Col de Dent - French Pyrenees

It starts, as it always seems to, outside a café. Le Rébenty (being factually accurate more of a restaurant than a café) marks the turn onto the col de Dent.

The turn junction for the climb starts 10 km south of Quillan, situated in the north east Pyrenees. This climb is probably not a bucket list climb for many, having never featured in le Tour - or any other major bike race to my knowledge. Knowing this makes it feel an almost undiscovered gem.

The twisting main gorge road towards Axat allows ample time to warm the legs up on the slow false flat. This however, does not cross my mind as I trundle on, stuck in awe of the 100m sheer cliff faces to both sides. The road is littered with tunnels chiselled through the pale stone, twisting alongside the depleted trickle of the usual white-water river, L’Aude.

The crisp cold morning air of late September means however, the ride starts with my packable waterproof employed along with probably unnecessary addition of knee warmers.

Along the main road, few cars pass but those that do pass, do so with death-defying speed. Always allowing me plenty of room, as they screech past in old tired hatchbacks; flying around blind corners on the wrong side of the road. The 20-meter drop down to the river to the left seems to offer no form of hazard; the locals must have more faith in the 30cm cracking concrete wall than I do.

My first thought, when riding the climb was what a bizarre name, le Col de Dent – the pass of teeth? As usually happens when I recheck my French, there was a simpler explanation. Dent more likely would translate to notch, as in the deep narrow mountain pass. Not the romantic image of a climb full of dentists I had in my head when I was struggling up the steeper sections, but probably a more reasonable explanation.

A right turn onto the false flat of the lower slopes of the climb plunges me into shadows with the addition of knee warmers now suddenly feeling welcome. The now single-track lane is surrounded by the trees that seem to coat all flatter surfaces in the area.

These first couple of kilometres are not too taxing, only climbing 50m alongside a small beck. This is the point where if you are aiming for a good time you must put the hammer down - a scary thought knowing what is to come near the top.

The climbing ‘proper’ starts upon a left turn. Signposted ‘Cailla’, the road hairpins around upon itself and I am hit abruptly by double digits gradients. The road, now no wider than a car, seems to cling to the cliff, as the earth drops abruptly away to my left. The once ridiculed 1-foot wall now suddenly seems a most desirable addition as I wrestle with the bike to stay within the relative safety of the right side of the road.

A few kilometres later the small village of Cailla passes by to my right. One of its 52 residents, a rotund gentleman, sits alone on a white plastic chair. Unashamedly staring right at me as I ride up and through his small hamlet; he lounges in a tight, stained vest and short shorts gazing with a perplexed look on his face, absentmindedly drinking his coffee.

More hairpins arrive as I leave the commune. Feeling scrutinized I try to hide the lung-bursting effort and struggle onward encouraged by the fact that these 15% gradients can't last too much longer.

Indeed, the climb does now slightly calm back down for a few kilometres, still averaging a hefty 9% for the next 4km. With the trees cocooning you and very little traffic to consider (I only saw two cars on the whole climb), this twisting slog allows some time to get your head down and press on the pedals. The gaps in the trees, infrequent as they are, do occasionally occur, affording a brief hiatus from the pain and spectacular views down and across the valley.

With just over 11km done and 780m climbed, I emerge unexpectedly out from the trees and into grass pastures, the gradient lessens off and I begin to freewheel. The now warming morning air hits me as I remove my now sweat-dampened rain-jacket. As my laboured breathing starts to ease, I pass a memorial for 14 American commandos; which forces my brief fields of rest bite to suddenly transform from a picturesque mountain grassland into a strategic area for tactical warfare.

Before I have time to fully dwell on the prospect a right turn takes me out of the opening and back into my world of forested pain. A mere kilometre is now all that separates me from the crest of my first Hors Catégorie summit.

Col de Dent - Alt. 1231m reads the sign as I sit on my top tube catching my breath. There is something very harrowing about achieving something, then sitting alone. With company, there seems a sense of shared pain and triumph; alone you just regain your composure turn around and go in search of more coffee or maybe something stronger.