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.
