Sant’Antonio Abbandonato

What if  I told you this is the nasty climb you will ever ride?

You can sense it from the name alone: Sant’Antonio Abbandonato — “abbandonato,” meaning remote, isolated, almost forgotten. It’s the kind of name that already hints at effort, solitude, and a bit of madness. And the climb? It lives up to every expectation.

The ascent stretches for 6.3 relentless kilometers, with an average gradient above 10%, but averages tell only part of the story. This is one of those climbs where the gradient rarely settles, where the notion of “recovery” is more myth than reality. The road is a thin strip of tarmac clinging to the mountain, barely wide enough for a car and certainly not designed with cyclists in mind. It twists and turns without rhythm, hiding its steepest ramps behind each bend like a mischievous challenge.

From the very first pedal stroke the climb demands respect. The gradient bites immediately, forcing you into the small gears far sooner than you’d like. Your breathing syncs with the crunch of the tires on the uneven surface, and the forest closes in as if to amplify the sense of isolation. You’re alone with the mountain, and that’s part of the charm: there are no crowds, no cafés, no alpine villages — just you, the slope, and that faint hum in your legs reminding you that you’ve chosen something special.

As you climb, you occasionally look up and wonder, “Does a road really go up there?” From below, all you can see is the rugged face of the mountain. The view is deceptive: the road vanishes into the rocks, reappears in impossibly steep fragments, then disappears again. And perched at the top, like a reward for the stubborn few who dare to attempt it, stands a tiny church — Sant’Antonio — seeming almost to float above the valley. It’s both a destination and a taunt.

The final kilometer is a true test of character. Your cadence drops, your handlebars start to sway, and the air grows thinner and quieter. Each switchback feels like a small victory, each ramp like a negotiation between mind and body. And then, suddenly, the world opens up. The trees give way, the gradient eases ever so slightly, and the church appears in full view — modest, silent, timeless.

Reaching the top feels disproportionately satisfying for such a small, solitary place. There’s no summit sign, no souvenir kiosk, no dramatic fanfare — just a wide-open panorama and the quiet knowledge that you’ve conquered one of those climbs that only cyclists truly understand. It’s the perfect combination of suffering and beauty, of isolation and reward.

For those who seek the harder climbs, the hidden roads, the challenges whispered among local riders, Sant’Antonio Abbandonato is a gem: brutal, fascinating, remote — and absolutely unforgettable.

PS: please watch out during downhill, you have to stop and take a picture of the most beautiful tree in the world