El Sifón - Too hard to go fast.

Two weeks ago, we made a last try to climb El Sifón before the year’s end. Our friends from Colombia Cycling joined, bringing most of their guides. Not to work, but to ride. That made it different. They weren’t supporting anyone this time. They were chasing something for themselves. They knew the terrain. But they also shared the nerves. In total, we were nine riders.

It had to be a quick trip. End of year at Scarab feels like a toy factory, rushing to get bikes delivered before Christmas. We met in El Retiro at 6 a.m., loaded the van, and started the four-hour drive to Puerto Salgar. From there, we rode to Honda. Long flat stretches of road, beautifully surrounded by rich vegetation. It was warm, but not melting. We even got to cross the Magdalena River. Not something we see often on rides. This is the tierra caliente, Colombia’s tropical lowland climate. Humid, green, and alive.

We rolled into the market just in time for some fresh juice. Spent the afternoon cleaning bikes, wandering through the beautiful streets, and had dinner at 40Puentes. That place never disappoints. Then off to bed. I won’t say sleep. Nerves and the weight of what was ahead didn’t let that happen.

Next morning, we got up early, ate breakfast, loaded back into the van, and headed toward the base of the climb. The vibe in the van was easy. Everyone trying to steal a bit more rest, eyes half-closed, minds already riding. We passed through Armero. The mood shifted. That place holds something powerful. The ruined buildings, still mud-covered, are more than history. They’re reminders of what happened in 1985. Of what nature can do.

We arrived at the gas station that marks the beginning of the climb. It always feels strange that the world’s longest climb starts in such an ordinary spot. But that’s how these rides begin. Bikes out. Pockets full. Quick photo. Ready.

We crossed the toll booth, and the road pointed up immediately. No warm-up. Just climb. The group spread out fast. Not because we were racing, just because everyone needed time to settle in. It took me about 20 minutes to feel right. Eventually, we regrouped. A strong, fast-moving train. Then a wide turn opened the view. The far side of the Magdalena Valley revealed itself. The sun was just lifting. The silhouette of the Cordillera Oriental appeared across the gap. None of those peaks reach the height we’re headed for. It was a quiet reminder. Today was going to be long.

The road was smooth. Not too steep. That helped. Speeds stayed high, which helped with the sticky air. The landscape changed fast. Coffee fields, jungle, farmland. The richness of Colombia in layers. We reached Líbano. The full nine of us still together. It was Sunday. The town was alive. We didn’t stop. The photo-moto and support van were doing a great job keeping us fed and hydrated.

Out of Líbano, things got serious. Steep ramps. No rest. The group broke apart quickly. Two riders pulled away. I found myself in a group of four. We tried to hang on, probably driven by ego more than reason. After a few minutes, we knew it. If we chased, we’d blow up. We let them go.

The elevation brought cooler air, but our jerseys were soaked from the bottom. It made the temperature feel colder than it was. We rode on, up into the pines just before Murillo. I could feel cramps waiting in my legs. Hydration had been good, but the effort was catching up. Our group of four stayed together. But we were quiet now. You could sense the suffering, even without a word.

We reached Murillo. A brief feeling of relief. Then I accidentally checked my phone. The Strava screen read: 3 hours and 35 minutes. That was fast. Too fast. If we kept that pace, we’d be done in 5:15. Way outside my range. I felt it. My body already did.

At Café Salinas, the van was waiting. Time to layer up. I pulled on a merino baselayer, arm warmers, gloves. Packed my rain jacket just in case. I was craving real food. The owner suggested a garulla, something I’d never tried before. A warm, salted corn arepa filled with soft cheese. It hit the spot. That mix of salty and sweet, fresh and dense, was just what I needed. The stop felt long, but it was only eight minutes. We rolled out again.

This last section isn’t known for being steep, but my legs felt everything. Every change in pitch pulled at me. I shifted early, trying to stay ahead of the effort. I was slowing down. Maybe my partners were being kind, or maybe they were just as wrecked. Either way, we held the group.

The landscape changed again. The clouds sat low. The day felt colder than I remembered from past climbs. A few minutes later, two riders dropped back. It was now just one rider and me.

We passed the viewpoint over Río Lagunilla. This is where the Armero story sinks in. You don’t just see it. You feel it. The path of the avalanche, the silence in the valley. The Nevado del Ruiz still hidden behind the walls of rock and cloud, but its presence was unmistakable.

My partner cramped up badly and had to slow down. I was close too, but kept rolling. I remembered what was coming. The turn where the páramo opens.

And then, there it was.

The colors changed. The air thinned. The páramo revealed itself, golden and strange. But the altitude hit hard. There were no gears left. I stood on the pedals, not to accelerate, just to survive. Just to get some help from gravity. Every push hurt. The road still climbed. There was no relief.

I tried not to think about the pain. I focused on the silence. The vastness. This is my place. Even in the hurt, even with the fatigue, this is where I want to be. It’s hard. But it’s real. And it’s beautiful.

Then the rain came.

I thought I could ride through it. I was close to the summit. But I misjudged the distance. The last three kilometers were long. Cold soaked in deep. Finally, I saw the sign: “Alto del Sifón 4.149 M.S.N.M”. The summit. Humble. Simple. Powerful. Like cycling itself. Raw effort turning into quiet glory. A simple act that somehow holds everything.

I put on my jacket and kept going toward our end point at Laguna Negra. Sixteen more kilometers. Two hundred more meters of climbing. I was cold, tired, and alone. Rain kept falling. I didn’t know how far I had left. I got close to a rider and we kept going together.

Then I saw a bike by a small roadside tent. Another rider was inside, sipping aguapanela, wrapped in a ruana. I stopped. The family running the tienda welcomed me. They threw a ruana over my shoulders, poured a hot drink, and fried up some empanadas. The best I’ve ever had.

One by one, the others arrived.

We were two kilometers short of the planned finish. But this was it. This was the real end.

We all made it. Nine out of nine. That almost never happens.

I hit my goal. Five hours and forty-five minutes. I was happy. But I learned something. El Sifón doesn’t need a time goal. The mountain is the goal. It gives you enough to work with. Enough to prove something. Enough to take with you.

We celebrated with soup and a roadside shower. Cold water, full wake-up. A final shock to freeze the memory.