres Balmer has already conquered countless climbs in the Alps and Pyrenees by bike, most of them several times. In his essay, he explains his personal idea of cycling over mountain passes.
Passes separate landscapes, cultures, languages and countries. Pass roads aim to do the opposite, they connect. But travelling over mountain passes by bike is a pretty arduous undertaking. People who don't do this shake their heads and wonder why cyclists do it voluntarily. They do it simply because the pass is there, because it towers thousands of metres high in front of them, because the pass has a certain, resonant name, because it has 48 beautiful hairpin bends and is garnished with snow at the top like a cake with cream. You do it because on the other side it goes down again into another valley, another language, another country, where you want to find out what dreams are good for. That is something strong, simple, elemental, primal, and it probably has to do with longing.
Passports are cultural assets. They have to do with history, with stories, with beautiful and less beautiful ones. The unifying character of passes is often evoked, the crossing into the land where the lemons blossom is sung about. But when you think of the Stelvio Pass, for example, doubts arise: one of the most terrible battles of the First World War was fought on this former border pass. Tyroleans and Italians pestered each other there for three winters, with more than a hundred thousand men falling victim to the carnage in the end. The neutral Swiss sat in the bunker on the nearby Dreisprachenspitze and watched with binoculars as world history was made.
Fortunately, passes are peaceful these days. They wait for us to cycle up them. But we can't do anything against nature, against the landscape, not even cycling up a pass. Nature and the landscape are always stronger, we have to make them our friends. Let's embrace the incline, enter into a dialogue with it. Joy arises when we talk to the mountains, absorbing their moods with our legs, breath, heart, eyes and mind. Once you have a few kilometres under your belt, you can play with the pass road and never get into the so-called red zone. If your temples are throbbing, you take your strength back, because it's unpleasant to arrive at the top with a purple head.
At the start of the ascent, you are often overtaken by boisterous fellow cyclists. Some don't even say hello. That's annoying, and at first you think: "I'll show him", then you give in. It's wiser to let them go and stick to your own rhythm. You often meet them further up anyway, in the red zone, gasping for air, unresponsive. Sometimes things turn out differently: you greet each other, strike up a conversation, get together, play with the mountain together, take turns leading, encourage each other, share cycling tales. Before you know it, you're at the top. Proud and a little sad that it's already done. The pass is windy, the prices are exorbitant, the souvenirs kitschy. But none of that matters, and the coffee machine, bank and lottery are all the same. Because now the cosy bliss of cycling over the pass rises up inside you.
