Why do we keep coming back to the same climb?
Over the last few years, I kept returning to that question. I can approach it from many perspectives: technical, emotional, even cultural, but the answer always feels deeper than expected. Somewhere between passion and pure nonsense.
Let me explain myself.
After enough time in the mountains, you notice a tension that constantly appears within the climb. Part of you wants glory. A quicker time to the summit. The satisfaction of knowing you are becoming stronger. Climbing fast comes with the feeling of a chase, where paranoia takes over. Your world narrows into effort, breathing, gradients, and speed. Glory begins to taste like blood in your mouth. There is something deeply satisfying in choosing to push yourself that far. You reach the summit knowing you gave something to get there.
And another part of you searches for something much harder to explain. A moment where effort, movement, and the mountain begin to balance themselves. Where the bicycle disappears beneath you and your attention slowly shifts outward. You begin noticing the cold humidity in the air, the mist moving through the trees, the feeling of navigating your way above the clouds. And suddenly, you don't want the climb to end.
There is a difference between attacking a mountain and floating through it. We've called this the Climber's Dilemma.
I keep searching for both. Sometimes within the same ride. Sometimes one takes over completely, and the next day I want something entirely different.
Serena grew from wanting a bicycle that could come with me through all of this. After years of riding, designing, and building bikes, I wanted to take that feeling further. To understand how the things we make in the workshop could support the things I keep searching for on a climb.
The condition
In Colombia, climbing is a constant. Roads rise more often than they flatten. Entire regions are connected through gradients, mountain passes, and changing altitude. For me, this has always been part of how riding happens.
Over time, constant exposure to these conditions begins to shape what you notice. The way a bicycle responds when you stand. How comfortable you remain after a long time seated. How it feels when the pavement changes, or when you are tired and there is still another climb ahead.
I have become increasingly interested in those details. Small things that, over hours in the mountains, begin to define the entire experience.
The mountains are where I ride, and inevitably, they have shaped the way I design.
The anatomy of a climb
No climb feels exactly the same as another. And sometimes, even the same climb changes completely from one day to the next. Weather shifts. Fatigue accumulates differently. Your intentions change before you even reach the first gradient.
Envision yourself in the middle of your favorite climb. It is early morning. You see the mist and feel it slightly dampening your skin. You know that in the next turn the gradient pitches upwards. You drop a gear or two, get out of the saddle, and the bike goes. You move with it. The slightly rough pavement of that tight turn doesn't bother you. You feel in control, in contact, just enough.
The gradient eases, you sit back. The climb continues.
Those transitions kept pulling at me. Between sitting and standing, settling into a long gradient and suddenly asking more from the bicycle. Your body moves differently, the terrain changes, and the bicycle needs to respond. This is what I mean by the Dynamics of Climbing. I wanted to understand how to bring comfort, precision, and reactivity together through all of those changes.
Weight, stiffness, position, and efficiency all belong within that question. The challenge was bringing those demands together within the same bicycle.
Materials and shapes
At Scarab, we build with steel because we value its balance between compliance, spring-like return, precision, and durability. The sensation it creates beneath the rider during a climb is something I wanted to explore further with Serena.
Working alongside Columbus, we developed a new set of custom tubes, using thin wall thicknesses and carefully controlled shaping. This gave us room to work on weight and responsiveness while keeping the qualities that made steel interesting to us in the first place.
But I also had a particular image of the bicycle in mind.
I wanted slender tubes. A silhouette that communicated lightness. Proportions that felt right when you looked at the complete bicycle, and still made sense when you looked closer.
This introduced another set of demands. Vertical compliance, torsional stiffness, and silhouette all had to be considered together. The shape of a tube affects the structure, the way it joins another tube, and the way the whole bicycle looks.
The double taper head tube brings those considerations into one detail. It creates a structural base for the top tube and down tube, accommodates internal bearings, and allows the profile to narrow between its ends. Its proportions connect visually with the fork and the slender tubes behind it.
That relationship mattered to me. I wanted the front end to belong to the same bicycle, mechanically and visually. The elegance I was after depended on getting those relationships right.
Geometry and the descent
The bicycle needs to fit. The rider's ergonomics for climbing are non negotiable, because position becomes something you live with for the entire ascent.
But I also wanted Serena to feel alive beneath the rider. When the gradient rises and you get out of the saddle, the bicycle should feel like it is dancing with you. Wheelbase, fork trail, front center, and chainstay length became part of working toward that response, with the balance considered around each rider.
And then there is the descent.
After prolonged effort, descending brings a different kind of attention. You are tired, the road is moving quickly beneath you, and the precision of the bicycle becomes very present.
I approached descending as a continuation of the climb. It belongs to the same day in the mountains, and it deserves the same care.
The idea of telepathic handling came from the sensation I wanted: tracing a corner naturally, with subtle inputs, feeling that the bicycle follows your intention. That is a demanding thing to ask from a bicycle. It involves fit, geometry, the structure, and the components working together.
For me, the experience of a climbing bike has to include how it brings you down the mountain.
Climate Gradient
The atmosphere surrounding these rides also found its way into Serena.
Early morning fog, cold humidity, filtered sunlight through the trees. The changing temperatures and the sensation of gradually rising above the clouds. These are things I keep noticing, even on roads I know well.
Climate Gradient became a way to bring those observations into the bicycle. To translate the emotional atmosphere of climbing into color, depth, and light.
From 0 to over 4,200 meters above sea level, each color reflects an element of the mountain: the clarity of the air, the mist, the rock, and the ever-changing light of the climb.
I wanted the finish to carry something of the place and the experience that gave shape to Serena.
Coming back
Serena gives me a reason to keep returning to the same climbs. To my favorite ones, and even the ones I hate.
It is meant to let me live cycling in the way I want. To be there, to adapt. To let me float up the mountain, or bring that blood taste to my mouth when I decide to chase something.
I can return to the same road with the same bicycle and want a completely different experience. The mountain changes. So do I. Sometimes that choice is made before leaving home. Other days, it happens somewhere on the way up.
That is what I wanted to make room for with Serena.
Mountains and climbs are to be lived in your own way.
Serena
Dedicated to the art of climbing.
Built in El Retiro, Colombia.
By Santiago Toro