Average Speed: 15.3 km/hr (9 mph... so, so slow)
Distance Cycled Today: 120 km (74 Miles)
Distance Cycled Total: 2740 km (1702 Miles)
Mood: Deflated
About 10 miles into today's ride, I sent a text message to Jamie (he was 20 miles ahead, of course). Please tell me it gets better.
His response was simple: Nope.
I'm not quite sure what it was- neither is he- but something was off today. Way off. For both of us. Not once did I ever sink into a rhythm. The terrain was tricky, for sure, but there were no new specific challenges. I think it's because it was so... terraineous. I just made up that word. I like it.
It had everything. And that sounds fun. I mean, I don't know why bagel shops bother making different varieties when "Everything" or "Plain" pretty much cater to the entire spectrum of bagel consumers.
This was not that kind of everything.
Long steep climbs went unrewarded with the lack of descent in order to recoup and reap the benefits of work. Same for the long lazy climbs. And tiny steep downhills offered nothing in the way of thrill as it was more important to focus on which gear to be in to tackle the upcoming ascent.
Could've been the legs. I woke up early, but they slept in.
Could've been the oppressive heat. Large sunblock-laden sweat beads ran down my forehead and turned into painful, stinging tears that stained my cheeks throughout the entire day.
Could've been the scenery. We seem to be in the underbelly of Croatia, and it's like a European version of the underbelly of Kentucky.
Most towns I rode through looked abandoned, even though they weren't. Instead of unkempt trailers speckling the landscape (like Appalachian Kentucky), it was roofless stone buildings. And unlike Eastern Germany and the Czech Republic where buildings were painted one of three drab colors, these towns offered the only hue not currently in the Martha Stewart collection: Cinder Block.
This unchanging vista was oddly juxtaposed with good-natured waves and smiles from passersby. It's nice to see that again. The dour expressions I've come to expect from strangers are changing, and people seem overtly friendly at the outset. Or maybe everybody is on vacation and just plain happy. Who knows.
By lunchtime, I sat munching on a pizza and wondered whether or not I was enjoying the day. Calling it a "slog" seemed too harsh- too negative. I decided on "grind" instead. This was a power-through-it-and-deal-with-it kind of day. But it was a relentless grind- one of those ones where you watch your mileage closely- like you used to watch the second hand on the clock in that awful history class back in grade school.
About 20 km before the end of the ride, I (finally) found a market where I could stock up on water, and I met a local named Antonio drinking a beer or ten on the stoop outside. I had just come down an absurdly steep descent, which usually means a just as absurdly steep ascent is nigh.
I asked him what I was in for, and he promised it would be smooth sailing.
"The shape you're in? It's no problem for someone like you!"
Antonio was wearing some serious beer goggles.
He was also wearing a fantastic shirt that I'd seen before:
And Antonio is this year's Joop.
For those of you who are new to this blog, Joop is the lying Dutch bastard from last year who told me there were no hills to speak of in Illinois. I hate Joop. Those hills kicked my ass. Poor guy has no idea how much I've written about him. But this American bastard knows how to hold a grudge.
I know I recently said that I mostly look forward to hills and climbs, and I swear that's true... that's why I put in the word mostly. It gives me an out. And I'm playing that card today.
I struggled. I sweated. I grunted. And it was joyless.
Antonio lied (and to think I bought a beer to give him on my way out!).
The next 14 km were pretty damn hard.
And the last 6? Brutal.
At one point, I pedaled past a woman my age headed the same way, and we exchanged a casual greeting.
Then that last climb started, and she easily pedaled right past me. We exchanged another casual greeting, but I'd be lying if I didn't say I all of a sudden felt a bit competitive. I kicked it up a notch and tried to catch her.
No dice. She won that race big time. And when she hit the crest of the climb, she waited for me-
I was prepared for battle. I've got 40 pounds of gear! My bike is steel! I'm out of shape! Ya' know... my usual go-to's.
Instead, we had a pleasant conversation. She does that climb every day for fun.
I will never do it again in my life.
And I wasn't the least bit embarrassed by the buckets of sweat soaking my shirt and my shorts (sweat from the chest and head have a tendency to pool in an unflattering area). I mean, she wasn't sweating a bit. But still, I wasn't embarrassed.
Not in the least.
Nope.
Jamie and I exchanged some miserable greetings when I made it to our campsite for the night, and we headed off for dinner. There was one restaurant in town. When we asked for a menu, the kindly owner said "Mixed meat."
That was the menu.
Two words.
The complete absence of any other patrons on a Saturday night should've tipped us off. Or maybe we should've grown concerned when he plopped down half a jar of near-expired mayonnaise and an empty container of spaghetti sauce as condiments.
But we ordered the mixed meat anyway.
As to not hurt the guy's feelings (he was so nice and excited to have us there), we catapulted chunks of the mixed meat with our forks across the road when he wasn't looking.
It was inedible.
But hey... can't go wrong with a beer.
I think the first three words I spoke to Jamie when we met up tonight were pretty simple. Four letters each.
"F*** that ride."
Guess it was a slog after all.
 |
| I'm not taking this route... but it is the first designated route I've seen in Croatia! |
 |
| Scenic enough, right? It's all downhill from here, right? Nope. |
About 10 miles into today's ride, I sent a text message to Jamie (he was 20 miles ahead, of course). Please tell me it gets better.
His response was simple: Nope.
I'm not quite sure what it was- neither is he- but something was off today. Way off. For both of us. Not once did I ever sink into a rhythm. The terrain was tricky, for sure, but there were no new specific challenges. I think it's because it was so... terraineous. I just made up that word. I like it.
 |
| I loved picturesque stuff today. Excuse to stop pedaling. |
It had everything. And that sounds fun. I mean, I don't know why bagel shops bother making different varieties when "Everything" or "Plain" pretty much cater to the entire spectrum of bagel consumers.
This was not that kind of everything.
Long steep climbs went unrewarded with the lack of descent in order to recoup and reap the benefits of work. Same for the long lazy climbs. And tiny steep downhills offered nothing in the way of thrill as it was more important to focus on which gear to be in to tackle the upcoming ascent.
Could've been the oppressive heat. Large sunblock-laden sweat beads ran down my forehead and turned into painful, stinging tears that stained my cheeks throughout the entire day.
Could've been the scenery. We seem to be in the underbelly of Croatia, and it's like a European version of the underbelly of Kentucky.
Most towns I rode through looked abandoned, even though they weren't. Instead of unkempt trailers speckling the landscape (like Appalachian Kentucky), it was roofless stone buildings. And unlike Eastern Germany and the Czech Republic where buildings were painted one of three drab colors, these towns offered the only hue not currently in the Martha Stewart collection: Cinder Block.
This unchanging vista was oddly juxtaposed with good-natured waves and smiles from passersby. It's nice to see that again. The dour expressions I've come to expect from strangers are changing, and people seem overtly friendly at the outset. Or maybe everybody is on vacation and just plain happy. Who knows.
 |
| The clock that's right twice a day was actually accurate when I took this pic. |
By lunchtime, I sat munching on a pizza and wondered whether or not I was enjoying the day. Calling it a "slog" seemed too harsh- too negative. I decided on "grind" instead. This was a power-through-it-and-deal-with-it kind of day. But it was a relentless grind- one of those ones where you watch your mileage closely- like you used to watch the second hand on the clock in that awful history class back in grade school.
 |
| Litter, litter everywhere. |
About 20 km before the end of the ride, I (finally) found a market where I could stock up on water, and I met a local named Antonio drinking a beer or ten on the stoop outside. I had just come down an absurdly steep descent, which usually means a just as absurdly steep ascent is nigh.
I asked him what I was in for, and he promised it would be smooth sailing.
"The shape you're in? It's no problem for someone like you!"
Antonio was wearing some serious beer goggles.
He was also wearing a fantastic shirt that I'd seen before:
 |
| WHAT DOES THAT MEAN??? |
And Antonio is this year's Joop.
For those of you who are new to this blog, Joop is the lying Dutch bastard from last year who told me there were no hills to speak of in Illinois. I hate Joop. Those hills kicked my ass. Poor guy has no idea how much I've written about him. But this American bastard knows how to hold a grudge.
I know I recently said that I mostly look forward to hills and climbs, and I swear that's true... that's why I put in the word mostly. It gives me an out. And I'm playing that card today.
I struggled. I sweated. I grunted. And it was joyless.
Antonio lied (and to think I bought a beer to give him on my way out!).
The next 14 km were pretty damn hard.
And the last 6? Brutal.
 |
| Me in green. Jamie, done for the day, in white. |
At one point, I pedaled past a woman my age headed the same way, and we exchanged a casual greeting.
Then that last climb started, and she easily pedaled right past me. We exchanged another casual greeting, but I'd be lying if I didn't say I all of a sudden felt a bit competitive. I kicked it up a notch and tried to catch her.
No dice. She won that race big time. And when she hit the crest of the climb, she waited for me-
I was prepared for battle. I've got 40 pounds of gear! My bike is steel! I'm out of shape! Ya' know... my usual go-to's.
 |
| Sweat. |
Instead, we had a pleasant conversation. She does that climb every day for fun.
I will never do it again in my life.
And I wasn't the least bit embarrassed by the buckets of sweat soaking my shirt and my shorts (sweat from the chest and head have a tendency to pool in an unflattering area). I mean, she wasn't sweating a bit. But still, I wasn't embarrassed.
Not in the least.
Nope.
 |
| Worst. Meal. Ever. |
Jamie and I exchanged some miserable greetings when I made it to our campsite for the night, and we headed off for dinner. There was one restaurant in town. When we asked for a menu, the kindly owner said "Mixed meat."
That was the menu.
Two words.
The complete absence of any other patrons on a Saturday night should've tipped us off. Or maybe we should've grown concerned when he plopped down half a jar of near-expired mayonnaise and an empty container of spaghetti sauce as condiments.
But we ordered the mixed meat anyway.
 |
| CHEERS FOR THE BEER, RANDY GELMAN! See you at Scotchtown Craft soon! |
As to not hurt the guy's feelings (he was so nice and excited to have us there), we catapulted chunks of the mixed meat with our forks across the road when he wasn't looking.
It was inedible.
But hey... can't go wrong with a beer.
I think the first three words I spoke to Jamie when we met up tonight were pretty simple. Four letters each.
"F*** that ride."
Guess it was a slog after all.
P.S.
Look, if you're gonna use Americana
in naming your diner in order to capitlize, I get that...
But can you run it through spell check?
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