El Sifón. An annual calling

There’s a stretch of road in Colombia that haunts me. Not because it’s cruel, though it is, but because it calls me back every year. That road is El Sifón.

I’m Santiago Toro, founder of Scarab Cycles, and this climb has a hold on me. I’ve written a bit about el Sifón, the Colombian monster, and for some reason I can’t fully wrap my head around the feelings and ideas. The last pieces I wrote came days after the summit, once the experience had settled in a bit. This time, I’m writing before. My head has been all over the place with the upcoming summit, and I decided to share the feelings.

photo: Donalrey Nieva

Although I’ve done this climb before, I can’t shake the anxiousness. Thoughts rush as I close my eyes and navigate the climb: how will the weather be? how strong will the group be? how should I pace myself? will I dehydrate? But not all thoughts are worry. I go back to this climb because it feels like a sanctuary. Nature, landscape, solitude, even the lack of oxygen, make this a unique experience I look forward to.

To understand my feelings, you must understand my connection to mountains. They’re my happy place. I love their silence. Their beauty. How nature changes so quickly as you climb. The power they radiate, the way they stand still and yet command everything around them. There’s an imposing presence to them that’s impossible to ignore. And they humble you. They remind you of your scale. They allow you to climb, yes, but only if you approach them with respect. Everything that proves challenging is part of their brutal and beautiful nature.

I don’t like numbers when I ride. I only use a cycling computer when I need navigation. Otherwise, it pulls me out of the ride and into calculations. I use Strava to log rides and check my general fitness, but that’s it. This time, I’m hoping to climb El Sifón in under 6 hours, no computer, no data. Not chasing time, just feeling stronger than last time. So why not?

Removing the noise is part of the goal. No screen, no stats, just the ride. Just nature, the bike and me. I’ll be on a steel Scarab Letras, a bike built for me. Not out of a spec sheet, but built around all I need, and out of everything I don’t. A machine that works with me, that lets me be there, on every part of the climb. It’s simple, and that’s the point. I don’t want distractions. I want presence.

Pacing such a long, brutal climb (4200 meters up, over 88km - 13.800ft and 54 miles) without metrics sounds reckless. It’s a valid concern. That’s why I’ve been adding weekly volume, pushing longer on weekends. Not to chase watts. I’m chasing something harder to quantify: mind shape.

I’m learning my body. How it feels on climbs. What fatigue feels like. How I respond to it. I’ve been doing local climbs consistently, never at full gas, while maintaining steady times. I suppose I know my pace. Lets hope that’s enough.

I divide El Sifón into four parts that help me mentally prepare, each with expected challenges and feelings.

Joy and expectation. Armero to Líbano. A section where two things matter: not going too hard too early, and avoiding dehydration. Living and riding above 2300m, lower altitudes make my body feel supercharged. That can backfire when the real climbing begins. And tropical lowlands mean heat, even in the hazy mornings.

The first stretch is beautiful. From Armero to Líbano, the landscape is lush. Dense, jungle-like vegetation covers the slopes. It’s humid. You feel it immediately. The early sections of the climb allow you to see early morning mist rising over the Magdalena valley. As you gain elevation, you start seeing coffee plants, first scattered, then whole fields. That means Líbano is close.

The shift. After Líbano, it gets serious. Coffee fields fade into cooler air and new vegetation. A strange quiet sets in, like a storm is coming, even on clear days. The 23km from Líbano to Murillo are steep and relentless. Push too hard here and you’ll blow the final stretch. Too slow, and recovering is tough. You know Murillo is near when the climb winds through steep, pine-lined turns. The town is colorful but silent. It is like a gate to high altitude cycling. Cold, often foggy, and sitting at 3000m. Crossing its plaza, I say goodbye to my comfort zone.

How to feel altitude. From Murillo to El Sifón, the body reacts. Pine trees vanish, smaller bushlike vegetation appears, and the landscape opens up. You see how far you’ve climbed, and how far you still have to go. It’s cold, and you lose the sweet spot of body temperature. Breathing gets harder, pedaling out of the saddle feels heavy. The signs: tickling fingers (not from pressure, just a strange signal), and a disconnect between brain and speech. These are reminders we’re functioning differently. But they don’t need to be fought. They open the door to rare introspection. You’re not chasing a PR anymore, just moving, silently, up the world’s biggest paved road. And at some point, everything gets quiet.

The beautiful summit. Then comes Alto de Ventanas. It feels like the summit, but it’s not. A short descent leads to winding roads flanked by rock walls. Then, frailejones everywhere. Occasionally, the Nevado del Ruiz volcano shows itself. You can smell sulfur in the air. The landscape turns lunar. Rock contrasts against vast mountain views. You stop fighting the slope, and start flowing with it. One last test: a sharp left turn, a small building with white walls, “Bodega el Sifón.” But the true summit is 1.6 km farther. Very steep gradient, low in oxygen and packed with fatigue, this is the final guard of the mythical Alto del Sifón. 

I never know what I’ll find up there. Only that I need to go.

Santiago Toro,