Most dev stories start at a desk. Mine began by chasing steep roads in the Swiss Alps. Cyclists are among the most data-obsessed athletes out there. After hours in the saddle, we obsessed over GPS tracks, switchback angles, rim heights, VO2 max, wind direction, and glucose-to-fructose ratios. We tracked watts per kilo, lactate thresholds, tire pressure, and even our resting heart rate at night. Every gradient had a name. And the worst? We called them kneebreakers. That’s how I began collecting, dissecting, comparing, and mapping Switzerland’s most iconic mountain passes.
The numbers told a story, and I followed.
Long climbs give me goosebumps.
There’s something iconic about conquering a mountain pass on a road bike. It’s hard to put into words, you have to suffer through it to really get it.
Because mountain passes carry a kind of magic.
They’re places of glaciers, springs, and watersheds. Places where borders and old smuggler routes intersect. But also where languages and cultures rub their shoulders. You can jump from swiss german to french, to italian and rumantsch. And yeah: they usually smell somewhat of old fryer grease.
A mountain pass is also a kind of anthropological study. Up on the peak you’ll find people on vintage bikes, sleepy tour groups, classic car lovers, petrolheads, hikers, influencers, YouTubers, geologists, birdwatchers.. and a wide range of professional and less-than-professional picnickers. Every now and then, someone stumbles out of a car mid-serpentine because their stomach just can’t take it anymore.
Even as a kid, mountain passes had a certain magic for me. The roads were long, steep, and often seriously exposed. Crossing from one canton to another felt like collecting bonus points. Like a loyalty program for geography nerds (like me…).
I must’ve been around seven, completely obsessed with those Swiss canton stickers you’d find at every gas station. Four cantonal emblems in a single day? Jackpot.
I think the obsession came from my grandfather. A sheet metal wizard from Madrid, with good cologne, crisp shirts, and always a picnic blanket in the trunk of his Ford Mustang. Back then, one of his favourite roads, the Furka Pass, was wild, mostly gravel, full-on Annapurna vibes. He used to drive up there often.
Passes aren’t places you stay long. If you’re cycling up, you stop just briefly. Otherwise, you’ll cool down too fast. Most people just pause for a quick selfie.
A pass ride feels like a fresh sauna infusion.
Sweat, euphoria, and bliss wrapped in a red face and the sting of metaphorical birch branch lashes. Pain and reward go hand in hand. Push too far, and you’ll end up walking your bike. Cooling off the hard way.
