Mendola.
Wine. Wind. Wheels.

From your window at MONROC, the peaks above the Val di Sole are still blue with sleep. The air smells like pine bark and espresso. You check the sky. Clear. The kind of alpine clarity that comes after a night of stillness.

You clip in and roll. You could take the train, let gravity carry you down to Mezzocorona (50 km / 400 m D+ less). Or you could descend on your own terms, feel the asphalt beneath your tires as you flow with the river, past apple orchards still glistening with dew.

Mezzocorona is your true start. Not just for the legs, but for the story.

This town is no stranger to boldness. It’s the land of Teroldego, the “prince of Trentino wines,” a red as deep as the history it carries. These are lands shaped by floods and devotion, by the Adige river and generations of vintners who learned to work with its moods. Here, wine is not a product—it’s an identity.

You head north. The Strada del Vino stretches ahead like a promise.

Vineyards flank the road on both sides, climbing stone terraces with mathematical grace. Every bend delivers a new frame: Roverè della Luna, with its sharp ridgelines; Salorno, gateway to Alto Adige; Magrè, whose sunlit façades are lined with wrought-iron balconies and climbing roses.

The transition is subtle but profound. The language changes. Italian becomes German.
The road, however, keeps singing in the same dialect: that of rubber on tarmac, of breath syncing with cadence.

And then comes Tramin.

It’s hard to explain the feeling of arriving in the birthplace of Gewürztraminer. You think you’ve smelled it before—lychee, white pepper, something floral—but here, it’s everywhere. In the breeze. In the dust. Even in the silence.

You don’t stop yet. The road calls for one more stretch. And soon, Caldaro welcomes you with a gentle roll. It’s a town of understated elegance, built around wine and sun.

You roll into Panetteria Eisenstecken, a family-run bakery that feels more like a shrine to carbs. You order without guilt. You’ve earned this.
A soft apricot croissant, a slice of Schüttelbrot, an espresso thick enough to write poetry on.

And then, quietly, the climb begins.

The Mendola Pass is no beast. It’s a dialogue.

Its gradient is kind, steady, offering you space to find a rhythm and a reason. As the elevation grows, so does your clarity. The vineyards give way to pines, the heat to shade, and your thoughts to silence.
The view from the top isn’t loud. It’s intimate. The Adige Valley far below, the vineyards you danced through now a mosaic of green and gold.

You descend into Fondo—swift, surgical, grinning.
Now the air is different again. Thicker. More fertile.
You’re in Val di Non, where apples rule and the wind smells like September even in June. The roads here are gentle, weaving through geometry made of trees. Each orchard is a painting. Each farmhouse a memory you haven’t made yet.

Cloz. Mostizzolo. The gorge where the land folds into itself and the noise returns—water, wind, the pulse in your ears.

But you are ready. The legs spin on memory. The final act begins.

The Val di Sole cycle path is your homecoming. A trail of peace along the river Noce, lined with wildflowers, old bridges, and wooden signs that mark stories long forgotten. You slow down, not because you have to, but because part of you doesn’t want it to end.

Not everyone in the group has to grind up the Mendola.

If you’re riding with a slow burner, a rest-day friend, or you simply fancy swapping watts for strudel and a Wiener Schnitzel… there’s a stylish alternative: the Mendola Funicular.

Built in 1903, this historic cable railway climbs from Caldaro to Passo della Mendola, skipping the entire ascent in just 12 minutes. You’ll glide over vineyards, forests and ravines with a panoramic view that even your power meter can’t measure.

Tickets? Just a few euros.
The experience? Pure vintage Alpine charm.

So go ahead: take the train, meet the group at the top, and be the one who smells good and has fresh legs for the descent.

The end.