The Grand Detour, Phase 5 - Austria-Slovenia-Croatia

 Ribbon of Highway

The Grand Detour, Phase Five

Austria-Slovenia-Croatia

June 13-21, 2014

Ok, ok sports fans and millions (thousands?) (tens?) of loyal followers – I know I have been sorely remiss in posting my travel adventures. Partially it is because I have been spending my writing energies on some articles for a trade magazine (for which I actually get paid), and making progress on my next book (a true story about the crazy American legal system). I am so far behind on Ribbon of Highway now that I hardly know where to start to catch up, so I guess I’ll begin with the latest, the Adriatic Rollercoaster, and then work backwards in reverse chronological order.

Disclaimer: Adriatic Rollercoaster is a plagiarized name of a group tour, but it really describes the ride well and I figure Edelweiss won’t mind the publicity. J I usually strike out on my own, but this time I decided to try a group travel tour because I was headed to an area where I had never been before, with languages I don’t speak and currencies and border crossings I was unfamiliar with, and with only a short time frame – one week. Verdict: absolutely worth it. They took me on roads I never would have found on my own, got me across borders with no hassles, and it was nice not worrying about where I was going to stay that night – memories of New Hampshire in the freezing October rains – or what I would do if I had a breakdown – memories of my Beemer running out of gas nowhere in the Adirondacks! Not only that, but the group self-divided into two groups, informally known as the “racers” and the “tourers,” and although that is something of an overstatement of the differences in the pace, the racers definitely pushed the roads and were challenging, exhilarating and sometimes a little scary to ride with – which is exactly what you want from a motorcycle ride up and own hairpin curves on narrow little twisties, right? And if your heart was pumping a little too much, well drop back and relax a little with tourers. Perfect.

Friday the 13^th, and Saturday the 14^th, June, 2014

Klagenfurt, Austria

Most of us have never heard of Klagenfurt. Our loss. If we have been to Austria, it is usually Vienna, or Salzburg, but whatten-fart, where is that?

Klagenfurt is a delightful little university city in South Central Austria, in the province of Carinthia, so you would naturally think it would be in or next to the Carinthian Alps, but it’s not. It’s nestled against the Karawanks Range, which none of you have heard of and which forms the border between Slovenia and Austria, and is either part of or next to the Julian Alps, which maybe some of you have heard of, and against the Worthersee, which is a giant spectacular Alpine lake. Klagenfurt literally means “fort of lament” for historical reasons that are unclear. Anyway, this is a view from  my hotel window of some crazier-fool-than-I hot air ballooning over Klagenfurt in front of the Karawanks.

When I gazed at the massive cliffs of the Karawanks the first day in Klagenfurt, I thought to myself, “We’ll have to be go around those to the East or West.” Wrong. We went right over and through them. We rode to the right around the first mountain in the foreground to directly under the balloon, then swung up a Loibl Pass pass again to the right behind the second mountain, and then straight through (under?) the main range by tunnel – but I get ahead of myself.

Klagenfurt is on the banks of Lake Worthersee:

Despite being obviously alpine, the Worthersee is plenty warm enough to swim (or wade!) in, and is lined with parks and restaurants ideal for a quick break from bicycling! J

I really like Klagenfurt. It’s a sleepy kind of place where the banks close on Saturday, so I had to change some dollars into Euros on Friday. I took one of the free bicycles provided by the hotel and rode it downtown to hunt up a bank. That was more of an adventure than I had anticipated. I found what I thought was a bank, but when I went inside it felt more like a  cellular telephone store than any bank I was used to in the US, so I had to ask if I was in a bank, which made the lovely girls behind the counter laugh and send me with some pointing and broken English down the hall toward the bureau of exchange – where I promptly got lost among signs all in German that I could not read until an even more comely young lady who spoke very good English startled me from behind. She guided me into a back office which turned out to be the exchange office, where she asked me while changing my money where I was from, how long I was staying, how I liked Klagenfurt, etc.  I had a moment’s inclination to ask her to show me her town, but then said to myself, “Behave!” Ah, well, they were all so charming and friendly they could have been the local tourist bureau, but they were bankers!

As I explored the old town, I saw many striking tall blondes, but also a number of smaller, slighter people with jet black hair, who appeared to be of entirely different ethnicity. Makes sense, I guess,  Klagenfurt being on the border of the Balkans. Maybe that is why Klagenfurt, such a small university city that it is served only by turboprops, no jets, had half a dozen or more foreign consulates downtown. Tough consular duty!

The old town is well preserved and active. Saturday morning I stumbled into a street market  crammed with people sitting and standing and chatting while drinking wine and beer between vendor tents selling local cheeses, sausages, bacon, pastries, flowers to plant and in bouquets, and a plethora of neatly organized flea market stuff. I came across a square surrounded by a temporary beer garden with seats in the middle before a big screen where the residents could party and watch the World Cup deep into the night. Did I forget to mention that Thursday had been the first night of the Cup? Croatia was in, Austria was not. I hoped I could experience being in a Croatian pub one of the nights Croatia played this week.

The World Cup stirs fierce feelings of nationalism every four years. Walking and riding around Klagenfurt, the contests of the World Cup reminded me that exactly 100 years ago this month this very country started a very different kind of world contest, the first World War, when Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia after a Serbian nationalist assassinated Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo. In our naiveté, it was called the Great War, or the War to End All Wars until the Second World War began scarcely 20 years after the first one ended.

I wonder what it would be like to be part of a country that just 4 or 5 generations ago was at the zenith of Western civilization, the center of one of the largest and most powerful empires of the world, but after being on the wrong (i.e. losing) side of two world wars has become a small but beautiful post-script of nation? Harsh, maybe, but accurate. I should ask an Austrian, if I can find an inoffensive way to broach the subject. It might be a good thing for an American to know, is there life worth living after #1? I have a suspicion that may depend muchly on the culture of who supplants number 1. Living in Western Europe under the American umbrella has proven to be very nice for the Europeans, even though everybody loves to hate #1, whether it’s the Americans or the New York Yankees or Manchester United. Not so much for the Eastern Europeans under the Russian umbrella. Moral, if you’re going to lose,  be careful who you lose to. Right, as if you can choose.

Although this is just my second visit to this country, and my knowledge of Austria is admittedly superficial, it appears to be a delightful place to live. I am captivated by its beauty.  Of course, when we daydream about places and epochs in which to live, we never imagine ourselves at the bottom of the heap, on the outside looking in. Who knows what Austria is like for the dispossessed? I have also read its history. The country that gave us Mozart, Von Suppe, Johann Strauss and Schubert, and the Hapsburgs who saved the West by halting the advance of the Ottomans, also gave us Marie Antoinette, Sarajevo and Adolph Hitler. I have no inkling of what may lurk beneath Austria’s pretty face.

Everything here is clean. A sense of no pollution, from the clear blue skies over the Alps that rim the southern horizon to the clear waters of Lake Worthersee, teaming with fish and wildlife. But I notice that there are fences everywhere. A strong sense of order, in the neighborhoods, and from the people. When I was on the airport transit bus to board the plane in Vienna, an older woman (older than me? Well, a woman…) hurried down the stairs to the bus as the bus driver was locking the doors terminal doors at the bottom of the stairs. Unless he was blind (hopefully not, being our bus driver), he had to have seen her. Before he had time to get in the bus, she was at the locked door, waving her boarding pass. Several passengers on the bus shouted to the bus driver and pointed to let him know that she was there. He acknowledged neither her nor the passengers, he just got in the bus, put it in gear and drove away.  “You’re late, not my problem.” Cultural or just a rude or crabby bus driver? Or strict security rules? No explanation from the driver. From this and other incidents I quickly sensed that Austrians might be less easy going than the Italians, but also that everything works just a little bit better here than in Italy, where I visited just the month before.  Still, my experience here and elsewhere is that Austrians laugh easily, more easily than their Germanic cousins. Behind an outward reserve there are also hints of a hidden wild streak. There were posters everywhere advertising Klagenfurt as the site of the World Body Painting Festival July 4-6. Has that got to be nuts or what?

Everyday  Austria does not seem as economically or technologically advanced as the US. Things that we take for granted don’t work properly, like internet service in the hotels. Americans would definitely consider experience on the Austrian Airlines website second rate, but their the food service was better! Hmmm. Better website or better food? Maybe the Austrians have that right! On the other hand, the Klagenfurt  restaurants feature what we would consider lesser cuts of meat. I mean, the “Carinthian Classic Dinner” turns out to be boiled beef with sauerkraut, no thanks. Flag on the play, unfair – the dinner I actually had was excellent, wiener schnitzel with potatoes and cranberry (?) relish, accompanied by Riesling and an interesting mixed salad with varied lettuce, cukes, potato slices, pickles,  a few cherry tomatoes and pumpkin based vinaigrette.  Austrians have lots of potatoes, in lots of different forms, with lots of stuff.

After a day and half of exploring Klagenfurt, Saturday night was time to meet the other riders and my Multistrada. I have been lured by the romance of owning a Ducati since I was 18, so I rented one for this ride.

We are a large and diverse group. 18 motorcycles in all, with riders from the US (Californicate, North Carolina, Georgia, Wisconsin, Oregone, and me, Indiana), Mexico, Turkey, Germany, Italy, Austria, Australia and Singapore, late-twenties to old geezers, some two-up, most solo, one of the solos a woman. Our lead guide, Manuel, is an Italian, getting his Masters in Tourism – interesting degree! The common language is, of course, English. You don’t even have to press one for English, two for Spanish, everybody speaks English, and well. Well, almost everybody. The Aussie has his own vernacular, and he can’t figure out whether his name is Norman or Andrew or I think Charles even may have slipped in there, but ultimately everybody settles on Andrew – or is it Norman? Anyway, he is a super friendly guy and he’s riding the only other Ducati Multistrada. He owns one Down Under, while this is this my first rodeo on one of these barely tamed beasts. Mine is fire engine red, spanking new, right out of the crate, 8 km on the odometer. Manuel cautions me not to ride it too hard until I “scuff up the new tires a bit” to help gain traction on the pavement, especially if it’s wet. Andrew/Norman was very helpful in figuring out how all the electronics and gadgetry work. I mean, each button seems to have at least 4 functions, depending on when or how long I hold it down, or which direction I push it – with four motor speeds from urban through touring to sport to certifiably crazy, heated handgrips, different readouts (fuel, time elapsed, range, etc. etc.). I am like a complete rookie, red faced in the type-A biker culture when I cannot figure out how to start my bike. Search as I might, there is no slot for the ignition key. “No need,” Andrew explains, “the bike senses its chip in your pocket!” Modern technology! The Italian engineers decided to outdo their German rivals with complicated saddlebag (excuse me, panniers to Europeans) mounting attachments. “Whatever you do, don’t force it, because the [plastic] brackets break easily!” Why not just make the brackets out of aluminum? Nah, such a simple solution cuts into profits from the aftermarket sale of outrageously expensive panniers with broken plastic brackets…  

The Multistrada is like an Italian woman -  complicated, a fiery temperament, and as voluptuous and alluring as Sophia Loren –Well, maybe not quite, but you get the idea. Sexy.  And as I would find out, definitely only half-tamed. She would prove to be a wild ride, several times.

After checking over the bikes, Manuel goes over the entire route, briefly describing where we will ride each day. We will split into two groups, one led by Tony, the other guide, and one led by Manuel. We can self-select each day or even more often who goes in each group, or if you wish ride off entirely on your own just so long as you keep them informed so nobody searches for you in a panic, and in case you should run into a problem somewhere along the way. We all dial Manuel and Tony’s cell phone numbers into our smart phones. We will have a briefing every morning at 8:30, at the bikes, by which time we are all supposed to be dressed, breakfasted, checked out of the hotel, bikes packed and ready to go so we can pull out by no later than 8:45. I wonder how that is going to work with almost 25 riders? We go to dinner together. There are several family groups on the ride; two brothers, Tom and Ted,  from Wisconsin, one who now lives in Minnesota; Jean and Robert from North Carolina, to be joined by their son Kurt from Florida, who unfortunately is late because he missed his plane; two couples, Lyana and Luis, Danae and Carlos, from Mexico; and Meredith from Portland Oregon, and her two sons, Alex and Joe, from California. I like almost all of them immediately. I want to like the West Coast Crowd, I think it’s pretty cool that Mom in her 50’s (?) is riding solo on a Ducati Monster on a ride with her two sons (20’s), but in no time she puts me off. Let’s see, was it when she told us she attended the University of Denver in the 1970’s “when it was still a hick town?” Gee, wasn’t that when so many cars had bumper stickers reading “Don’t Californicate Colorado,” I was practicing law there, when I25 was called the Valley Highway and only had four lanes, my brother kept his horse at his house and barn on West 6^th Avenue in the city limits of Lakewood, my parents lived in Littleton, and we all thought it was a pretty cool place to live, before all the California refugees fucked it up and I-25 grew to 8 lanes choked with traffic 24-7? Yeah, I think so. My oldest brother from New England probably thinks it’s still a hick town, too, but he gets a pass because he’s family and isn’t uncouth enough to volunteer his derogatory opinions to strangers. Or maybe was it when she told us that she works “in the medical field” (what does that mean?) in Portland, Oregon, where (a propos of nothing) she always finds “Fox News on in the doctor’s break room at the hospital, I mean, who watches Fox News?” Well, I do, for one, as do apparently many of your colleagues. I can tell she’s the type that throws her opinions around without a thought in the world that somebody might think differently than she does. Or, maybe it was when she tells us what an experienced rider she is (who asked?), having ridden motorcycles “thousands of miles” (OK, that adds up to maybe one year of riding?) and rides her very own Ducati to work every day.  Her sons’ father (note, not “my husband”) has a PHD and one of them is in medical school. She used to live in Santa Barbara, California (I guess that might be before getting divorced? Kinda vague about that), I think originally was from around San Francisco. To let us how traveled she is, she waxes ecstatic about “a little cappuccino café above Belaggio” that she visited on a bicycle trip, and she loved the wild boar and risotto. All this in cocktail chatter before I could get out of ear shot. She even dresses like a granola eater, a blue pull down fleece hat, a red-maroon fleece and an orange cotton sweater. What a type, I wonder if she has any idea? OK, so we aren’t likely to agree on much, but it’s still pretty cool that she’s riding solo on this ride with her two sons. I’ll just avoid being around her much.

After dinner, I spend the evening on the floor of my room plotting the route on my road map, trying to get a sense of where we are going. Unlike the US, route numbers don’t seem to mean much here.  There are some marked on the map, but it turns out hardly any route markings actually on the roads. The road signs are always “to” some town or village along the route, which is not all that helpful to strangers as the village on the sign is likely to be one of a half dozen or so in that direction, and unless you already know that you have to go through or to the village on the road sign in order to get to the town where ultimately you want to go, the road signs are pretty useless.

We will go over the Alps into Slovenia, down to and then along the Adriatic shore, take two ferries across some islands, back over more mountains into the interior of Croatia, and then wind our way back through the mountains of Slovenia and over the Karawanks to Austria, mostly on pretzel twisty little one and a half lane back roads. It looks fabulous.

And God bless GPS. Yep, the old school map reader said that. Blush.

Sunday, June 15^th

Klagenfurt, Austria through Slovenia to Opatija, Croatia

The first morning briefing goes pretty smoothly. Everybody is anxious to get on the road, so everybody is ready on time. As riders mount up, there is lots of impatient engine revving going on. The weather report on my smart phone says rainy, but the air is cool with only a grey overcast. Maybe we will get lucky. The North Carolina couple will following us later on their own, when their son arrives.

My Multistrada is parked going the wrong direction uphill on a nasty and steep doubled sloped parking lot, so I am extra ginger trying not to dump it (which would be the height of embarrassment as well as very expensive!) as I struggle to turn it around, my toes barely touching the ground on the downslope, all while getting used to the balance of the 900 pounds of beast and loaded burden. Last night we dialed the engine down as civilized as it would go, to “urban,” but still every time I touch the throttle in first gear the beast wants to jump out of the gate. Its touch and go as I work my way down the hill to the rallying point in front of the hotel, but I manage to keep it upright and not collide with anybody. Once there, I decide there is no point in keeping it at urban as we will leave the town in a matter of miles, but I can’t remember which button to push which way for how long to get to the proper screen. Manuel  to the rescue. I dial it up to a modest “touring” and am ready to roll.

I’m near the front, so with no particular motive in mind I pull out with the first group of nine motorcycles, led by Manuel. Later this group will come to be known among us as the racers.

Smooth sailing didn’t last long. Just after we left the limits of Klagenfurt, we picked up speed on a four lane crossing of the River Glan (I think), when all of a sudden I have to start swerving right and left to dodging bouncing notebooks and fluttering paper all over the middle of the road. A short distance further on, the California brothers are pulled over on the road shoulder. The pannier on one of the brother’s bikes has opened up and spilled its contents all over the road. I tell him it’s only about a quarter mile or so back, and the papers and other belongings are pretty much still there as I just avoided hitting them and there is not a lot of traffic here this morning. He and his brother go back to gather up what they can at about the time that Manuel comes back down the road toward us, having realized that he was suddenly leading nobody. Five or ten minutes later the second group of riders comes down the road and catches up with us. Another fifteen minutes and whatever can be rescued has been picked up and repacked, and Manuel has confirmed that this time the pannier is properly locked. So after a 20 or 30 minute delay, we can start out again. Manuel is polite and doesn’t say anything untoward, but it’s written on his face that he is unhappy that we are less than an hour into the ride and already 30 minutes off pace.

Solution? Pick up the pace, of course! Thus are the racers born. Only I am not quite ready for it, still learning the personality of the Multistrada as we being to climb the Karawanks up to Loibl Pass. At the speed we are going on the curvy road, I feel a little like I have been thrown into the deep end to sink or swim. Quickly I learn that if I indulge in more than a furtive side glance at the incredible scenery I will become smudge in that scenery: I have to concentrate on the bike and the road. Today I drive through the Karawanks, but I really won’t see much of them other than what is directly in my field of vision in front of me. I’m not complaining. It forced me to learn how my bike handled in a hurry, and it was fun, although I don’t think I got the Multistrada out of 2^nd gear for most of the rest of the morning. This woman could go 70km in 2^nd, no problem, and she isn’t happy unless she’s revving at above 3000 rpm. At one point I must have been riding a little too cautiously, I was following a car at a comfortable pace when Andrew (Norman?) roared by both me and the car on his Multistrada, in a place where a cautious driver wouldn’t see a lot of extra passing space, and in a breach of group cycling etiquette that you don’t pass your fellow riders. “Gee, am I going that slowly?” I guess I was. Somewhat abashed, I decided I had to put on my big boy pants and keep up. So at the next opportunity, I goosed the Ducati’s throttle to get ahead of the car. What I got I did not expect; a wheelie. I shot into the next lane, and could not change my direction, which was heading straight across the lane and over the cliff, until I got the front wheel to fall back on the pavement by immediately leaning forward and getting off of the throttle. As soon as the front wheel gained traction, I leaned right to turn sharply up the hill, and then had to give it more throttle, not quite so hard this time, to get past the car, and then I had to brake to get down to a speed at which I could both get back into my lane and take the next curve already heading to the right. Well, not a work of art, but my instincts from years of riding just took over, and I made it, perhaps not so quite dangerously as I make it sound (?). Didn’t piss my pants but my pulse rate was up. J  Exhilarating! That incident taught me early on a lot about my bike and how it handled, kind of like riding a newly broken stallion.  Oops, mixed metaphor. Mare. Later Andrew told me that the Multistrada was a little rear-wheel heavy, and with all its torque had a tendency to lift the front wheel when you accelerate. Now you tell me! It also taught me something about the roads we would ride on. Straight and flat were unknown concepts.

After that, my fingers started cramping…Maybe I was gripping the handlebars too tightly. Maybe I didn’t exaggerate on that wheelie! J

We stopped briefly at the old border crossing from Austria to Slovenia. It is abandoned, both countries now being in the EU and no longer on opposite sides of the Iron Curtain. We crossed into Slovenia on the other side of the Karawanks through a long tunnel. I got behind Meredith on her Monster. Mistake. On the Slovenian side, the roads were narrower and more twisty, and now pointed down hill. She almost came to a stop at every hairpin, and there were lots and lots of hairpins. As she crawled around them I had to slow way down and lean way in to keep my balance, so far and so slow sometimes that I was afraid I was going to lose it and tip. Then on straightaways, she would scream. Trying to follow her was like playing an accordion. I found myself riding her butt, pushing her from behind to try to make her pick up a little speed through the hairpins because we were getting so far behind the other riders. Then I I realized that was helping nothing and probably bugging her (if she ever looked in her mirrors), so I just bit my lip and dropped back, and vowed not to get behind her again. She may have ridden “thousands of miles” but one of them had apparently been on hairpins.

Our first coffee stop was the tiny village of Kropa.

                               

         

The scenery reminded me of the Colorado Rockies, but in a milder, wetter climate. After a couple of hours of gorgeous twisties, we pulled over for lunch at a small log restaurant on the banks of a gurgling mountain stream – and just like Colorado, their specialty was trout! How do I know? Because all the signs and the menus are in English as well as Slovenian, and the waitresses speak English. No hablo espanol. Goats grazed on the steep hillside across the road. As we sat and had lunch, I noticed there were lots more bikes traveling this road than cars, and very few of the peddling variety of bikes – very steep roads. Manuel announced that we were still behind schedule and we would have to move a little faster if we were to get to the Postojna Caves before they closed for the day.

Back in the saddle, we book it to Postojna. Along the way, we go through broader river valleys that remind me of New Hampshire. Then it was wetter, more like North Carolina. Overall, closest to the Rockies, but with more winding roads and a lot more water. It’s all just frigging beautiful.

The racers get to Postojna in time to buy tickets to go down into the caves. Not so the second group. Down the racers go by tram on rails into the deepest and largest limestone caverns in Europe. Very cool, temp cool too. The second group? They get to drink Orangina and eat frozen yogurt while they wait for us…

Pictures of Postojna are hard to take because of the lighting and the vastness of the caverns. But these caverns are better than Luray Caverns in Virginia, which are pretty damned impressive themselves.

As we exit, there is a plaque memorializing the exploits of some World War II partisans who blew up part of the caves because they were used by the Nazis for storing ammunition. Meredith made some inane comment about why the partisans would do such a terrible  thing, followed by,  “What do I know, I never took any history.” “So why do you express an opinion on something you admittedly know nothing about? A question, sure, an opinion, no. That would be like me expressing an opinion on some surgical technique.” No. I didn’t say that, but I wished I had.

She followed that up with, “Why do people see things like this and then immediately want to charge admission?” You know, like dirty capitalists figuring out how to make money out of dark hole in the ground is a bad thing? Oh, I don’t know, maybe to make a living to feed a family? Or more charitably, maybe to pay for all the excavation and railroads and trams and lighting and employees who make it possible for people like us to go down into what was that dark, lightless unexplored hole? She is really getting under my skin. Chill, son!

Then the land opens up into broader, drier plains. We cross the border into Croatia, his time having to show passports and get waived through because Croatia is not yet part of the EU. I learn later from Tony at our next morning briefing that Slovenia started the Yugoslavian Civil War by being the first to pull out of the federation and declare independence. They surprisingly and successfully held off the primarily Serbian Yugoslav army sent to bring them back into the fold, which in turn inspired the Croations to revolt. Being the northernmost country in what was formerly Yugoslavia, Slovenia was pretty much left out of the fighting after that. Slovenia was the first to apply for entry into the EU. The Croations eventually won their independence from the Serbians, but they have not yet gained entry into the EU. Thus the border crossings remain.

Shortly after crossing the border, we crest a rise and suddenly the Adriatic and the City of Opatija is spread out in front of us! The end of a long day. 3 countries in one day. Cool.

Monday, June 16^th

Opatija, Croatia

As you can tell from the pictures, the next day was a little cloudy and misty, threatening rain. Some of the group decided to take a half day loop across the Istrian Peninsula to another Adriatic coastline. Having no fondness for riding in the rain, and with another 5 days of riding in front of us, I elected instead to explore the old Hapsburg Riviera city of Opatija, and to visit one of the local beaches if the weather cleared.

Opatija is smaller than it looks. It has less than 15,000 permanent residents, but it is a very popular summer resort. In the late 1800’s, a railway was built from Vienna to Austria, and It became a fashionable destination for the Austrian imperial family and Austrian nobility. Soon it was full of villas and luxury hotels, landscaped parks, and a yacht club. The first luxury hotel still stands, the Grand Hotel Kvarner. The first villa built was the “Amalia” – the name of my first granddaughter! – which later became the summer house of the House of Savoy during the period of Italian “influence” after World War I. The city went into a period of decline following World War II when Croatia was part of Yugoslavia, but now it is being restored to its former glory. Many of the original villas and hotels still stand.

                   

                                                        

                                      

For lunch, I had an alcoholic ice cream sundae for lunch, on the terrace of the Grand Hotel Kvarner:

This concoction was called La Rocca. 

Lime, vanilla and Jaffa ice cream
Rum and tonic
Whipped cream
Chocolate and fruit decoration

Hmm, hmm good! Highly recommended.

It might have had something to do with why I went swimming in the cold Adriatic after lunch! Actually, I was bound and determined to swim in it, no matter what the weather, after coming all this way…

There are trails along the cliffs, and in many places steps leading down to terraces where you can sun and swim in the sea.

 

The next photo is where I dove in. Several people stopped to look and take pictures of the crazy man splashing in the sea, but that was fine, I was having great fun surface diving and swimming under water,and it was refreshing! Right behind the ladder you can see a restaurant where I had dinner, sitting on one of the raised terraces with surf literally sloshing around my feet. More on that later!

                                                                                                                             

                                                               

                                               

After my hike and swim, the weather cleared a little, so I decided I should try to explore the coast and see some of the azure beaches featured on the travel brochures. The much of the coast immediately west bewteen Opatija and the village of Bresec, toward Lovran, is undeveloped and protected. The road hugs the cliffs winding high above the water, providing spectacular views. 

However, the trails down to the beaches at the bottom are not marked, so unless you know what you are looking for, they turned out to be pretty difficult to locate.  I finally stopped at a likely looking place, and lo and behold, there was a well maintained trail that dropped steeply down to a small cove, where there were small boat houses and a typical white pebble beach. I took off my boots and waded in. The water was cold, but the pebbles, though smooth, were hard on the feet, and I sank into them quite deep, making climbing out of the water without losing my balance and pitching into it somewhat challenging! For actual swimming, I decided I liked the swimming platforms in Opatija better. While I explored the cove,  nobody else was there, but its not "remote" - on the climb out I passed several people going down. Then I rode back to Opatija as the mist returned and became a soft but chilly rain. I was happy to park the bike and take a hot shower before getting ready for dinner.

 

      

Before dinner, I stopped at the hotel’s terrace bar. What the hell, time for a martini. The bartender was a young guy, maybe late twenties, who was actually from Bosnia. He had spent several years as a waiter on Carnival Cruise Lines, sailing all over the world. But travel was not why he went: he needed the job, there were few in Croatia or Bosnia, and none where he could make nearly as much money as he did on the cruise line. He talked about how hard he had to work, but how much money he could send home to his family. Now he lived with his wife and child just outside of Opatija, where it is less expensive. It takes him about 40 minute to get to and from the hotel. He likes Opatija, “the Monaco of the Adriatic.”  I joked with him, “Except no formula one race!” Our group was here just before the season, which is short, July and August. In the winter the place is empty. It is colder then, but not very cold, maybe it gets below freezing once or twice a winter. For dinner, he highly recommended the scampi at the outdoor hotel restaurant across the street on the waterfront terrace where I had gone swimming that afternoon.      

I tried the scampi, and it was like nothing I have had before. Kind of a cross between prawns and lobster, actually more like gigantic crawfish. Washed down with a local white wine, and graced with a beautiful view.

It was so good that I returned to the hotel bar after dinner for another martini, and gave the bartender a huge tip. I spent some time with others in the tour group, sharing experiences of the day and enjoying the view before wisdom and two martinis convinced me to call it a night and get some rest before another early day of riding. 

But when I reach the room, I was still not quite ready to retire. My room was high up, ocean front with a full length a sliding glass door wide open to let in Adriatic breezes. I spent a long time there leaning over the balcony rail into the view spread below me, thinking maybe I could come again sometime in April, or maybe later in the summer spend some time in a Hapsburg villa.  Probably not, but it’s fun to fantasize about it. Yeah, I was quite taken by Opatija.

Tuesday, June 17^th

Opatija to Plitvicka Jezerce, Croatia

We met for our morning briefing on the same terrace where I had my martinis the night before. It looked like we might have some rain today, but then again, we might be lucky.

After reviewing our itinerary – riding down the coast to the island of Krk, taking a ferry from Valbiska to a second island, Rab, and then a second short ferry back to the mainland, where we will climb up and over the coastal front range on back roads into the Sjeverni National Park to the Plitivice Lakes – we all headed down to our bikes to mount up and head out. It’s chilly. Bikes are starting, riders are adjusting positions, but we are just sort of milling around, no sign of heading out. Then the reason becomes clear, can you guess? What else?  One of Merry Death’s California boys is late. Could it possibly be anybody else?  Finally he comes down the steps of the hotel, carrying his panniers. We all fidget while he loads the panniers and starts his bike. Well, that gave Andrew time enough to remind me how to turn on my heated hand grips. As we pull out, Pannier Boy pushes his way up to be one of the front two riders. What an asshole.

The Multistrada lugs in the lower gears as we wind our way out of Opatija to the highway. It wants to get up and go, it’s just not happy in slow city traffic. We have a ferry to catch, and once again we are starting a little late, so when we hit the four lane, Manuel hits it, and like along wriggling snake the other riders follow suit strung out behind him.

The day starts cloudy, with a lot of blustery wind that knocks us about on the four lane, but it relents as we move down form the ridge toward the island of Krk. The landscape is very dry, it makes the Maine coastline look fertile. Sort of like driving to Cape Cod, the road is lined on both sides with salt air blown scrub growth. We make up the lost time, and stop for coffee at an old fortified port that now harbors expensive yachts. While parking the bikes on a slight incline, Jean from North Carolina dumps hers because her seat is too high, and she can barely touch the ground while seated. Thankfully, nobody’s hurt and no real damage is done, but she is embarrassed. We help her right the bike and assure her it could happen to anybody. I remember the times I dumped my top heavy BMW K bike for the same reason.

Pictures of Krk - and two Badgers and an Aussie waiting for their expresso in Krk:

  

From close to here, we took the ferry to the island of Rab. We all basked in the sun, cooled by the wind on the upper deck and took pictures, including a group picture where some other passengers muscled themselves into the picture.

              

Manuel and Tony Hard at Work!

      

     

Signora Riders

We watched the coast line glide by, until we pulled into a tiny picturesque harbor to disembark.

 After unloading, we rode across this gem of an island, full of varied terrain and pretty villages, to the chic main town of Rab City, on the south side, where we stopped for lunch at a little upstairs restaurant run by the chef and proprietor, Astoria – in my case, whole calamari...

            

We walked the stone quays of the  harbor , admiring the views of the town and some of its lovely fauna… (aren’t telephoto lens and digital editing wonderful?) J

 

     

Unfortunately, we did not have time to  visit any of the sandy beaches for which Rab is famous. Ah, well, we had schedules to keep, and kilometers to go before we sleep. Down to another ferry at a loading point that looked to me as I imagine the Sinai looks, rocky, dry and totally barren. I monkeyed around as a Junior Birdman while we waited to load. Our next objective was to ride over the coastal mountain range in the distance.

                     

We ripped up the mountain road, 18 motorcycles passing slower-moving cars and leaning into winding curves with cliffs on either side, 

until without warning Manuel, that sneaky little devil, pulled us over to admire a spectacular 180 degree view of the Adriatic coastline and islands we had just sailed through.
  

We spent a long time here. It was flat out awesome. I thought this might be the highlight view of the trip, but as it turned out it maybe it was one of the top 3 or 4.

We mounted back up and shortly turned off on a narrower side road that continued to climb the mountain, that twisted and turned and became narrower and rougher the higher we climbed. I found myself falling behind the leaders of the racers as I was rubber-necking, and let too much space widen between us so I could no longer see the rider in front of me as he went around the next curve. This forced me to slow down as I entered the curves in order to see if anything was coming around the bends, rather than picking up signals from the rider in front of me. I tried to close the gap by accelerating out of the turns, but that was in vain because the riders in front of me were evidently doing the same thing. It was almost as if I was in a road race, I got better as I became more used to how the Multistrada handled, and more used to the nature of the road, so I leaned into the curves more pushed the bike harder and faster to harrowing speeds -  and  began to catch up a little. The topography around me started changing the higher we went, from the dry rocky scrub you can see in the photos, to a little bit of agriculture with olive groves and scattering of shade trees. A kilometer or so before we reached the summit, the group pulled over to let everybody catch up with the leaders, and to put on colder weather gear as the summer heat at ocean level had dropped about 50 degrees F. It also looked as if some rain clouds might be caught on the summit. I didn’t care, I couldn’t stop grinning, what a ride up the mountain side!

After a brief stop, over the top we went, and suddenly we were heading down into an entirely different alpine landscape, with evergreens, long-grass green meadows, wild red poppies and bright blue flowers along the shoulders, droplets in the air and gray clouds as it became mistier and wetter, passing  sheep and log and stone sheepherders houses, and an occasional lumber mill giving off the smells of sawdust and freshly cut logs. From dry and scrubby to lush. As we rode lower, the forests spread into broad fields of open range with cattle and sheep grazing next to the road. It was like the high country of Colorado at its wettest. We had to slow where a sheepherder was about to cross with his flock, if one of us collided with a sheep darting across the road we would all lose! Soon, we stopped in a small Croatian town for an expresso. Many of the building were still pockmarked with bullet holes from the civil war that ended here just over 10 years past.

                 

As we ride through the countryside, we also see many buildings blown up or still unrepaired or half repaired, maybe built back with large orange brick but no stucco over the brick, which is the normal style. Proof that people, and nations,  just can’t “get along.” A war started when Slovenia and Croatia seceded from Yugoslavia in 1991, a war is raging now as the Ukraine tries to emulate Slovenia and Croatia by  breaking away from Russian hegemony toward Europe, with Russia already having seized the Crimea and supporting “Russian separatists,” a 5 day war broke out with Russian “peace keepers” invading  and seizing Ossetia when Georgia  tried the same in 2008  - not a lot different from the 5 year war when the South tried to secede from the United States 150 years ago. Sadly, history repeats itself.

Several kilometers later, as it gets colder and wetter, we make a brief stop to don rain gear. I choose not to, and spend the last hour of damp, riding on wet roads at moderate speeds under a light rain as it grew darker, until at last we pull into Hotel Plitvice, right in the national park. It is lovely and modern, and I am lucky enough to be assigned a humongous suite, with a dining table, living room, covered porches, closets, two bath rooms and a large bedroom. Nice! Maybe it was because I had rented one of the most expensive bikes, sometime money talks in unexpected ways. Regardless, it was wonderful!

After a group dinner of local trout (excellent), I happily bundle under a blanket on my sofa with a glass of chilled vodka to watch the US beat Ghana in the World Cup. What a great day of riding.

Wednesday, June 18^th

Plitivce Lakes, Croatia

Today, we visit the Plitivce Lakes in the national park. As I am getting ready, I watched the first TV news I had seen in days, on the BBC, the only English speaking channel available. The real world returned in a hurry. The struggles in the Ukraine are pretty much old news. ISIS continues to slaughter anybody in its proclaimed “new caliphate” who does not agree with their particular brand of Islam, forcing Christians, Jews and Sunnis from their homes with the choice of converting, being killed or fleeing. When Serbians were inflicting “ethnic cleansing” on Bosnian Moslems in the Yugoslavian Civil War just a few miles from here just a decade or two ago, the US under Clinton stopped it with concentrated bombing that brought the Serbians to their knees. So why 20 years later when fundamentalist Islamists are doing the same or worse to Christians and Jews and Shiites in Iraq does the US under Obama say “tut tut”, “we are very concerned”, and do virtually nothing to stop it? But that is old news, too. Today’s new news is that France is in absolute turmoil because the French  transport unions are on strike, again, and this time the public is very angry, sick of the constant disruptions transport strikes inflict on their daily lives, mad that the workers retire at age 50 at ½ pay but strike for more, and showing no sympathy whatsoever in response to pictures that in the US would arouse cries of “police brutality” as union members are beaten with batons. The French President has an approval rating of only 15%, making even Obama’s ugly numbers look good. France has high unemployment and higher taxes. The wealthy are fleeing the country in (literally, no exaggeration) tens of thousands to escape a new 70+% tax not on their incomes, but on their net worth. In the words of Maggie Thatcher, the socialists are running out of other people’s money to fund their social programs. When I was there last year, I visited with several Scots, who were among many Brits who are buying up rural French property at bargain basement prices, and retiring there, and receiving free French health care. From the other direction, France has a large and growing Muslim immigrant population which is not assimilating into the French culture, but remains separate and apart, in many ways similar to the US Mexican illegal immigrant problem. A very good French friend of mine foresaw this happening a decade ago, and reluctantly decided to move his family to Quebec, “for the future of his children.” All very sad, all very unnecessary, all brought on by government policies.

How prosperous is Croatia? Its clean, has massive road projects underway as it races to catch up with the EU, yet its young people say there are no jobs, and as I learned from the bartender in Opatija, he made 10 times as much on the cruise ship as he does at home. It struck me that many of the signs on the back country roads were in English, “Honey Sold Here” to “Pony Rides.” Tells you where the tourist dollar comes from. No signs in Chinese, yet.

But today for me it’s the National Park Plitvicka Jezera, a UNESCO World Heritage site (which incidentally helped preserve it from damage during the civil war, when the homes and hotels in the area were used to billet Serbian army soldiers). It has 16 lakes tucked in hilly forests all connected through a series of waterfalls, cascades and small creeks. The “turquoise water is unique and breathtaking.” I was transported as we walked through it, a waterfall wonderland like nothing I have never seen anywhere else. I wanted to jump in! For me, this day alone was worth the whole trip. Today, 900,000 people a year visit what was recently a war zone, and if my visit is typical, at least 300,000 of them are Chinese tourists! No way we could do what we did in a US National Park, walking across lakes and along cliffs on raised wooden pathways with no safety rails while water sometimes rushed over the boards at our feet, and by the end of the morning jostling with other tourists for space.

Pictures are worth a thousand words, and my pictures don't do it justice:

 

   

I only had time to see about ½ the park, because 4 or 5 of us were going to ride to down to the Bosnian border that afternoon. Tony informed us that this whole area was the southernmost extent of the Austrian Empire, the traditional border between them and the Ottoman Turks that was fought over for centuries. The happy result was that it had never been settled thickly, and now was preserved as the park.

Riding south, we stopped at some tanks stationed at the entrance to an old military base near the border. Then we climbed to make a loop around a mountain, riding through remote villages where we passed a thin, white haired elderly peasant woman walking the street, dressed all in black, and other fat women wearing black tent dresses with navy blue wool scarves over their heads. Strong husky farm hands waved and grinned at us as we rode by, kids came running to see us. We were truly in the back country.  It was like stepping back in time. Then again we were in open range with more sheep and sheepherders, making a wrong turn once or twice as Manuel tried to find the route. Then we climbed curvy and hilly logging roads where we averaged 40% over the posted speed limits – how fast can we go? – passing the rare car or semi in non-passing areas with bursts of speed and quick braking. I was leaning the bike way over beyond my comfort zone, but that comfort zone was expanding as I pushed the Multistrada through its paces. I really learned how to ride it that afternoon, as I got into the rhythm of the road, concentrating on the road, watching for rocks and sand and potholes and wood debris, feeling my stomach muscles working as I tossed 1000 pounds of bike, fuel and rider through the curves, my hands beginning to cramp up from the cold, pushing my limits of speed, hitting 120 kmh in the straightaways which seemed so much faster than it was because my mind wanted to equate the speedo into mph. That would only be about 75mph, plenty fast, but when I watch Grand Prix Moto riders got through curves at over 200 mph, well, they are just a lot better than me. But I’m satisfied. It was an exhilarating ride, and I came back feeling much more comfortable with how my Multistrada handled.

This is the mountain we rode around on the Bosnian border, and the tanks:

        

The day ended with dinner at the hotel, where I struggled to explain to the young waiter what a vodka tonic was. We weren’t in Opatija anymore, this was the backwoods. I was determined to overcome the language barrier, as well as his not understanding a cocktail culture. After several tries,  I got him to bring me a bottle of tonic water, a shot of vodka, some ice and a slice of lemon., and made myself one, showing him how. The Croatians played in the World Cup tonight, but it was late and the only pub was several kilometers away. I decided it was unwise to try to make my way back on a motorcycle in the early morning on unfamiliar roads hours after unavoidably imbibing while watching the game, so missed the cultural experience of the locals rooting on their team. Oh well. Can’t have everything, right?

Thursday, June 19^th

Croatia Back to Slovenia

Only two more days of riding. Today we start north to Slovenia on our way back to Austria. And it turns out to be the most perfect day of riding weather we have, sunny skies, no chance of rain and moderate temperatures. We drive through the Croatian countryside, this time keeping pretty much to the valleys, through villages and farmlands and vineyards, continuing to pass buildings still showing damage from the civil war. At one stop the woman from North Carolina loses control of her bike again while moving slowly through a paved lot with a drainage swale, and dumps it. Again no damage done except embarrassment, but this time she is so upset that she and her husband leave the group and head straight back to Opatija. We recognize that it is not her fault at all, she is just trying to drive a motorcycle that does not fir her physically. So it goes, she will make it back safely and we will see them again at the “farewell  dinner.” Her son stayed riding with us. He lives in Florida but also spends a lot of time in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, so we swapped a few stories.

That morning I found myself riding behind one of the boys from California who always rushes to be 2^nd or 3^rd among the front racers. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it, type A took over. Now that I knew and understood my Multistrada, I rode his butt all morning, downshifting so the engine growled loudly as I hugged his rear tire right every time he slowed to take a corner slower than I wished to take it. And when he accelerated out of the turn, I was right behind him, he couldn’t pick up any space on the Mutistrada. Actually I didn’t do this all morning, just half an hour or more, long enough that I knew the old man and his Multistrada were better all day long than the young buck on his Beemer or Trumpet, I don’t remember which one he was riding. Funny thing is, I don’t know if he ever realized what I was doing, because I don’t think he checked his mirrors even once. No matter. I was pleased with my asshole self. Then I dropped off and enjoyed the view.

Our first coffee stop is in the village of Josipdol, where I find a soccer field with a view, and an ancient church, and Izzy (the Turk) and I joke around with the barista. Merry Death sees an icon of Mary and jokes, “the Virgin Mary really got around,” and cracks several other religious jokes sure to offend any English speaking Catholics within earshot… we’re safe.  She lets us know that she grew up Methodist but then switched to Unitarian (don’t they worship just about anything including the Easter Bunny?), but kept a crèche at Christmas because “I may not be religious (really?) but I felt my sons should know who the figurines were.” Fascinating. I declined to share my story of dropping the cross on the sacristy flagstones after the processional when I was an acolyte.

           

   

      

      

 

From there, we continued on to the ancient fortress city of Karlovac, or Charlestown, first built in 1579 by the Austrians against encroachments by the Ottoman Turks. It is famous for its brewery (which we didn’t see L) and its 6 sided star shaped fortress, further evidence that this region has often been a war zone for at least 500 years. The city suffered tremendous damage during the Croatian war for independence from Serbia, but is making a fast recovery. We wandered down a street that featured some of the ubiquitous bullet holes on the building fronts until we found a small restaurant with an outdoor porch named “Scooby’s,”and my dog being named Scoobs, we naturally had to lunch there.  I had a Scooby Burger, not bad! Then I sat in Karl’s royal chair in the park, magnanimously giving out royal edicts to my many subjects. J

                      

       

 

 One last stop in Croatia that afternoon, at a tiny village up in the hills, I don’t even know its name except the little tavern was called Buffeti Trigovina Kalimero. The other patrons couldn’t say much in English except “Bikers”, “Amerikanski”, and smile and nod a lot. Fittingly, I drank America’s most famous product, Coca Cola! The views were marvelous and there were several 200+ year old log buildings on some sort of Croatian register of historic buildings.

 

       

     

From there, it was a short ride to the Slovenian border, where we once again had to queue up to produce our passports before re-entering the EU. I could not help but notice that as soon as we entered Slovenia, the roads were better maintained and the landscape just looked “tidier.” As we entered Otocec, our destination for the night, we rode through the grounds of the castle by the river, now a fancy hotel  – but no luck, we didn’t stop there for the night, we went up the hill to a little tourist hotel that had great views (and terrible internet service). But Manuel and Tony had a surprise for us. They broke out a case of iced beer, and after stopping at all those taverns for expresso and cokes, we all shared our first (and only) Lasko beer together while riding! Thumbs up all around.

I found out that Izzy the Turk had a retail computer and cell phone business in Turkey, which he had just recently sold for a bundle and was spending some of his money taking motorcycle tours around Europe. It seemed to me a great way to celebrate new riches and new freedom from the daily business grind. He showed me how to operate several of the gadgets on my iPhone. Nice guy.

The back of our hotel looked over the village and the river valley. The little church in the foreground began playing its bells at dusk, not randomly but musically, like a carillon, one tune after another, for maybe an hour. It was a very peaceful scene, which turned dramatic as a thunderstorm erupted on the far western horizon after the sun went down, lightning bolts and all.

 

Friday, June 20^th

Otocec, Slovenia to Klagenfurt, Austria

Getting out of bed on the last day is always a mixed bag of emotions. By this time you are ready to go home and ready to get off the moto but you are also not quite ready to stop. Maybe you were more ready yesterday at the end of the day when you were tired than you are this morning when you know its the last. I was more than ready after I tried to check out of the hotel. As I entered the small reception area, Merry Death slipped in ahead of me. No problem. Then her credit card wouldn’t work. No problem, she has another. Oh, no, it crashed the terminal! No problem, the desk clerk politely says this terminal isn’t working properly, I’ll go use the other one. A few minutes later, she comes back, it crashed the other terminal, too. I’m sorry, but nobody can use credit cards this morning until this is fixed. No problem, Merry Death has cash – but only in 100 Euro bills. No problem, the desk clerk politely says she will have to go to the bar register to make change. A few minutes later she returns and counts out something like 91 Euros. It only takes me thirty seconds to check out, but now we are both late for the final morning briefing. Travels with Merry Death…

Today its back to twisties and hairpins on backroads through canyons, along rivers and  heavily forested roads, up and down super steep grades  going through the Savina Valley and Logarska dolina over the Alps to Austria. The guide book says we will “take every curve we can find in Slovenia” and after riding it, I believe it. Tony tells us that the Savina Valley we traverse was the same route that the Trapp family used (in reverse) when escaping the Nazis from Austria in World War, made famous by “The Sound of Music.”

At one point, I got a little too proud of my newly found confidence in riding the Multistrada. Trying to keep up in traffic on one of those curvy river roads, I decided to pass a truck at the limit of my vision. Just as I reached the point of no return, another truck appeared coming around the river bend right at me. Not good. No choice then but to give it more gas and lurch in front of the truck I was passing as the road curved to the right. I made it in plenty of time, but it shook me a little. I was lucky there was no sand or puddle on the road to steal my traction. “Hey, get a grip, no need for that, son.”  I was more careful after that. Rain finally did catch up with us while we were eating lunch, so we donned rain gear for the rest of the day.

We went over the wall at the Zell Pfarre (Pass). The route we took down seemed almost straight down, except for the hairpins. It was an absolute gas. What a fantastic day of riding to end a terrific week! Before cruising into Klagenfurt, we stopped at the pass to admire the backside of the Karawanks.

Is this the Alps, or what? We sure ain’t in Kansas anymore, Toto!

  

 

  

  

It was raining again lightly as we cruised happily into Klagenfurt. Some of us had to stop for gas (excuse me, petrol) before turning our bikes (excuse me, motos) back in. After I had filled my tank, we sat and waited for others. And waited. Getting wet. And waited. Getting cold. And waited. You don’t even have to guess, do you? Who else but the super rider who owned three (3!) Ducatis could take so long doing Christ only know what while paying for her gasoline?

A kilometer later and we were done, all except for the farewell dinner, when everybody shared what they liked most about the ride. With 20 something riders, we covered it all. Some were more loquacious than others, but all enthusiastically agreed it was fantastic time. Ironic, because in many ways the ride was a tutorial in everything the world cannot agree on. We can’t agree if it a pillion or a saddle bag, gas or petrol, when we are talking about exactly the same thing in exactly the same language. We can’t agree to drive on the right or the left, but thankfully we didn’t have to change that mid trip. We can’t agree on the sounds represented by a J or a Y, an E or an A, or an I or an E, or for that matter, what alphabet to use. Is it a kilo or a pound or a foot or a meter? Vanilla or chocolate? If we can’t agree on simple stuff like that, how can we hope to agree on Jesus vs. Mohammed, something people have fought and died over for centuries in the mountains, islands and valleys we just traveled.  And I haven’t yet mentioned  Buddha or, just God. At least we don’t kill each other over the difference between vanilla and chocolate, well so long as we are not using the flavors as code words for races, that is. But this group of Americans, Aussies, Turks, Mexicans, Austrians and Italians who had never met each other before were able to share something they all agreed upon and love, travel by motorcycle,"not encased in a steel cage" - a point that Manuel made in his closing remarks.

Kudos for Eidelweiss, the tour organizer. It’s now a pretty big small business, worldwide, with a home garage with full time mechanics and over 125 motorcycles in their stable. The logistics to get all these bikes in good working order to the right paces at the right times must be daunting, but they do it week in and week out,  world wide. Apparently the founder no longer leads rides, but if Manuel and Tony are typical of their guides, their staff is great. Manuel may be overworked, but he never (completely) lost his aplomb while dealing with all kinds of people from all kinds of backgrounds in all kinds of unexpected situations. And the Edelweiss team went to great effort to make sure the riders had the freedom to do what they wanted, not bound to a set agenda on a group tour. Truly professional outfit.


NOTE: I had some better pictures, shared by some of my fellow riders, but I was unable to upload them on this blog site despite many trials and efforts, complications of Microsoft vs. Google interface.