Author: liz.rylott

151.9 km, 197 m

If there’s a day for a team effort… The route is pancake flat and we could collectively fly a peloton. To be fair, we do start out in one big group, although I know at the time this won’t last (and it’s not helpful for motorists trying to pass). But we’re relaxed and morale is high; today is just a formality, no crazy hills or daring descents. We snake along the coastal road like a dancing Chinese dragon, with flashes of red and green from the team kits. Ju is re-invigorated after his rest day, and pulls on the front, we ride like clinging remora around a shark; pedalling is ridiculously easy. The route is mainly on roads, and empty cycleways, and the views rush past as we chat about life histories. Then whops from behind, I’m caught napping! Mark, Iggy, Chris, Si and Brandon steam by, Tony Lowe ‘pulling a truck horn’ with his arm as he passes. Darn it. I wickedly pray they have a mechanical, but instead, watch on as they pull away into the distance. With the faster riders gone, there are soon calls for a coffee stop, but Ju is unstoppable on the front, and no-one wants to get off the choo choo train. Somewhere on the road behind us are riders zen’d enough to enjoy the actual journey, lingering at lovely roadside cafes and living their best life, but we’re not yet Enlightened. A few more miles, and there’s some tummy, and vocal, grumblings about lunch. These build, but still Ju is not for stopping. We surge through Latisana, the designated stop for lunch, and continue. It’s like those old western films, where the cowboy has to climb up the wagon shaft to pull the runaway horses up. After 2.5 miles, we haul him to a halt. There are some navigational discussions, then eventually, we loop back into Latisana for yummy pizza.

After lunch, I jump on the faster train, and we pull S, then SW into a building katabatic bora that saps our speed. Iggy as the self-designated peloton captain, is shouting orders, and keeping things ship-shape. We’re riding team time trial-style. The idea, obviously, is to work as a team, like the Star Trek Borg. Everything should be optimised to the forward movement of the whole team. This strategy means that the riders behind the leader need to make ever effort to conserve their own energy, tucking-in any sticky-out body parts (elbows, heads, knees?!) behind the Captain America shield-wielding front rider, and keeping no more than a fish-slice gap from the wheel in front. If there’s a side wind, riders chevron, like geese behind the lead rider. Reciprocally, the rider on the front needs to pour a perfectly judged effort into pulling everyone along, while taking a safe line, and calling out any obstacles’ (potholes), as the riders behind have only a fish-slice’s worth of judgement. After their 2 mins, like a mayfly, the lead rider pulls off, and to the windward side, selflessly sheltering the other riders, and drifts to the back. Finally, each rider must perfectly judge their effort to have just enough energy to latch on to the back of the group and recover. If they fall off the back, the train will have to either slow down to pick them up (bad for team speed), or drop the rider (fewer riders, so also bad for the team). If you get this wrong, Iggy will shout at you.

We each pull for ~2mins on the front, before shifting to the back for a rest. It’s fast and exhilarating, and not something I get to do often. I think Iggy has a soft spot for gelato, and after about an hour, we stop at a café for an ice cream on the grass outside a café.

We continue the route, which narrows along a spit of land until we are waved down by John with the van. This is the end of the line. It’s all over. Finished. No. More. Cycling. I wasn’t prepared for how sad I’d be about this.

We dismantle out trusty steeds. As I enrobe Bruno Emonda gently in his robes of bubble wrap, I notice a nasty gash through the carbon fibre chain stay. It doesn’t look very good*. We leave the bike-packed van, and gather at the ferry port for a beer, waiting for the rest of the group arrive. Venice, our rest day, is shimmering in the distance; shimmering with gelato, I hope.

Epilogue

It’s five whole days until I finally unpack bike and bag in Blighty and finish this blog (it still needs a polish – another day). I don’t remember packing the camembert, but there’s definitely some cheesy odours oozing out. Lovingly, I unwrap the bike, and wash it down. The hole in the chain stay looks ugly, and I can’t seem to get the bolt-through wheel axle on, it’s not aligning anymore. Like a panicked parent, I rush the bike to York Cycleworks. Their sombre faces tell me everything I need to know. The drive home is like a trip back from the vets…without the pet.

It’s been a fab trip with some amazing, wonderful people. Huge thanks to John for exquisite organisation, with help from others (Brandon, Ju). Graham and Martin for driving the van and little Fiat, with help from John and Tony (I think Martin maybe enjoyed rallying the Fiat more than he’s letting on). Unbelievably good Whalley Sports Massage from Graham. And all the other help, love and laughs from everyone.

Finally, Dear Reader(s?), thank you so much for all your wonderful donations. If you’ve enjoyed reading the blog (and apologies for the tardiness of the last few days), and still wish to donate to the Bolton Lads and Girls club here is the Just Giving page. THANK YOU!!!

130.42 km, 1,330 m

This day is an optional return trip to Novigrad. Clever peeps (Ju, Steve T, The Leathers, Grant, Chris, Steve T, Richard, Tony B and Mike) spend it strolling around Trieste enjoying beautiful views, fine wine, and dining…

The masochists/luddite idiots/those that want to add a 4^th country to the route, mount up, and head SE from Trieste. It’s a ‘gentle leg spinner’ just 130km, and the climbs top out at only ~150m asl. But, this does collectively add up to 1,330m ascent. Not sounding so gentle to now.

In one’s and two’s, we ride the underground garage ramp, arriving blinking like moles into the bustling street outside the hotel. The route should be clear: John has obsessed over every turn (kudos John!), and we have all meticulously pre-loaded a digital file (.gpx) onto our Garmins and Wahoos. And yet, like Kobayashi Maru we fail to seamlessly slip across the city on the wonderful cycle paths, instead, thrashing through 4-way traffic, back-track (UPHILL!) descents with much shouting, and a smattering of passive aggressive comments from the back. Finally, we break out onto a cycle track, and get ready to get on the Choo choo.

It is not to be. The cycle lane is boobie-trapped with bollards, chicanes, mopeds, tunnels and zippy- zimmered grannies. After ~10 miles of high alert, stop-start concertina-ing, the majority (well everyone but John. John has the energy and herding instincts of a working sheepdog, and he didn’t ride yesterday, so is VERY full of beans) call for a café stop. We stop at one on the edge of a duel carriageway, while Kerry zips off to find something more classy. After a couple of minutes he drops a pin in a winner! A seaside lido gelateria. Marvellous! The staff appear both customer unaccustomed, and puzzled by their espresso machines. It’s very quiet, perhaps we’re their first (ever?) customers. While we wait to be served, it would be remiss not to comment on Jeff’s attire. He’s rocking chic taupe knicks (beige shorts is something I will never ‘rock’). Juxtaposed with a shiny Croatian cycling top, packed especially for today, he’s nailed 1980s Bruce Forsyth (just missing Judith Chalmers on his arm).

Justy before the border, Si’s rear tyre blows. The side wall, it’s probably the toll of the week’s rocky roads, and today’s hotter temperatures. A think a gel wrapper was used to brace-patch it; Jeff and I were busy sniffing the jasmine. Once fixed, we skim across into Croatia, a well-earned, 4^th country on the trip. It’s blue skies, and lovely and warm, So warm! The earlier brushes with hypothermia in the mountains are distant memories, and we race down into our lunch spot in Novigrad.

It’s a pleasant seaside town, and we linger, unwilling to leave. We stop on the opposite seafront for a photo (missed Craig and Sarah on this one). Then heads down, we start to power back to Trieste, but there’s some stop-starting, waiting for people, and then for Si’s front flat tyre. Sheepdog John rolls his eyes. The return journey is uneventful, apart from Kobayashi Maru #2, as we again get lost in Trieste traffic. Creatures of habit, we drift back to yesterday’s bar on the seafront, and scroll through the mountain of photos (every single one in a different bar) shared on the WhatsApp group by the clever peeps who stayed in Trieste.

Others stay out in Trieste for fine cuisine, but I’m tired, not feeling very hungry and head for bed. I don’t know it at the time, but this blog won’t get finished until 22-June.

153.77 km, 2,932 m

Day 6 and there’s evidence of suffering! From the collective groans as creamed and chamois-ed buttocks hit the saddles, it sounds like the Man with the Hammer has a younger sibling with a meat tenderiser.  

There are four climbs today. The first is the biggest, starting just 6km into the day, a climb (~13km, 6%, 774m) up to the ski station at Soriska Planina.

bohinjsko-sedlo-bohinjska-bistrica Day 6

I ride up the lower slopes with the Steves K & T, catching Ju somewhere near the summit. Tony Lowe pops some near-summit shots of ascenders:

Saviour Martin is at the col, dispensing Jaffa cakes and biscuits like a priest at communion (although we’re laying off the wine for now). We pose for the traditional summit shot, then another, and another, as more and more of the group arrive.

There’s a looping descent through Zgornja Sorica, down into Zali Log, then doubling back W and up to the second summit: the Ski station at Smucarski center Cerkno. As our numbers swell again at the summit, we begin a swooping line, like swifts, zipping down into the next valley.

We pass through numerous pretty villages: Laze, Leskovica, Kopacnica, Hotavje, Podgora, Trebija, Fuzine and Selo, stopping at Bistro Ambasada, in the small town of Žiri for lunch. I don’t have any photos from this, but the staff follow a very strict ordering hierarchy. Drink orders taken, delivered and payment taken, then a rotund gentlemen emerges from the kitchen, wrapped in aprons like a joint of rolled beef. He takes multiple orders for schnitzel & fries then wades purposefully  towards the kitchen. The bistro is sited on the corner of a crossroads, ideal for people-watching, and we see primary-school children dawdling home for their lunches. They are all dutifully carrying umbrellas; interesting…

After lunch, we strike out and up through the chocolate-box-pretty villages of Govejk and Ledinsko Razpotje, and up onto the sawtoothed ridge at Gore…and into the rain.

Craig is an amazing descender! He takes the lead, swooping down into Godovic, carving his bike around the bends like an ice cream scoop through a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. Mark pulls past me (he carries a lot of momentum) and the chase is on. I jump on his wheel, and we race down. The roads are ‘Yorkshire’, so a bit lumpy, but at some point, there’s a bit of a crack*, and my bike feels a little noisier than usual, is the back disc ‘wobbling’? There’s some chattering from somewhere. A mental note to book it in for a post-holiday service to the Amazing Guys @YorkCycleWorks.

Pulling into Viparva, my cake radar is buzzing, but nothing in sight. About to give up, Mark and I spot a, parasols lowered but definitely open, café in a white square behind the supermarket. It’s the local gelato bar too. Bingo! It’s full of locals who eye us up suspiciously. To be fair, when clad in Lycra and clippy shoes, we do look a bit silly off the bike. But it’s not like The Slaughtered Lamb, and once we’ve sat down and started to appreciate The Best Ice Cream I’ve Ever Tasted, the locals warm to us, a little.

We rise to leave, but as we open the café doors, the Heavens open too, and we bulk at the threshold. There is no point waiting, we are already wearing soggy chamois nappies. With significant grumbling, we head off on the long, rolling ride to Triest. John works hard on his cat-herding; if he can keep us together, we will go collectively faster, but we’re pushing off the front keen to arrive. We cross back into the Italian town of Zolla (Ciao!).

With just a few km to go, we hit the outskirts of Trieste, dropping steeply through the thickening, beeping, traffic like Kerplunk marbles. The skies have cleared, and the views are stunning (I’m pulling the brakes, and the traffic is busy, so sadly no photos from here), but we decend past majestic peachy orange and custard yellow facades, iced with white cornicings, with the Adriatic twinkling on the skyline.

This noble city has been ruled by the Romans, Germans, French, Austrians and of course Italians, and belonged to the ‘big-jawedly’ inbred Hapbsburg monarchy from 1382 – 1918. I check my colleagues, no Hapsburgh jaws, but def some overdeveloped buttocks.

We arrive on the cycle track at the seafront. There is consensus that a bar is urgently needed. Post ride hydration is important. But first, we must make A Collective Decision. There seem to be a goodly chunk of Leaders on the trip, many folks run/own their own business, or have other, high responsibility jobs.  Perhaps the hard physical challenge of this trip attracts more driven personalities (crazy folks). Whatever, the upshot is that we have too many cooks and are unable to make a decision for quite some time. Shouting ensues, and some colourful language, but compromises are finally reached, and frothy-topped beers delivered as we sit at a sunny bar on the waterfront.

The climb back up the hill to the Best Western Hotel San Giusto is less blissful. We grind up, then swoop like bats into its darkened garage bowels. The pink-themed Art Deco hotel has seen better days, and the chef is clearly on a tight budget. I finally bag a tiramisu, but it’s like a Bugsy Malone-style plastered PopTart. Dinner does not sit well, coming back for an unrequested encore at ~3am.

Liz’s trip wibblings#5 Drive

Motorists. Despite the SLO numberplate monicker, Slovenian, drivers are not too keen on gears 1-4, preferring to gun it at all times, and esp. past cyclists. They appear supremely confident of the width of their vehicles, and I wonder if Slovenia might be the original home of the White Van Driver?

Conversely, the Italian drivers prefer to go very fast, or stationary. Both employ liberal use of the horn. Beeping constantly, they gauge vehicle/cyclist/pedestrian proximity with bat-like echo locator skills.

The Austrians seemed more relaxed, probably distracted by leather creases in their lederhosen.

106.1 km, 2,269 m

Slovenia is home to nearly 1,000 brown bears. These bears only eat a few people each year, and as Slovenia has a population of ~2 million, if only a couple of folks get eaten/year that’s 0.0001%, so plenty left. Admittedly, cyclists are probably slightly more likely to get eaten as we’ll be in hilly forests and smell of sweat and sweet snacks, but the bears live mostly in the Kocevje forest; we are nowhere near this area. Something we need to remember before panicking when Ian Harling shouts “bear left!” in broad Boltonian.

We head out from the ALP hotel, our damp, festering kit from the last couple of rainy days is packed back into the van. Probably smells great to bears…

Today, we’re cycling through the beautiful Triglav National Park. Brown bears are apparently occasionally found on the Pokljuka plateau, so we have a worry-chuckle at the sign.

Last night, the hotel (and neighbouring bar) was filled almost entirely with cyclists, including a German group riding in green Bora team kit. They’re cycled from Munich, and today are on their last day to Ljubljana. We ride in pairs together up the valley, sharing conversation, and pulls on the front. My chatty German pairing is eagerly telling me about their trip (they work for a small company with bases in both cities, the boss is on the trip, and sanctions the time off). He’s in high spirits, and the trip has gone well. At the front of the peloton, the pace starts to up (it’s probably John and Mark). There are shouts to ‘knock a log off’. A cycling term to reduce the speed: take a log off the fire. I ask my new loquacious chum if he has a reciprocal expression in German. Nothing? Perhaps you could say “knock a sausage off!”? (ha ha). Nothing. Maybe he misheard me, I dig myself further in. “you have great sausages in Germany!”. We ride in silence for the next full minute, then I engineer a peloton position change on a corner. Probs should pull my application for that diplomat job back from UK Govt. (no Ferro Rochers for me).

The first climb of the day is a steady 5% average, 1,173m, to Vršič Mangart (1,629m). We pass a cheery Martin at about 600m. I shout an “ok thanks Martin!” as I pass, but decern an offer of Jaffa cakes to the rider behind me, and make a mental note to correct my error at the top.

First up is a steady climb (5% average, 1,173m) to Vršič Mangart (1,629m).

There are some superb switchbacks leading up, but the clouds are gathering, and with Ju’s fingers starting to tinge blue, we don’t hang around long on the top. (Steve K, waiting just long enough to leave and forget his phone on a post at the summit).

The descent is certainly interesting. The Slovenians are working hard to maintain the beautiful traditional feel to their country, and this currently includes the decision to keep cobbles on the switchbacks. It’s certainly makes for an interesting effect, my 28mm tyres bounce across the wet pavers like ping pong balls. Maybe it’s fun after all.

After a few turns, I spot Steve K’s bike outside a Refugio; we could all do with some warmth, and a hot drink. And they have blankets! Steve K is resplendent as a reticulate python, and Steve T as Sean Connery, others punt for the OAP lounge look.

I re-house a couple of blueberry strudels, we polish off a few gallons of hot beverages, then complete the 25 km decent to the lunch stop (we’re still hungry) for pizza in Mojstrana. A lot of us are still shivering from the cold wet descent; they are placed on a large wooden paddle and lightly roasted in the pizza oven to warm up (maybe).

Post pizza, we climb quite steeply over a small pass. In the world of cycling, there is something called café legs. It’s a phrase possibly exclusive to the less youthful Lycra legions and describes a physical stiffness of legs after sitting around post ride. We don’t have café legs, but some of us do have CTH (Café Tummy-hill). An overindulgence of captivating café calories ahead of heavy physical exertion.

From the top, we descend on little lanes through recently harvested forest. I turn the bars towards a sharp left, but it’s “Margaret Thatcher corner”. In the next nanosecond, the back wheel spins out to the right, then left, then right as I battle to steer it into the grip of the verge and haul it down the hill. It’s now that we notice the iridescent glint of oily puddles; the timber lorries have been dribbling? Lying along the road like angler fish, waiting to lure a passing cycling into their oily mouths. Mark sends a warning on the Whatsapp text to those behind us, and we cautiously descend to the foot of the last climb up to Bled to the summit at Zgornji Greljek.

My legs feel tired today. I’m mindful of the cumulative effects of these rides, and hugely want to finish the trip à vélo. On the last day of the Pyrenees trip (2019), I wrote that “my thighs now feel like Tesco shredded beetroot.” So, I try some mindful cycling, low heart rate, smooth pedalling, minimal lateral movement. Luckily, I manage to catch the others stuffing Jaffa cakes from Martin’s car near the top and join the group again for a Yorkshire-isque (pot-hole-riddled) bounce down through quaint, Slovenian villages. I try to get my tongue around the names: Spodnji Goreljek, Koprivnik v Bohinju, Bohinj Bled, Bohinska Cesnijca, Srednja vas v Bohinju, Stara Fuzina. Finally, we nudge the shores of Lake Bohinj, arriving at the chalet-style Art Hotel Kristal, in Ribčev Laz.

The Hotel Kristal is an oasis of mindful wellness with muted tones of carved softwood and hessian. A family-run business, focused on restoring the yin/zang of the worried middle classes, the staff look on in horror as we portage out dribbling greasy bicycles down into their yoga studio. We excitedly notice the adjacent sauna and fitness room; this could thaw us out!

I sneak a peek in a few mins later and as it is disappointingly already full, I head back to reception, securing ‘the last slot’  at 7pm. We later find out there is more to this story, when Si sheepishly informs us that he was removed from a private couple’s, pre-booked, and very naked, sauna after the husband complained. Si is not dis-abusing us of the idea that the husband was feeling under-equipped.

Dinner in the timber-clad restaurant, a quick plug for the hotel’s own chocolate from Iggy (he’s on commission), and a very welcome announcement of laundry runs that will ‘ease the cheese’ and a much -needed drying room for sodden, mouldy kit.

Liz’s trip wibblings#4 Slovenian Self Raising cakes

You might be picking up a slight blogging bias towards the bakery products. If you’re a fellow patisserie porker, then read on…

You heard it here first: the secret to hill climbing is quite literally to use a raising agent. Usually, a combination of sodium bicarbonate and cream of tartar (potassium hydrogen tartrate), it’s found eponymously in bags of flour openly sold in UK supermarkets.

In Yorkshire, there’s an excellent range of favourite cakes to select to fuel the ascent, a good ‘old Vicky sponge, chocolate, lemon drizzle. These all use self-raising flour to produce a wonderful spongey texture during baking. In Europe, this approach is almost unique to the UK, our continental siblings have often never even heard of SR flour. The French, and in my mind, The Gods of Patisserie, often use more natural ways to achieve a good rise. Beating egg yolks and whisking the whites is key to madeleines and macarons; steam rises choux pastries (eclairs, profiteroles). The French also create extraordinary things with butter such as the delicate flakes of a mille feuille, croissant, or cream horn.

As you spread out E from France, there is a worrying erosion in patisserie quantities and qualities.

The Italians still make exceedingly yummy cakes (Mr Kipling’s Italian friend maybe?), but perhaps less effort is spent on raising the mixture during baking? Think heavier desserts such as the deep fried, cream-stuffed cannoli, and bomboloni (doughnuts); and Spanish churros too.

In Austria, it is more common to use yeasts to rise the bake. Desserts are more ‘pudding-y’, think strudels and dumplings, although the spongey texture in the famous Sacher-Torte still is achieved using whipped eggs. I’ve been dribbling just thinking about what Slovenia might offer. Their national desserts are Kremna rezina, Potica and Prleška gibanica (photos below, details to follow). But tomorrow, we ride to Trieste, and still minimal Slovenian cakes…

Tomorrow, we ride to Trieste, and still minimal Slovenian cake consumption…

89.5 km, 2,158 m

At the hotel, I discover the breakfast of champions: Žemlovka, žemľovka or Scheiterhaufen, it’s a sweet bread pudding made of apples and rohlíks or veka (I’m not yet sure what these last two are), soaked in milk, and topped with a soft, toasted (Italian?) meringue. I have four helpings just to make sure I’ve learned how it should taste.

It has wee’d down most of the night, but as we leave the hotel, the weather is (like us) a bit worn out, and only managed a bit of spitting. We head out in a group of nine, along a repurposed old railway track. It’s an easy pace and we’re happy, but it is quite muddy, with under-the-breath comments like “feckin’ cyclocross” and “should have bought a XXX gravel bike”.

We’re going to need a chance to warm-up the muscles as most of today seems to be in the uphill direction. The first climb of the day begins in Riegersdorf, a sharp 500m kick up the Wurzenpass. As we join the road, a large group of ~15 Croatian bikers swing past. They’re riding classic (AKA ancient) 50cc (at most!) mopeds, heavily laden with holiday gear. The Wurzenpass is tougher than we, or it seems, the Croatians, were expecting. As the gradient tips to 20%, we overtake them pushing their bikes. Everyone’s in good spirits though, and they swing past again, with tooting; their rear-mounted Croatian flags proudly fluttering. The road is smooth and wide, but quite busy, so weaving up is not an option. At 20%, many of us (all?) are out-of-gears. An efficient cyclist moves the pedals in a circular motion. So OK this sounds obvious, but what each pedal stroke should feel like, is kinda like kicking a door shut, then wiping your foot on a mat. Here, I’m pedalling ‘squares’: hauling each pedal up, and stomping the opposite one down. My knees are not fans of this one.

At the second steep section, the bikers are congregating, a cacophony of struggling engines, the air turning blue with 2-stroke effort. One of them produces a tow rope, and with a grin and a wave “whoosh they were gone”!

At the summit, we pass into Slovenia. We need to keep a sharp eye out here; there’s a reasonable chance we’ll be beasted up the hills here by Pogačar’s nana (or more likely, great nana…). The Slovenian cyclist, is now also known as the Pink Pantha for the many pink outfits he wore as leader of the 2024 Giro De Italia. And he’s not the only famous cyclist from round here (Primoz Roglič, Gorazd Štangelj, Blaža Klemenčič, Luka Mezgec and Marko Kump…). Hope there’s something in the water, ‘cos I’m drinking gallons!

A steady pull through Podkoren (ski lifts visible to the S), Tarvisio, then on a smooth, wide cycle track alongside the river Slizza, and through Piezut, Ciutte, Riofreddo and Muda to our lunch stop at the old mining town of Cave del Predil, on the lower flank of Mount Manga. All the cafes are shut, but Graham and Martin arrive with supplies, and we feast on cheese, ham and tomatoes sandwiches, with slices of butter (it’s a bit cold), which I’m hoping might lube up my knees a bit.

The Manga Pass is another behemoth ~10km 1200m climb up through pretty pine forests then out onto alpine pastures and a summit at 2055m. The Garmin goes batty with every tunnel as it loses GPS, but everntaully, concedes we’ve reached the summit. There’s a couple of small rock falls near the top, and snow still on the road. The weather is closing in, and the tantalising views disappear, it reminds me of the French style of cooking ‘on papier’.

Steve Kenny joins me at the summit, there’s time for a quick botanical grovel (gentians!), but the temperature is dropping and it’s raining quite heavily now. Steve punctures on the sharp rocks, and I guiltily leave him behind (reasoning that others are coming up – btw, he’s fine and back at the hotel now – I’ll buy him a beer). Shivering and draggin the brakes, I retrace the route back down, teeth chattering, and air a bit blue again (it’s not the 2-stroke this time). Instead of swearing, to keep warm, I butcher my way through pronunciations of the beautiful towns and villages of Stmec na Predelu, Log pod Mangartom and Spodnji Log, into the bath at the Hotel ALP, Bovec. The cycling and Slovenia are stunning, even from inside a paper bag. I’m definitely coming back here again.

Liz wibbling#4 Slovenia

The women here are the 5^th tallest in the world (1.674 m); the men are only the 10^th tallest (1.803 m). They also smoke a LOT, and are the 3^rd biggest drinkers of wine (43.7 litres per capita; we’re at 20^th, with 27.5 L). They love sports (skiing, cycling, hiking) and potatoes (with an annual Roasted Potato Festival, sadly we’ll miss this). Every spring, Slovenians get their motorcycles blessed by priests, this explains their terrifyingly bold mountain descents. To us, I think the most famous thing about Slovenia is that is it the home of cycling incredible Tadej Pogačar. He was born in Komenda, Slovenia, a village ~20km north of the capital Ljubljana. Our route strategically misses this, so we’ll (hopefully) not get beasted up a hill by his nana.

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133.09 km, 2,993 m

Today’s sufferfest menu contains three climbs: The Passo Duron, Passo del Cason di Lanza and Passo di Pramollo. To dress it up, we’re serving this menu with lashings of rain. Yum.

Grant, Craig, Sarah, Richard and I head N from the hotel and out into the deluge. The back wheels pick up the wet and shoot it into our chamoised derrieres. Everyone’s soaked in minutes.

A lovely 1000m leg-loosener, the Passo Duron builds as we head N to Paluzza, then E through the hairpins of Ligosullo. The black tarmac has become a mollusc lido, and a peloton of slugs (front crawl, obvs) pass us (maybe). Further on, as the road cuts through a beautiful meadow, the road becomes scattered with <3mm white pebbles. They are not pebbels, they are baby snails and it is kiddie swim time in the lido! My wheels make the kinda noise a spoon makes when it hits a crème brulee.

No one is stopping at the summit. I grab a quick photo with Mark.

A short, sharp descent to Paularo, wet disc brakes squealing like a banshee, Craig and I drip into a café. Again, a dearth of cake. Just three, bored-looking croissants. I do my best Italian-Franglaise to order a café longue/Americano and an Americano with milk. Cheerfully served a thimble espresso, I realise I’ve immediately finished it, so instead, we sit for a few mins, trying not to sway to the (bad) Mexican music. As we leave, we pick up John, Brandon, Julian, Iggy (and others?), and start winding up the Passo del Cason di Lanza, predictably losing them ahead of us on the ascent. The rain stops, and the sun peeks out.

I catch them on the decent, and lead into Pontebba, again no cake (!!!), instead immediately twisting back N through the hairpins of the Passo di Pramollo/Nassfeld Pass and over the border into Austria. Not even a sniff of a patisserie stop on the summit, and I descend, with serious tummie rumbles, into the Austrian town of Tröpolach . Unfortunately, the van is nowhere in sight, so we are unable to don our lederhosen bib shorts, but at the restaurant, we spend some time happily pronouncing words like schnitzel (we know the Austrians love jokes because they live in hill-areas places (not sorry).

The remaining 60km are mercifully flat. In a ten-bike peloton (Ju, John, Brandon, Si, Iggy, Mike, Steve, Steve and Grant(?)), we race alongside the river Gail E’ish, speeding through the pretty Austrian towns and villages (Watschig, Moderndorf, Nampoach, Vorderberg, Notsch im Gailtal) to the front of the (first-prize in the Boxy-est competition) Hotel Seven in Villach.

As far as I know, only one faller today; John took a slide on a wet cornered descent of the Passo Duron (probably some slug slime). Just a bruised palm; he should be ok for his July Men’s Health cover shoot. UPdate, a second faller: Sarah’s wheel caught a drain cover: another elbow planed.

Liz wibbling#2 Manadvice

It seems there is never a shortage of males willing to generously offer free advice to the unsuspecting female cyclist (although to be fair – the lads on this trip have been total stars – not an ounce of patronising).

Here’s a few from my collection:

1. How to wash my bicycle: “you wanna start with a bucket of soapy water…”. ( I spend more time cleaning my bike than my lovely husband spends watching football. Exactly).

2. How to cycle faster: “Get on the drops!”. This gem was delivered as I was smoothly rotating to the front of the peloton. The advice was not proffered to the male cyclists splintering out the back …

3. Pick of the litter this one: “You must have a very good husband to let you out cycling so much…” Oh to have a husband that lets me roam free! The insinuation that a husband is risking promiscuity in his wife and will lose her if he doesn’t tighten the leash.

4. A demo on how to do lunges…(cue humorous physical demo).

5. Half way up an alpine ascent I’ve been advised that I need to “go at my own pace” and “take it steady” Guess there would have been more advice forthcoming, but sadly they dropped back…

137.75 km, 3,188 m.

We depart the glossy mahogany sledge beds of the capaciously-proportioned Park Hotel.

We’re still feeling fresh and chipper, but also stuffed with foreboding. Today is Zoncalon Day. Described as cycling’s sacred mountain, and often a stage in the Giro D’Italia. The pro cyclist Gilberto Simoni summarised thus: “It’s like a slow execution; the easiest part of the Zoncolan is harder than the most difficult at the Tour”. It’s a behemoth 1,182m of climbing, over 9km from Ovaro to Sutrio, with an average gradient of 11.9%. But before then, we have the Sella Ciampigotto (1,790m), a long (16.5km) but relatively gentle ~ 6.4% climb.

From the hotel, we cruise into the ancient city of Belluno and back over the river Piave. Heading NE, we climb gently, criss-crossing the river, as we pass through a series of beautifully named villages including the siblings Ospital-, Perragolo-, Piever-, Calazo-, Domegge-, Lazzo- and finally Laggio-di Cadore (I can’t find a translation for Cadore, but it’s clearly an important thing around here). At one point, the road is barricaded for competitive-looking youth MTB races. We weave through the warming-up contestants and wandering spectators. The support vehicles take a detour (I think?). The climb is pleasant, the vegetation changing markedly as we ascend the lush valley, hitting a few switchbacks to a rocky summit with alpine meadows. Just beyond the summit of the Selle Ciamignotto, I join the Steves at a mountain hut for Coca Colas, and hopefully inquire on a tiramisu. It’s a long shot, and they seem accommodating, but I have to make do with a slice of a cherry, almond and clove cake. It’s a bit dry – needed custard.

Others arrive and after a while we head collectively head off…just 2km along, to the lunch stop we’d kinda forgotten about. It’s a large refugio and we all pile in; inside, the fire is lit! (the locals think it’s chilly, but we’re from Yorkshire). A super-organised cook delivers bowls of pasta, more cola is drunk, then we head off back down the valley. After a few turns, I take the lead, it is butterscotch-sweet. The Pirelli tyres bite into the tarmac curves like liquorice laces. Pushing the weight through the outside pedal, I lean into each of the turns, grinning like an idiot. As the gradient eases, John pulls past, and I hop on the Myburgh Motor to the foot of the Zoncalon.

My Garmin grades steepness in colours: yellow, orange, red…and black. For the next 1000m of ascent, it is black. For any masochists/sadists, thinking of donating to our charity (Just Giving page.), this was The Most Brutal Climb I have Ever Done in My Life. (actually feeling a little sick just thinking about it now). The only way I can get up this giant is by weaving across the road. It allows me to 1. Stay upright. 2. Keep my cadence ‘up’ (50rpm!!!) and 3. My heart rate below 140bpm (I’m trying to take things easy with an eye on actually lasting the full 8 days of riding…).

In the world of cycling, weaving across the road up a climb (to reduce the effects of the gradient) is considered pretty bad form, kinda level with serving a ready meal to guests under the guise it’s your own cooking. That is how low I have gone. Whenever a car comes past, I have to ‘go straight’, and nearly come off a couple of times. At one point, Martin, our lovely support driver kindly pulls alongside to gently inquire if I’m ok. I’m out of puff, and perhaps becoming a little overly focused. Like a drama queen, I breathlessly yell at him to ‘GO, GO, GO! It’s not how I meant it to come out, and Martin speeds off up the hill like a scolded cat. For the rest of the climb (hours), I am filled with remorse. Martin I’m so sorry!

The climb is relentless, my fingers sneak to the levers even though my brain knows we’re out of gears. With so little momentum, any pinecones or small rocks could derail me and I focus like a premiership football goalie (this better be my families favorutite team Spurs’s Guglielmo Vicario), with very little else in my mind. To add to the experience (which I have paid for…), I am so nearly static, that I can’t even outpace the flies; they feast on my arms like freebie sweaty donner kebabs (shudder).

Zoncalon: Bonk-alon (in cycling, this means to run out of energy), Zonk-alon (to hit heavily), Honk-alon (as in “sweaty/not smelling great”), Konk-out-alon (to break down). Send your answer-alon’s on a postcard).

The weather closes in, thunder rumbles across the valley, a storm is on its way. A polystyrene-based helmet, and carbon fibre bike should be ok, but, like a sweaty donner kebab, I’m drenched in enough electrolytes to recreate a Frankenstein’s monster awakening. Nearer the top, relative respite is found in three straight, dank tunnels, then finally, the top is bagged, without an electrocution. A fleeting, dull photo to record the joy as sharp, heavy raindrops slap into my face. I tackle the decent like a Weasley (gingerly), taking the hairpins as though balancing a panna cotta on my top tube. Safely down, but a disappointing waste of a glorious decent.

The hotel Alla Font in Arta Terme (terme: “finished”, and I am so terme…) is comfortingly close to the bottom of the climb, and Iggy waves me into the shelter of the hotel garage. I will never repeat the Zoncalon.

It’s the start of another epic with the Boltonians. This time we’re hauling up/speeding down a route from Venice, through Northern Italy, a snippet of Austria, then looping back through Slovenia, with an optional protrusion S into Croatia. Advance apologies for the jokes…(So I ordered at this restaurant, and the waiter came back with a Tiramisu and a blindfolded horse. “Your order sir.”
“No” I replied, “I ordered Mascarpone.” (Thank you Tim Vine xx)

Some Stats:

We have 24 riders and 2 awesome drivers (in many respects); Graham and Martin. A big shout out to John Myburgh for impeccable organising, and to make sure we don’t let him down, we’ve put some effort prepping for this week: Since 1^st Jan this year, Strava tells me that we (data missing for 4 riders) have ridden > 84,000 practice miles, >800,000m of ascent, and spent over 3,290 hours in the saddle. Google tells me that’s equivalent to 7 ½ years of career training: one of us could be a qualified doctor or speaking fluent Chinese (but still 7000 h short of a golf pro).

Graham and Martin should be waiting at Venice airport (with our luggage, and precious cargo: nearly £180,000’s worth of bikes); or holed up somewhere making listings on eBay…

Each bike has been partially dismantled and lovingly cocooned in insulation padding and bubble wrap. Except for Si Patel’s(?)’s. His arrived late, unpacked and was thrown on the top. It’ll probably be ok…

We’re not just riding for fun and cakes. We want to support a charity that’s close to our hearts, the Bolton Lads and Girls club. I’m hoping that you’ll read this blog and maybe donate to charity because you want to: chuckle (Gen X’ers) or eye-roll (Gen Z’ers) at my foot-in-mouth cultural faux pas; drool over in-depth descriptions and photos from extensive patisserie research (gourmets); appreciate the sea-to-alps flora (botanists); revel in the suffering (sadists, masochists), support my efforts to show misogynists that two woman can match/beast twenty-two (middle-aged 😉) men across 625 miles and 53,266’ ascent over eight days (feminists); and/or help provide a safe space, trained support, and facilities for disadvantaged young people at the Bolton Lads and Girls club. Liz Rylott’s Just Giving page.

Liz’s trip wibbling#1 Physiology Woman v men

From ‘tinternet (I’m not citing peer reviewed literature, just generalising from unverified google fodder -chill!):

Women are ~10% fatter. We carry ~40-50% the upper body muscle of men, that weight-for-weight, is less powerful (men’s muscles have more Type II fibres, which contract faster giving more power and speed). We have an average 12% less haemoglobin in our blood, our hearts are ~30% smaller, and for the same exercise, will beat faster, incurring fatigue sooner. Our VO₂max score (a measure of cardiorespiratory fitness and aerobic performance capacity) is ~15 – 30% less than men’s. How on earth are we going to keep up with the men?

Well, we do have a few tricks up our Lycra…

Our muscles contain more Type I fibres, which are more resistant to fatigue, so maybe better suited to endurance. The gap between the sexes narrows as the endurance event duration increases. Smaller people (so woman more than men) have more surface to volume ratios, so can dissipate heat faster; and might be better at not overheating (this one is no comfort as the weather forecast is looking a little chilly on the tops…). Studies suggest we are better at burning fat compared to our liver-based glycogen stores, again an advantage over longer (>2h) exercise. Strategic thinking is apparently also better developed in woman; we’re less impulsive and thus more likely to measure our exertion up the hills, and over the full 8 days.

And we might be mentally tougher? Mental toughness is a measure of confidence and resilience. We’re less confident (is this why I have caveated all our positive statements with hedge words?!), but we’re more mentally resilient, we are more likely to survive famines and epidemics, and live longer.

Cycling of course needs legs, and here our lower body strength is not so ‘bad’, only 60-70% that of men; female thighs are legendary! Remember Bambi thigh-throttling James Bond in Diamonds Are Forever? And I have a secret weapon: I am packing behemoth thighs. With a 24” circumference (that’s only 5” less than my waist!) these prize-winning marrows are something to fear menfolk.       

Bottom line, Sarah and I will be working physiologically much harder than the boys: This will hurt…so give us some sponsorship wonga to spur us on.

Our Just Giving page 🙂

101.9km, 1,157m ascent

An auspicious start to the trip as we manage to depart the airport without the traditional spaghetti trail of U turns and beeping Garmins (and beeping of expletives). Airports are understandably not designed with cyclists in mind. On previous trips, we’ve come close to hiring an Uber lead-out…

Bikes are hatched from bubble wrapping, and wheels, pedals, seat posts fastened. Every trip someone has a bent rear mech hanger, so we straighten this trips’ and head off.

To start, a pillow of bright, warm air gently buffs us along the sandy canal towpath of the river. Spirits are high; after many months of planning, we are finally on our way…and the terrain is comfortingly flat. The land here is arable, ribbons of wheat and maize growing for future pasta carbo loadings. We turn north onto a dusty A road, and attempt to ride as a group, but there is giddiness in the pack, like a herd of excited bullocks, the front starts to race off. We enter the Treviso, skirting around its inner ring road. Steeped in snappy Italian cool, this is the hometown of the exquisite Pinarello bicycle company, but also Benetton clothes, Diadora (football boots), Geox (trendy shoes – I had to look this one up), Sisley (posh face creams) and trendy coffee machine makers De’Longhi. Even Tiramisu was born here. It couldn’t be more Italian. We off-load our entire Italian vocabulary at the stunning architecture: bellisismo, bella, Dolmio…

We continue another ~20km north, hitting the very first climb of our trip, a mere hiccup of ~100m at into Susegana, a pretty village with old stone buildings, and a white tower and the foothills to The Alps. With fresh legs, we soar over and swoop down into Pieve di Soligo with tummies rumbling. A few more kilometres and lunch presents itself in a shady café/wine bar.

Sincere apologies here, but there was a complete dearth of cakes, not even a sniff of a tiramisu. The world’s smallest Cokeacola bottles and some savoury nibbles sufficed. But don’t worry Reader, I promise to track down double helping of cake tomorrow…

Post lunch, we follow a gentle ascent through Follina: I Borghi più belli d’Italia (one of the most beautiful villages of Italy (Wikipedia). We’re enjoying today. We’re on holiday!!! The route starts to pull up as we hit the foot of the ‘Marble Run’-isque (a favourite with my kids, and shout out to Granny & Grandpa for provision) San Boldo Pass (~600m).

The gradient quickly quells the chit chat. San Boldo Pass is an amazing feat of engineering. We nose through a series of white-washed U-bends. We’ve gone up the swanny! It’s not a ‘big’ big climb, but it’s a taster of what’s ahead. There’s particularly climb on everyone’s mind, and the source of numerous WhatsApp memes and leg pulling over the last 12 months.  The Zoncolon. Rouleur magazine calls it the Giro’s Most Feared Climb. It’ not even on the horizon but is already overlooking our minds…

The summit weather is dark and close, maybe a storm approaching? A fun, descent into Trichiana, then over the glittering waters of the mineral-rich river Piave, and into Triva. A short pull brings us to the rather institutional-looking front of the Park Hotel in Mier.

A few mishaps to report today, as with every one of these trips, there are a few first day mishaps. Kerry mashed his palm into his chainring, Dave L. did a classic ‘fail to clip in-while starting off on a steep climb’, and his brother Pete was caught on a tight bend in a sprawled spooning session with Mark P. Fingers crossed we all stay upright tomorrow.

(Thursday 3^rd August 2023)

The weather has had a few words with itself, and delivered some sunshine. We bid farewell to The Greyhound, temporarily part company with Mr Potato Head.

Heading North across Pitstone Common, we cross back into a SE finger of Buckinghamshire and along  The Ridge Way; Pauls Knob, off to the SW is legitimate cause for another wee snigger, we then climb up onto Ivinghoe Beacon (Beacon Hill 233m). North east, we again cross a border, at Edlesborough, this time into Bedfordshire (Shittington, probs fed up of constatnly being confused with Dorset’s Shitterton).

We hit the outskirts of Dunstable, and urban concrete into Luton, home of Stacey Dooley (TV presenter and 2018 Strictly Champion). Heading N we pass the Wardown Park Museum then Luton Town Ladies Foods. (they need a shout out; raising money to Providing school lunches for children in the Luton area who do not have access to the food voucher scheme, #ENDCHILDFOODPOVERTY). We pick up The Icknield Way NE, a Neolithic trail over 5000 years old, sneak around Warden Hill (195m) crossing another golf course , then head back into Hertfordshire, through a sliver of green at Hoo Bit(?!, Deacon Hill (172m), then back into Wiltshire over the river Hiz at Ickleford. There’s a guns-testing haul of laden bikes over the railway line to earn a stop at Cadwell Farm Lavender Fields & Cafe for a second breakfast. Here we are joined by Mr Potato-Head (looking considerably de-plumped). He has parked the van in Hitchin, and ok’d his cycling head for the rest of the trip (yay!). At the cafe, slice of orange and raspberry cake doesn’t touch the sides, so I throw down a piece of rose and pistachio on a second wave of tea. Correct refueling and nutrition are critical concepts in performance cycling.

We rejoin the Icknield Way, and pull into Letchworth Garden City. The World Health Organisation estimates taht air pollution kills “an estimated seven million people worldwide every year“, so I think it’s worth paying homage to Ebenezer Howard and colleagues who created LGC as the first example of a Garden City, “a new type of settlement which provided jobs, services, and good housing for residents, whilst retaining the environmental quality of the countryside, in contrast to most industrial cities of the time.“(Wikipedia).

An engineered detour takes us to the must-see attraction of Sollershott Circus, the UK’s First Roundabout, built around (sorry) 1909. They have a sign up to celebrate!

Not sure everyone is quite as enthusiastic, so after a few laps, I turn off. We decide to pop into Halfords for more 650b inner tubes, and get an assessment on my bottom bracket; it’s squeakier than Casanova’s mattress… A member of staff declares that the bike looks well-used (it’s literally dripping mud) and before he’s even got close, explains the drivetrain will “need lots of work” (it doesn’t; we leave).

Over the M1, Cal is bitten by another bee/wasp-like insect again (turns out to be thankfully much less severe this time) Then much general NE bike wiggling, over Cat Ditch stream (kittens beware) through Ashwell and across in into Cambridgeshire (Stow cum Quy and Prickwillow). We turn SE at Melbourn for urgent cakey restoratives at The Hideaway Cafe.

Good job we caked-up as our nettle mettle was about to be tested. A slight navigational twitch plunged us S into Essex (Turkey Cock Lane, Ugley and Bachelors Bump) and a pit of nettles. Swimming through the ditch, we flayed to the field edge, then enjoyed a robust thistle and burr shin thwacking before emerging back onto the Icknield Way Trail, and past another golf course.

A final shin-polishing from a field of golden wheat ears yields yelps of pain. Our penance rewarded with some absolutely mint single-track, we barrel through the trees to a bridge over the M11. A few more miles brings us through Hadstock and into the nestled bosom of The Three Hills at Bartlow, on the S edge of Cambridgeshire.