Ghosts of the Road: Revisiting the Lost Routes of Pro Cycling

In the hush of a forgotten Alpine pass, the wind whispers through cracked tarmac, carrying echoes of laboured breaths and spinning chains. The Col d’Izoard, once a crucible for cycling legends, now stands silent under a vast sky, its southern flank scarred by the barren Casse Déserte, a lunar landscape of eroded rock that once framed epic duels. Faded roadside markers bear the ghosts of names: Coppi, Bobet. Here, in 1949, Fausto Coppi surged ahead on this border-adjacent climb, his victory a symbol of post-war resilience. Yet today, the road feels like an archive sealed shut, bypassed by the modern Tour de France in favour of smoother, more televisual spectacles. What happened to these vanished veins of the sport? And what do their disappearances reveal about cycling’s evolution and Europe’s own turbulent history?

This journey retraces the spectral paths of professional cycling’s golden era: mountain passes etched by endurance, cobbled lanes reclaimed by time, and border roads that once divided nations. Through these lost routes, we uncover not just forgotten geography but the human stories of triumph, conflict, and change that linger in the landscape. As Europe modernised its infrastructure, the sport followed suit, trading raw authenticity for efficiency. Yet in the remnants, a deeper narrative endures one of memory, myth, and quiet revival.

The Cobbled Ghosts of the North

Picture the early Tours de France, when routes sprawled over 5,000 kilometres on unpaved farm lanes and cobbled climbs that tested riders to their limits. In northern France, these rough sectors reminiscent of today’s Paris-Roubaix were staples before the 1930s, when paved highways began to proliferate. One such relic lies near the Arenberg Forest, where cobbles once rattled bikes and bones alike, but now sit partially overgrown or rerouted for modern traffic.

The Puy de Dôme, a volcanic ascent in central France, hosted one of cycling’s most iconic battles: the 1964 elbow-to-elbow duel between Jacques Anquetil and Raymond Poulidor, a moment that captured the sport’s dramatic soul. Last featured in 1988, the climb has since been sidelined by environmental protections and a tourist tramway, its steep gradients now a quiet path for hikers rather than heroes. Locals in the Auvergne region still recount tales of the peloton’s passage, with shrines to fallen riders dotting the roadside like sentinels. As one veteran fan once said, “It wasn’t just a road; it was where men became legends or broke.”

These cobbled and volcanic ghosts speak to progress’s double edge: smoother surfaces have tamed the Tour but at the cost of its primal grit. Historical records from La Flamme Rouge preserve the memory of these forgotten climbs, remnants of an era when endurance defined not just the rider, but the road itself.

Borders Etched in Asphalt

Borders have long shaped cycling’s narrative, turning routes into metaphors for division and reunion. The Col d’Izoard, straddling the French-Italian frontier, was widened by the French army in the late 19th century and became a Tour staple from 1922, appearing 35 times overall. Its steep 7% gradients and desolate beauty framed victories like Louison Bobet’s in 1953 and 1954, amid the scars of World War II. Yet in the last two decades, it has featured only sparingly, often neutralised far from the finish line. Tour director Christian Prudhomme has noted its demotion from “great summits” like Alpe d’Huez, reflecting the race’s shift toward compact, viewer-friendly formats.

Further south, the 1910 Tour’s inaugural Pyrenean traverse encompassing the Col de Peyresourde, Col d’Aspin, Col du Tourmalet, and Col d’Aubisque crossed Franco-Spanish borders still marked by Napoleonic wars. Riders navigated mule tracks and war-damaged paths, their suffering a microcosm of Europe’s fractured past. Today, those passes persist, but their raw edges have softened with asphalt overlays.

Echoing this theme, the EuroVelo 13 Iron Curtain Trail stretches 6,800 kilometres along former Cold War divisions, from the Barents Sea to the Black Sea. Once patrol roads enforcing separation, they now form green cycling corridors symbolising unity. As one participant reflected, “Riding these borders reminds us how barriers fall, one pedal stroke at a time.”

In Italy’s Giro d’Italia, border echoes resonate too. The Passo dello Stelvio, first climbed in 1953, embodied post-war recovery, its switchbacks a testament to human perseverance. Though occasionally omitted for weather or logistics, it remains a beacon. The “Wall” of Sormano, a Giro di Lombardia feature from 1960 to 1962, was abandoned for its perilous steepness until a 2012 revival blending nostalgia with modern safety.

The Gravel Reclamation

Venture into Tuscany’s white roads, the strade bianche, and you encounter cycling’s agrarian roots. Early races, including the Giro, battled mud on gravel farm tracks, unpaved expanses that defined the sport before widespread asphalt in the 1930s. These paths, centuries-old conduits for local life, faded as highways encroached, but have found rebirth in events like Strade Bianche, launched in 2007. Spanning 63 kilometres of gravel across 11 sectors, it revives the “heroic” era, where riders like Fabian Cancellara conquered dust and myth.

Similarly, L’Eroica, founded in 1997 in Gaiole in Chianti, invites vintage-bike enthusiasts to tackle routes up to 209 kilometres on these reclaimed tracks. It’s more than recreation; it’s revival, drawing a new generation to forgotten lanes overgrown with vines and memory. A local farmer near Siena once recalled, “The peloton brought life to these dead ends. Now, with Eroica, the ghosts ride again.”

These gravel ghosts highlight cultural endurance: what modernisation erases, passion resurrects. In a sport increasingly polished, these rough edges preserve the human element: the sweat, the stories, the soul.

Echoes That Endure

As the sun sets on these spectral roads, one ponders what’s truly lost. The longest Tour stage, a 482-kilometre coastal odyssey from Les Sables-d’Olonne to Bayonne, ran five times between 1919 and 1924, epitomising the “Tour of Hunger,” with night starts and war-rationed endurance. Now overlaid by autoroutes, its remnants near La Rochelle and the Gironde bridges whisper of a grittier age.

Yet survival flickers. Modern cyclists, from retro-racers to everyday adventurers, rediscover these routes, turning nostalgia into living heritage. In conversations with historians and locals, a common thread emerges: these aren’t mere paths; they’re palimpsests of pain and glory, war and peace. As Europe heals its divisions and cycling chases progress, the ghosts remind us that true endurance lies not in speed but in the stories that outlast the tarmac.

In reclaiming these lost routes, we honour the riders who carved them and perhaps find our own way forward. For further inspiration and route research, the Cyclingnews Classics section continues to map the living echoes of the sport’s past.