BIll Conry
Fresh off the Wolverine’s exciting victory, we pedaled out of Dubrovnik with our own conquest in mind: biking the entire length of the Croatian coastline.  Despite Croatia’s narrow shape, the south to north journey presented us with two route options.  We could stick to one major road that hugs the coast for the duration of the country, or we could venture out on peninsulas and islands that protrude northwest into the Adriatic and ride ferries back to the mainland.  Considering the reports we had heard from other bicycle tourist and enthralled by the idea of “island hopping” we unanimously chose the latter option.

The marginally longer distance and more challenging terrain proved to be worth it from a beauty standpoint, but it didn’t come without a price.  The first peninsula we rode, Peljesac, turned out to be the Sonoma of Croatia, with vineyards nestled amongst rolling hills everywhere you turned.  I find it appropriate at this time to mention our weather stats for this point in the trip:  with one exception every riding day since Istanbul had been hot (80-90 F) and sunny.  Of course I appreciate that weather, but when you’re biking for 10 hours a day it begins to take a toll on your body.  Heed my words, if you’re ever in Vegas and are able to place a bet on the hot Adriatic sun versus pale Irish skin, take the sun ten times out of ten.  The longer cycling days, lack of shade, and intense heat beginning in wine country caused me to fall victim to dehydration.   My perspiration outweighed my water intake despite my efforts to drink as much as I could.  With support from Megan and Kellen, some upbeat Lady Gaga songs on my iPod, and enough water to fill a swimming pool, I was able to make it Split alive despite my severe doubts.

We took a half rest day in Split to nurse me back to health and then continued up the coast to Zadar.  Much like Split and Dubrovnik, Zadar was a charming, historic city on the water with a walled pedestrian only “old city.”  We had a lovely night full of the  typical Zadarian pastimes of strolling the port, people watching by the cathedral, and dining at In-N-Out.  Yes you heard right.  The west coast burger chain with the cult following, notoriously known for refusing to expand eastward despite market demand, apparently has a store along the Adriatic.  Upon further investigation it was revealed that it’s an unaffiliated “bootleg” shop, using an ampersand in place of the “N.”  The burger was not bad, however, according to two LA natives we met there it was “not even close” to as good as the real deal.

The next day we set out for our second leg off the mainland, the island of Pag.  What this landmass lacked in civilization it made up for in its aesthetics with its endless open sheep fields and unique geologic formations.  The plan was to ride the length of the island in one day, take the short ferry back to the mainland, grab some food, and camp.  The circuitous path to the ferry port brought us up close and personal with grazing sheep, and I was fortunate enough to encounter a few rare black forms of the species.  As we waited for an hour at the remote port for the 8pm ferry, Kellen quipped “what if the other port is just like this?”  The area from which we departed consisted of a ticket booth and a dock.  That was it.  With plenty of lights on the other side of the water we were confident we’d at least find a place to grab a bite to eat before retiring for the day. 

As the ferry approached the new port we realized that most of the lights we saw were street lights and that it was nearly a mirror image of where we came from.  We entered a bar type establishment praying they could provide us with sustenance but quickly discovered that not only did they not sell any type of food, but  almost exclusively carried alcohol (no juice or anything)… and the next town was in 20km.  I’m not above drinking my dinner, after all beer does contain calories, but after a bout with dehydration and biking 120km that day, a Heineken meal did not present itself as a smart choice.

So here we were at 9pm starving and tired with nowhere to go but up the face of a mountain.  We had no other option but to strap on our headlamps and began to ascend the lengthy switchbacks.  Even though we had been chowing down on our supply of Clif Bars like a bunch of Clif junkies, we thankfully had a few remaining that we could eat for dinner.  Finding a campsite for our gourmet Clif meal would prove an arduous task given the steep topography and lack of vegetation.  

Out of nowhere we stumbled upon two other cyclists who set up camp in what seemed to be the one viable spot on the whole mountain face, a paved ramp connecting two legs of a switchback.   Jan and Andrew, a pair of ~50 year old men from Poland who were biking the Croation coastline in the reverse direction, welcomed us to their campsite.  They were certainly the odd couple; Andrew was quiet and austere while Jan was loquacious and jubilant with a sanity level in the realm of Gary Busey.  The longer we conversed with Jan the more of a character he proved to be.  We didn’t bother setting up tents, and just when we got into our sleeping bags Jan yelled over “You ready for storm at 4am?  I see on TV this morning.  Will be good time to wash, you know…”  I was quite upset to hear of this incoming weather until Jan giggled like a school girl to reveal he was joking.  We told them we planned to get up at sunrise, around 6am, and Jan said that was their plan too.  For some reason he thought that loose verbal pact was grounds to violently shake me and scream “WAKE UP!” when sunrise came and I was still asleep.  We bid our farewells when out of nowhere Andrew, who up until this point had literally only said “hello”, screamed “Good luck!” at the top of his lungs as we pedaled off.   Something told me that good luck just had to be heading our way now.

You could say luck did come our way in meeting another bicycle tourist 20km down the road.  Enter Phillip, a professor of hydrology at the University of Zurich who also began his ride in Istanbul but had taken half the time to arrive at that point in northern Croatia as we had.  This was a Saturday and Phillip had to be back in Switzerland for his first day of classes on Monday, so he planned to bike as far as he could for two days then take a train from either Ljubljana, Slovenia or Verona, Italy for the remainder.   Phillip is an experienced cyclist having toured all around the world so naturally we learned a lot from him in our half-day riding together, everything from cycling tips, to European history, to food recommendations for Italy.   He also stressed the importance of a mid-day dip to cool down and encouraged us to partake, which we did.  Alas, we had to part ways just after lunch as Phillip was looking to cover more ground than us (read: we were too slow).

After a short and sweet downhill ride through gorgeous Slovenia, which would have been shorter and sweeter had I not gotten a flat in the three hour window, we arrived in Italy.  Once there Kellen and Megan turned to me to be their language guide since I had studied in Florence five years ago.  They were out of luck.  Saying my Italian is bad is akin to saying Nicholas Cage’s acting is bad: it’s comically atrocious.  I knew that I’d need to ramp up my lexicon beyond “Ciao Bella,” “Vino Rosso,” and “Gelato” in order to sustain a conversation or ask for directions.  Just after Trieste it began to pour, so we decided to deploy our familiar tactic of waiting it out with a bottle of wine that brought us fantastic results in Greece.  We set up shop in a tiny café where Anastasia served us wine and sandwiches and helped bring us up to speed on conversational Italian. 

Once the rain let up we continued onward to find a camping space for the night.  We finally found a decent area, however there was one catch:  it was directly across from a graveyard – a haunted graveyard no less (I could just tell).  To make matters worse Megan insisted on telling firsthand ghost stories from the historic town of Frederick, MD.  Megan and Kellen had been sleeping in Kellen’s two person tent while I’ve been in my single abode, and my request to switch up the sleeping arrangements for the night was met with a resounding “no.”  Soon after, I found a way to fall asleep but was awoken by an eardrum shattering clap of thunder and the ensuing intense lightning storm.  I was convinced that my tent was going to blow away at several points, but to Big Agnes’ credit, I was able to survive the storm, pun intended.

As soon as we hopped on our bikes the next morning towards Venice the rain started right back up where it left off.  Because of Megan’s upcoming flight home, we had to arrive that day so we threw on our raingear and continued to ride.  We were relieved that the first sign read 105km to Venice, as we estimated more.  But then we were confused when we read 110km on the following sign and thought we were going crazy when the third read 120km.  This trend of seemingly arbitrary signs continued all the way to the canal city.  Kellen hypothesized that the sign makers got lazy and just asked the local townspeople how far Venice was instead of measuring it.  I guess Google Maps hadn’t yet hit northeast Italy.  We followed all the signs down to zero and were relieved to finally arrive in Venice.  Here we would take a much needed rest day and prepare to bid farewell to Megan for her journey home.

BEARD WATCH – BREAKING NEWS!

Hints of amber have been detected in the lower chin region.  It is unknown at this time whether these hairs are foreshadowing what is to come or a mere fluke.   A fire beard has not been ruled out.  Stay tuned for updates.

Kellen Smetana
Camel herders aside, passing time in the endless Central Asian deserts for any normal person will add even the slightest bit more appreciation for the cool, charming sensation of rolling down a coastal road.  After crossing the Caspian, bathing, battling, and beholding the Black, and grazing the Aegean, I was again ready to bask in the azure atmosphere of the sea and take on the mighty Adriatic.  As Megan noted in the last entry, I “love hills”; and I have been working on bringing Bill and Megan over to my school of thought.  Most of these coastal roads follow natural seaside cliffs, crest above finger-like rock outcroppings, wind around the occasional promontory, and bound down into a quaint beach town before rising precipitously to start the whole process over again.  The Adriatic coast of Montenegro and Croatia has provided much of these same hilly roads and I think it’s slowly starting to win over Bill and Megan on this hills business.

Following our eventful and laughter-filled sejour in Albania, we crossed into Montenegro to reach the Adriatic Sea.  For those of you who have never heard of Montenegro, here is one valid excuse: it is, in fact, the third newest country in the world (only losing to Kosovo - 2008 and South Sudan - 2011).  Montenegro, a former member of Yugoslavia like most of the rest of the Balkans, broke away from Serbia in 2006 and is now an attractive Adriatic destination free of the Serbia’s negative association to the Bosnian and Kosovo conflicts.  It is, of course, yet another stunning country.

We entered Montenegro on tiny rural roads deep amongst naked gray rocky peaks, vineyards, and olive orchards bordered by loose stone walls.  It was fun riding and we even stole away samples of the local produce straight from the vine/tree.  All the grapes were delicious (Megan and I claim this trip is the first time we’ve tasted “grape flavor” in actual grapes), though olives picked from the tree are some of the bitterest things I’ve ever eaten – there must be some elaborate pickling process before they make it to the neighborhood supermarket…

Our destination was the medieval walled city of Kotor.  When we were deciding where to take our rest days between Istanbul and Venice I remembered a Bing image I had seen two years prior of the Kotor Bay in Montenegro.  The simple photo sparked more research and eventually we had worked out our cycling route to give us time to explore Kotor and the bay… a very good decision.

Kotor is a small town of white-stone and red-roofed buildings set at the foot of some of the deepest fjords in Europe outside of Norway.  After checking the box on all of our standard, unexciting rest day tasks, we took the evening to explore the city.  Old churches, cobblestone streets, and back-alley cafes all contributed to its incredible charm.

At sunset, we even decided to take the “rest” out of “rest day” and climb around on the medieval fort walls that tower high above the city for incredible views on the bay.  It was well worth the effort.

Kotor was a refreshing stop, but it was time to exit Montenegro as quickly as we had entered it.  The next day we rode around the bay and on towards Dubrovnik, Croatia.  Dubrovnik is another city set at the heart of old Adriatic trading routes; its marble streets and fashionable buildings are evidence of its heyday wealth.  It was Kotor on a grander scale, and we were excited to visit the city, but at the time we had other things on our mind.

As it was a Saturday in September, that meant Michigan football.  As it was a Saturday in early September, that meant Michigan-Notre Dame.  As it was September 10, 2011, that meant the first night game in the history of the Big House.  We had been looking forward to this game for years and now we found ourselves in southern Croatia, about as far from Ann Arbor as you can get.  Many of you witnessed this first-hand as you were recipients of emails, Skype chats, and other messages searching for a way to watch the game.  The good news is that we eventually solved the puzzle through the amazing power of the internet.

We arrived in Dubrovnik and started the evening with an excellent Croatian dinner and wine inside the city walls (a little classier than our old tailgates).  Our post-dinner bar crawl for ESPN proved unsuccessful, but it was at least successful for making us some new Croatian friends.  By 2am, our friends wanted us to continue out on the town with them, but we had to return for kick-off.  Back at our guesthouse, we were glued to my tiny computer screen for the next four hours as we streamed the game online.  I guess it’s proof that in this modern age you’re never really all that far away from home.  When the game ended at 6am, our cheers were greeted by our guesthouse owner Slobe, who had risen with the sun for breakfast.  Now that’s what I call a night game!

We spent much of the next day touring Dubrovnik and catching up on sleep.  Our slumber was only disturbed every once in a while by Slobe’s crazy and energetic young daughter who decided that Sunday was “act-like-a-cat-day”: she climbed into our room to hiss and jump around on our beds.  We eventually got wild child out of there and rested up for our final push to Venice.  Now refreshed from our two Adriatic rest days, we have many more kilometers of rugged coastal road to cover, walled medieval trading ports to visit, and Croatian adventures to be had before we can roll into the European Union and on to Venice.