Category: Uncategorized

176.47 km, 4,424 m

(first draft😦) John loves to put an epic day into every trip (2024: Day 2, Zoncalon; 2022: Milan Sanremo; 2022: Tourmale 2019). Here is 2026’s.

The night before, I’m disgruntled to hear we’ll be setting off at 7am, missing breakfast (I’m quite protective of my 1^st and 2^nd breakfasts), but grumpiness evaporates as we head out into across Balconnette square and into the cool, crisp morning. Donkey brays, cockerel crows and cuckoo calls ring through the valley.

Craig, Sarah, Mike E, Steve Tr, Ed and I pull west along the valley. The traffic is quiet, apart from a frightening incident with a local(?) driving an older, dark blue car. We hear him sitting on his horn as he approaches, he doesn’t seem to like cyclists, and def not ones riding two-abreast. There is no other traffic on the wide road, but he nudges his right wing to force Ed right, and Steve, to Ed’s right, off the road. Craig gives chase and the driver then drives left at Craig, seriously trying to knock him off too. We shout for calm, and he eventually leaves us alone. But we’re all flustered, angry, and a bit frightened. Tourists are not every local’s cup of tea, but please don’t kill us!

The first climb to the Col de la Bonette (2,715 m) is a Monster. And by far the worse climb I can remember struggling up. Last night, the Sandman gave me just a few hours sleep, then ripped my leg muscles out and replaced them with wet sand. I have NOTHING. It’s horrible seeing the ~2,2000m of ascent on the Garmin screen, and the others disappear into the distance. After another hour, Martin pulls alongside – “am I ok?” he cheerily asks. “No…I’m not” (my lower lip is out and I’m stuffed full of self pity). I decide to have a sit down on the driver’s side step of the van, and huddle up looking pathetic. Martin is a Rock. He coaxes a cola down me, and then some biscuits (I knw – hard to belive for me!), along with encouraging comments. I perk up a little and decide to press on, but fill the next two hours with some dark wallowing and a little cry until I’m actually near the summit (amazing the power of a good wallow!).

This year, the top loop is still just about closed with snow (some of us manage to squeeze round, but the giant snow plough operator is understandably angry with this). Martin is parked at the top, expertly perching the van into a prime spot. He’s been monitoring my ascent, ready to collect me if needed. I think I will marry him later this evening.

I bag a summit shot then am lucky enough to watch a scurrying young marmot sprint across the road in front of me. The marmots are whistling warnings, or coo-ees, or other news? One, enormous, reclining marmot is less bothered and appears to be stroking his tummy with one soft paw…and, it’s just a blur, but a Gauloise in the other?

A few other riders are milling around and it’s a little chilly so I begin the glorious descent. I love sweeping down hills, the air is rushing loudly past my ears, and I’m yodelling a bit of the Sound of Music’s Lonely Goat-herder. I’m in high spirits and may have lost track of my volume… Up ahead I see the large derriere of a motorhome trundling into the road. NO! This is going to ruin my descent. With no audio control, (and most definately not my finest hour) I loundly declare, in a bad French accent, “Oh non! C’est une total sh***tttter”. In my (weak) defence, it’s meant as a humourous ode to the 1990s Jaffa Cake “total eclipse” advert, and def not meant for the ears of anyone else. Immediately, the motorhome brake lights flick on, and  thumbs up comes out the drivers window. Ooops! And Sorry! But what a happy outcome😊 Thank you Lovely Driver. The air thickens, and warms as I descend, with after a while, a somehow comforting smell of goat(?), and some ear popping. Finally, a village square with the welcoming scarlet and white parasols of a café. The first café we congregate in is drinks only (they have food, but it’s ‘the wrong time of day’), we enjoy syrupy sweet colas then head down to the other café, which has cakes(!).

In France, mealtimes are sacrosanct, almost religious affairs. Café staff guard the tables with food, and drinks-only areas are strictly segregated (if you sit at the wrong table – Oh là là !). The food tables are prettily laid with baskets of bread, napkins, cutlery and upside down wine glasses (stout ones for stability outside). People dress-up a little, and arrive ready to enjoy a long, drawn-out, relaxed experience, doubtless with profonde conversations on Voltaire, Rousseau and Diderot. A French meal is about giving an experience, a lot less about monetising.

There are dainty tarts visible in a cabinet and bread in the baskets on the tables. Without even sitting down, we congregate around the cabinet. We’re hungry, and perhaps more used to UK fast-food service. One of our party, with a beautifully broad Blackburnian accent asks “have ya gor’ any bread”? The dainty, chic waitress looks quizzically at him (he’s clad in black Lycra, 6’2” and blonde). After a second, using tongs, she offers him a piece of bread from one of the baskets. “Have ya gor’any buttt, herr?”. She’s uncertain of the response here. They are worlds apart and watching this endearing exchange is just lovely.

As are the cakes. An exquisite lemon merangue hits my furnace and we head off along the valley to find the second climb. Last night, John pointed out that the climbs are sequentially lower, so “slightly easier”. It’s one way to distract the mind. However, it’s not necessary, Mr Sandman’s wet sand has dried out, and trickled from my legs; the second climb to the Col de la Lombarde / Colle della Lombarda (2,351 m) is long, but it’s not hideous. The bikers have finished their breakfast Bratwursts and rumble their engines past us, the noise rolling around the mountains.

Tony L. Pulls alongside for the last few 100m of height and we cross the summit together. It’s such an addictive high; Martin is there with a van full of drinks and goodies and this time I decide that I will to bear his children. We replenish water bottles, take on cearal bars, Madelines, and ‘bun cakes’, then take summit photos, sharing the viewpoints with the leather-clad bikers.

The second descent is superb!  A bit like skiing lots of little turns, and it eeks out the height beautifully. Near the end are a set of famous switchbacks which are over all too soon (thanks and Kudos to @StephenReed for Clifton track tuition 👌), and I arrive at the main road junction at the bottom of the valley, with a café to find.

He’s ok now, but along the descent, very unfortunately, one of our party collided with a couple of cars and was swiftly borne to the nearest hospital for checkups and minor bandages. As I type, he has just been given the all-clear, and is on his way home for a rest.

I’m joined at the junction by Mike, Craig, Sarah, Steve and Mike. After stuffing some cereal bars down while we search on our phones, Mike spots a café ~1km off the route. It’s an ancient fort, we cross a drawbridge over a dry moat and realise we’re in Italy (not just in the fort). It’s a round of focaccia rolls, cola’s and espressos. There are deckchairs tempting, but we need to get on the road again; just one more itty bitty, little Col: Maddalena (1,991 m). Should be a doddle. Main road, steady incline. IT IS interminable. And possibly the hardest of the three summits. I think we’ve been cycling for at least a week before, feeling humbled, we crawl to a stop next to the van at the col. Steve Tk and Martin are brilliant at topping up bottles and spurring us on. It’s a long, dusty descent on the main road, slotting in-between enormous lorries keen to get their milage in for the day. In La Condamine-Chatlard (great name!), I wait for Steve and Sarah, and we race the last ~20km downhill to Barcelonnette, roping in a willing German who pulls a few turns on the front.

The restaurant booking has been pushed back to ~8:30pm, and we’re still waiting for Cal, he joins us, still en Lycra, to wide applause straight off the bike at ~9pm. Epic effort!

(first draft – more photos and info to follow later)

Bolton Lads & Girls Club (BLGC) (www.blgc.co.uk) and the wider national community to which it belongs, Onside (www.onsideyouthzone.org) in the hope you will feel inspired enough to donate just a little to ensure its continued success –https://www.justgiving.com/page/roofoverourhead

93.62 km, 2,227 m

(first draft…) The morning started with the traditional hotel buffet Search & Devour, as ~20 hungry cyclists ate into the hotel’s profit margin like gannets in a chip shop. The gently warming morning sunshine beckoned, and I struck off ahead of the group to get stuck into a basically one single long climb. The roads were quiet as an astonishingly beautiful valley unfolded ahead of me. The route traces the river Var back to its source, and while the foothill pimple was quickly reached, then following ~1,400m of continuous ascent required more mental application.

There are signs of nature everywhere, a couple of deer rumps bound into the trees, and butterlies flutter by, and for a few miles, there are numerous suicidal caterpillars crossing the road like chickens. About 800m into the climb, I fail to resist the white and scarlet parasols of a beckoning café. Time for some patisserie, but excuses moi, pas des gateaux? Patisserie? Non? Ces qu’el ce pas? Encroyable! Something about Sunday? (a Tesco’s superstore wouldn’t let me down like this…)

Despite the Dimanche-induced dessert desert, in dribes and drabs, other riders start to arrive. We pull up red plastic chairs and order bottles of Coca cola, café au laits and almond Magnums. It’s been a while, but some serious slimification. Magnums? Minimums more like ☹

It is later in the morning now. The motorbikers have finished their sausage breakfasts and are hurtling past us to the summit (on our team kit it smugly gloats Earn the Descent…). In the opposite direction, are some very flash cars, including a rather sexy Ferrari that tried to take his wing out on me. We share hairy passings through rock tunnels with hairy bikers, and mostly continue upwards.

Everyone has their own way of dealing with the job in hand. One of us describes the need for music to ‘keep the noise’ from their heads, and I know what they mean. Like snails, we inch further upwards, some riding singly, but most in small groups.

It is warm, and a glittering turquoise lake calls from the roadside. I inform the rider ahead that I’m definitely going to jump into the next watery opportunity. On passing, I realise he is not in our group, and decide to leave him with that information.

~300m from the summit, Si pulls alongside for company, and we chat a little which I think helps distract us both from the pedalling, ‘till we reach the top. As expected, the summit monument is treacled with bikers. They take a while excitedly arranging themselves to bag photos of their ‘hard-earned’ (still smug…), leather clad summits, while we wait, externally patiently. We snap a few piccies, then someone points out that the café in Balconnete closes at 2:30pm…

We swoop down the other side, bouncing over a few road ruckles, with thoughts of cheesey pizza urging us on. (We make it to the restaurant in time, but the pizza oven has been switched off. Gutted).

(more update/photos of other group members to follow when I have time!)

Bolton Lads & Girls Club (BLGC) (www.blgc.co.uk) and the wider national community to which it belongs, Onside (www.onsideyouthzone.org) in the hope you will feel inspired enough to donate just a little to ensure its continued success –https://www.justgiving.com/page/roofoverourhead

147.07 km, 2,259 m

(first draft…) Keith Richards after a heavy party, is what I looked like this morning. My ‘Smart’ watch was telling me to moreorless lie motionless for the next 24 hours. These things don’t exactly help. But everyone was bustling around the breakfast buffet and spirits sound high. There was a firm belief that riding 1400m in a one’er yesterday was unbelievably foolish, and today’s ‘longer and higher’ route would be much better because it was broken up into bite-sized chunks… (spoiler: it was).

Another top weather forecast, and I headed out with Craig and Sarah; and Mike E for some of the ride. We Start It Up with a doom-filled descent – we were going to have to come back up this at the end of the day. But a few miles in and our legs loosen up.

More incredible scenery with distant icing-dusted mountains, framing meadows bountiful with botany. Some saw a Golden eagle and a black kite too. After a while, the ‘wolf pack’ hunts us down and speed past, only to stop for a ‘comfort break’ a little further up the road. We pressed on and are caught again at the low summit Col de la Sentinelle (981m).

At ~40km in, we cross over La Durance, an unbelievably bright turquoise lake, then begen slowly tapping out our ascents of of a couple more hillocks. Somehow, we meet up with the faster bunch on the way into the concrete-y side of Gap. Some take the chance to stop for a quick break at a bakery on a noisy junction, but we gambled (to be fair, I can smell a passtiserie/boulangerie from ~23km) and found a quieter spot over the next col in La Batie-Neuve at ~80km.

Martin positioned the van perfectly after the following Col, we refilled all our water bottles and told us the others were not so far ahead, and we might catch Mike back up. A few miles further on, and there he was in the distance. Up to this point, Craig had done by far the majority of turns on the front, but as Mike rose out of the distance, I saw a flash of Sarah coming past. Ah! I knew the game here and followed on her heels. We needed to squarely disabuse Mike of any indication that we had not been pulling our weight on the front. We sped along, with a confused Craig in our wake. I think he realised what was up, then just before we reached Mike, he cheekily took back the lead. But all for nothing: it was not Mike! We had caught and passed a napping, male youngster. I saw his shocked face disappearing behind us. Now there is a phenomenon both Sarah and I endure, which is that male cyclists hate getting caught napping by females. True to form, it was not long before he came past like a train. He then ran out of steam (this bit always happens too), and we simply sat on his ego wheel, as he burnt everything he had to avoid losing face. Finally, he had to pull a pretend right turn. Unfortunately, we pulled this too (it was out route). He then took a shady left behind some light industrial units, where we’re pretty sure he stopped to huff like a pair of old bagpipes in Glasgow at New Year’s Eve.

A good chunk of the riders was there, ordering too much, heavy carb-based food for lunch in a bar to the right, and we pulled in for a Coca cola/Sprite break.  

Some of the descents on this ride were just gorgeous; like skiing a twisty left-right-left down silky smooth roads. On these decents, some pedalling on-and-off required, and to maintain speed, I’m hoovering air. This has two effects, firstly, it dries my mouth out like a bag of Frazzles, and secondly, I imagine I take on the appearance of a warbling Mick Jagger as my chops flabber against the wind. But it’s thrilling, and I unstick my tongue at the bottom of the descents.

The softly-softly approach to today’s climbing seems to be paying off; I’m feeling much better. We bridge back across the turquoise carpet, and begin the ascent back up to the hotel, picking up other stragglers too. Sarah and I organise a no-drop peloton to bus everyone back at the pace of the slowest rider. Frustratingly, there some misunderstanding as one of the riders thinks we women must be the weakest link, and offers their wheel to ‘help’. We decline, and they continue – no help whatsoever. Grr. Next to pass is a truck with four(?) enormous cows on it. Tony L. gets a quick whiff, and appears to lose all fatigue, chasing vigorously into the distance after the cows. It’s a funny sight. A few miles later, we spin into Balconette, for cool beers at the bar: Satifaction.

(Sorry reader – I’m to tired to get Day 4 up, and we’re getting up early for Day 5, more photos to follow when time – sorry!)

Bolton Lads & Girls Club (BLGC) (www.blgc.co.uk) and the wider national community to which it belongs, Onside (www.onsideyouthzone.org) in the hope you will feel inspired enough to donate just a little to ensure its continued success –https://www.justgiving.com/page/roofoverourhead

94.32 km, 1,836 m

6th June – Nice to Hôtel Les Alizés – 11 Rue Alexandre Barety, 06260 Puget-Théniers, France

(first draft…)The grey, spitting skies of Manchester airport give us a cold shoulder as we fly off towards the warm welcoming arms of sunny Nice. A frustrating queue for biometric scanning before we are released into the airport car park. Martin and Jeff have done an INCREDIBLE job – driving our precious bicycles over from Bolton, picking up supplies (waiting outside Lidl before opening time), securing a spacious bit of concrete from the Nice airport parking attendant, and unloading all our bike bags.

Suncream is applied, then n-1 bikes assembled (a Mr Steve has mis-packed his pedals, skewers and a bit of his headset, which he decides are probably needed. He won’t be riding today). We start with a trip first: we manage to leave the carpark without the traditional getting lost lap of disgrace and unison Garmin beeping. It’s going to be a great week!

There are 21(?) riders, all decked out in our team kit – quite a sight as we pull through the traffic of Nice, nipping between the nose to tail Ferraris and Porches. What is described by several as a ‘punchy’ start pulls us up through the busy Nice streets, then steadily inland and uphill (of course it’s up hill – need to get used to this!) alongside the enticingly watery river Le Var. Just 10 miles in, there’s a collective lunch stop. Keen to review the patisserie, a polite waiter brings me a silver tray with EIGHT sample products! He informs me that I shall be ordering the Paris Brest. Au naturallement! It is a wheel-shaped pastry, r”ound, i.e. wheel-shaped, was “created in 1910 by Louis Durand, pâtissier of Maisons-Laffitte, at the request of Pierre Giffard, to commemorate the 1,200 km (750 mi) Paris–Brest–Paris bicycle race he had initiated in 1891”. Yum!

The cafe stop is a long one, some are devouring plates of lingine, another looked supiciously like a Full English Breakfast…we have so far cycled just ~10 miles.

Où sont les potholes?

UK potholes are a current bone of political contention. I have had some near misses a NASA moon buggy would struggle to surmount. But here, the tarmac stretches out like a ribbon of velvet. Laughably, at times the French have decided it was more like a hessian and have carefully applied new replacements, which glisten like a black treacle Yorkshire parkin in the sun.

The first col is Vence, with an unexpected, high-grade coffee van parked up for a round of (hipster biker) iced oatmilk lattes. At a gravel layby, our heroes, Martin and Jeff, pull up alongside and ply us with water, bananas and a bag of buns (TripAdvisor 5*, friendly service A+++), I’m worried about the cake supply if we’re going with the letter B…

Still a couple more smaller cols to round over (Saint Marc 1,017m; Col des Ferres 596m; and Col Saint-Raphael 875m). Riding with Craig, the descents are flowing and curvaceous with some big drops Ed later worrying described as being irresistibly ‘magnetted’ towards. We sweep down the remaining turns from Bezaudun-les-Alpes, and pull up at the Hotel Les Alizes, in Puget-Theniers.

A pre-ordered dinner is finally served after ~2hrs (and for some, quite a few beers in). There’s discussion on the mignot steak, which is not the beefy hit people were expecting. I can confirm here that in France, filet mignon usually refers to cuts of pork tenderloin or veal tenderloin (either way, the Smash looked tasty). After lots of dinner banter focused around the usual declaration that everyone is unfit, and won’t ‘beast’ it tomorrow, we retire for the night. (They will beast it).

(Sorry reader -I’m a day behind after a lagged start finishing work stuff…Will post Day 2, and who knows maybe 3, tomorrow!)

Bolton Lads & Girls Club (BLGC) (www.blgc.co.uk) and the wider national community to which it belongs, Onside (www.onsideyouthzone.org) in the hope you will feel inspired enough to donate just a little to ensure its continued success –https://www.justgiving.com/page/roofoverourhead

A message from our Head Of Trip, Bradon Pilling

Dear Friends Family Colleagues…

Please forgive the impersonal nature of this message, which I sent to literally everyone who has made it into my email address book!  So, another two years having passed and it’s that time again when I take the chance to talk to you about Bolton Lads & Girls Club (BLGC) (www.blgc.co.uk) and the wider national community to which it belongs, Onside (www.onsideyouthzone.org) in the hope you will feel inspired enough to donate just a little to ensure its continued success –https://www.justgiving.com/page/roofoverourhead

I can’t believe how fast two years have passed, but when I look back I see x2 years of real change and real increasing pressure on young people.  Who would have thought that Governments would consider (and indeed have) banning (Anti) Social Media for under 16-year-olds …. goodness knows what pressure AI will bring!  But it reminds me every day that the goal of BLGC (and the wider Onside community) is simply to try and give every young person the chance for a good start in life, provide in a safe, measured and caring environment.  When BLGC was formed, over 125 years ago, it was at a time when society demanded that young people grow up, and quickly and so the club was created as that same safe space that effectively belonged to the young people so they could determine the agenda of what it was that they needed and not what society deemed they needed. And this is why, every two years we embark on a cycle challenge and ask if you will kindly support us. 

This year we will be flying into Nice, and taking on the high mountains in that area.  Over 8 days we will cycle 574 miles (923 km) and climb 60,125 ft (18.3km) at over 100ft of climbing for every mile we ride on average.  And as always, we are totally self-funding the event, to ensure that every penny you donate makes it to BLGC.

Of course, I fully understand and respect if, for whatever reason, you do not wish to.  I know that many support their own charities etc., and if that is the case, then I thank you for your time and hopefully at the very least I have made you more aware of the work this great Charity does and stands for.  But if you feel moved to get involved in helping keep the “doors open”, then know that your donation will be spent well, as it always has been.  

Thank You again for your time!

Kind Regards

Brandon   

The riders: Brandon Pilling, Cal Difalco, Craig Kippax, David Leather, Edward Hunt, Graham Balshaw, Graham Lister, Jeff Swindles, John Myburgh, Liz Rylott, Mark Griffiths, Mark Parsons, Martin Truelock, Mike Evans, Mike Picton, Pete Leather, Sarah Newton, Steve Turner, Si Patel, Steve Kenny, Steve Taylor, Steve Turnock, Tony Brierley, Tony Lowe.

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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