Kellen Smetana
As noted in the previous post, we pulled into Venice and it was time yet again for major changes to the Revolutions for Relief team.  Megan was returning to Maryland to continue “real work” and we would again be reduced to two.  Megan was 100% for the cycling trip from the get-go but it took many emails from China to actually convince her to come.  In the end, the emails paid dividends and our trip across Eastern Europe would not have been the same without her.  She single-handedly doubled our “high-five count” for the region, taught us the importance of eye-brow plucking even in rural Turkey, laughed at our jokes, somehow attracted circles of children around us at all times, and gave new meaning to musical analysis with the song We Are the World (The Boss is definitely the best – see last post).  Megan was a perfect addition to the team and she will be missed as we continue across Europe.

The three of us had been to Venice previously and we all remembered it as a completely pedestrianized – and hence, “pedestrian-friendly” – city.  Our assumption that “pedestrian friendly” translated to “cyclist-friendly” was proven dead wrong the second we arrived.  At every entry to the city we looked to pursue, we were met with walls of stairs.  Then we peered further in and remembered that Venice has more canals than streets, and each canal is crisscrossed by stairs and stairs and stairs.  In case it isn’t apparent, lugging an 80 pound bicycle (and later bike boxes) up and down stairs through hordes of tourists is not fun.  In the end, we resorted to sending each other on reconnaissance missions for hotels to avoid the hassle.  The one redeeming benefit from our stairmaster work was the applause we got from bemused tourists for whom we no doubt must have been the most odd-looking trio of the day.

As is always the case, we eventually conquered our little Venice “hills,” saw Megan off, stopped in a locksmith to fix Bill’s bike, and then Bill and I were back to the races.  We had other deadlines to hit and more roads to travel.  Now an all-male tandem, we were instantly urged to flaunt our increased testosterone with a quicker pace, more extreme campsites, less small-talk, and by incorporating a gelato break into every afternoon.  Yes, even the most seasoned cyclists can fall victim to the sweet appeal of Italian gelato.  It became such a tradition that there was real concern if we thought we would not pass a Gelateria in the afternoon.  We planned well, were always successful, and even devised the excuse that it was a perfect way to explore the smaller towns along the route.

For our route through Italy, we were inspired by Clif Bar anecdotes (adventure stories on Clif Bar wrappers) to traverse the smallest roads possible (we were also helped by the fact that Italy has much better road infrastructure than any country previously).  We stormed along through the beautiful northern Italian countryside, only hopping on more major roads to cross through cities.  In these instances, we were met with something we had not seen before.  It seemed that many Italian drivers were more concerned with our biking than with their own driving: they honked and swerved wildly just to give us a disapproving finger wag for the fact that they had to share a bridge or motorway with us.  How dare we!  Bill and I just waved, smiled, and showed off glimpses of our thick skin.

It was actually a very surprising sight given the incredible number of other cyclists we encountered on the road.  Italy was full of them: we met at least 15 to 20 every day.  On road bikes they can really sneak up on us tanks.  There were several instances where I heard an exclamation from Bill and looked back to find a cyclist had crept from behind to dish out an encouraging pat on the back.  After a good laugh, they were always ready to give out a mini Italian lesson for the next kilometer or so as we gave them our story and asked about the region.

In Italy we also found ourselves spoiled rotten with charming small towns.  As we entered each one, I always imagined this same town in America, where tourists would flock for the medieval walls, Renaissance churches, or string of street-side cafes; in Italy, we had them all to ourselves.  There were parallel towns 20km in every direction, and for the residents, these attributes were as basic to their town as were the post office and town hall.

We sat down for lunch in one of these small towns at the foot of the Apennine Mountains.  I had always assumed northern Italy (south of the Alps) was absolutely flat; so when we began to plan our route from Venice to southern France, I was surprised to find strong elevation gradation between us and the Mediterranean.  At the restaurant, I figured we better learn about our upcoming climbs and challenged our host, Paulo, to tell us a little about the route.  “Well,” he quickly replied, “Ernest Hemingway once said that the Trebbia Valley [where we would be riding] is one of the most beautiful places on earth.”  A much more satisfactory answer than I ever expected and one quickly proven true as we rode higher.  The quaint Italian towns continued and the scenery opened into a deep river valley for the next two days.

Our only issue in this mountainous region was the lack of restaurants and open campsites.  One evening as dusk was setting, we found ourselves still many kilometers from the next large town.  As we regrouped to strategize, Bill saw that the single home nearby had one too many tables on the front porch.  “Could that be a restaurant?” we wondered.  After scouring the empty house, we finally bumped into a woman working in the adjoined shed, who assured that “of course she would cook us dinner.”  I guess it’s a restaurant.  Several pasta plates into one of our best meals of Italy, we realized it was now completely dark outside the still vacant restaurant.  I figured it was an appropriate time to lay out our desires to sleep on her patio; after some charming and a lot of persistence, she agreed.  We slept as well as the cement on which we rested.

The next morning we awoke for our ride into Genoa.  We were at such an altitude that most of the morning’s ride was above the clouds.  The cameras were flying until the sun broke above the peaks.

We took a rest day in Genoa, catching a bit of the Michigan game online and rubbing elbows with Genoese youngsters in a night out on the town, but we were soon back on the trail.  It was time to return to the coastal riding we knew all too well in Europe: this time, the mighty Med.

The next two days we rolled on along the Mediterranean, encountering yet more cyclists en route.  One particular gentleman introduced us to a 30km cycling path paved over old rail tracks.  It was a welcome change from our shoulder riding and took us up to the border with France.  We exited Italy slightly plumper than we entered (gnocchi and gelato diet, coming out 2012 in the States) and pleased that we had another major country under our belts.  We had high expectations for our next country and they seemed to be welcomed with open arms as we entered France under the full morning sunshine of the Cote d’Azur.

Megan Melcher
2,161 kilometers after leaving Istanbul, we finally pulled into Venice and it was unfortunately time for me to head back stateside.  While I was looking forward to warm showers, full sized towels, and non-Clif Bar breakfasts, I was very sad to leave Europe and the boys.  I know the adventures that took me through four weeks and eight different countries will last a lifetime.  Since I've been home, I've been asked the same question repeatedly: "What was your favorite part about the trip?" Being outside all day without the work-world worries of home, the sense of accomplishment following a mountain pass, and being in places and situations I never before considered are all fond memories of the trip.

However, my absolute favorite part of the trip was the people we met along the way.  For those of you keeping up with the blog, you know that we have met some absolute characters.  While some people have been more entertaining than others, one thing that really struck me is how inviting and benevolent every person has been.  Whether it was an Albanian lesson at lunch, free fruit in the rain, or a woman that spoke no English who went completely out of her way to help me find a way back to Venice with a gigantic bike box so that I could avoid a meltdown, I was truly touched by the friendliness and helpfulness shown by all.  I know I'll keep all of this in mind next time I see a struggling bike tourist riding down I-95!

While wandering around Istanbul one day before our biking began, Bill and I came across a rather ominous looking hole in the wall on the side of a small street.  It was covered in graffiti and we decided to investigate a bit.  Inside, we found a sign that read, "Art Gallery. Don't be scared. You will like."  We investigated further and after squeezing by two girls taking glamour shots in the hallway we came to a room filled with artwork.  It was the first time (but certainly not the last) on the trip when I wish I had not been biking so I could take home a souvenir.  What started as a threatening looking hole turned into a gorgeous art gallery.  The phrase, "Don't be scared. You will like" stuck with me and became my mantra for the rest of the trip.  When faced with several upcoming days of climbing, the thought of camping right next to a graveyard in a thunderstorm, or spending the evening in the middle of the road with a complete lunatic (please reference Bill's previous post), I would just repeat to myself in an unidentifiable accent, "Don't be scared.  You will like."  It's true, no matter how uneasy I may have felt to start, I always liked the outcome.  I am hoping that I can use this same mantra for the new challenges I face off of my bike.

Kellen and Bill, good luck with the rest of your trip!  I am already longing for a full day of top five lists, would you rathers, and banter about such pressing issues as the best singer in We Are the World.  I had an absolutely incredible time with you two and am so sad it's over.  Thank you for keeping me constantly laughing and entertained and for teaching me that the best way to remedy an imperfect situation is to find the closest restaurant open and drink wine until the storm passes.

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.