Time and Distance – Day 3, 11am, 690km – Day 3, midnight, 840km; Town and Country – the Hungary/Slovenia border to a village called Parizjle; Kilos (with apologies to Bridget Jones): 84 1/2; Coffee stops – 0; Cokes and cakes, spag bol – 10; Close Shaves on the Steed – none. Animal life – Bugs and more bugs…
I also wish to announce a new journal, the alter-ego of Not Fast but Far… called Endurance in Theory. This is about the trials and tribulations of a writer gathering information about physiology and psychology of endurance for a book. You can read Endurance in Theory here.
If travel writing is about a sense of place, I have experienced very few moments in a life-time of travel writing in which I have felt the change in place as strongly as leaving Hungary and arriving in Slovenia.
My mood was upbeat. The climb to the border was short and as I left a mountain-top forest, cool at 11 am, I free-wheeled downhill for five kilometres. The valley felt so radically different. Slovenia had the neatly tended, luminously green fields of an Alpine valley, which of course it is, farm buildings and chalets with angled roofs like open books whose covers outreach the buildings they are sheltering. Their eaves were stacked with split logs and pink and scarlet geraniums. It was a Thursday morning; people were out tending their gardens, mowing and planting. Oh, some will call it twee, but for me it was a delightful Slavic twist on Alpine homeliness. The change made Hungary, just a few kilometres behind me, looked tired and neglected. Over the years I have heard plenty of positive things about Slovenia but never managed to visit, so in many ways this was both expected and an exceptional surprise.
The descent levelled out into comfortable riding between planted and harvested fields, roadsides neatly mowed. This was the moment that we entered the corner of Austria, crossed the River Mula, before shortly crossing back into Slovenia. I didn’t even notice, not even the momentary change of language.
My light mood continued. I noticed myself loving this whole process, the freedom, the sunshine, the newness of the country, the progress towards the end of the second section of the course, now just 40 miles away… But then, after 55 hours mostly in the saddle, weirdly, this was the moment that my right foot chose to complain. I developed a ‘hot spot’, more formally known as metatarsalgia, if you please, a strange inside-out pain (which worsened as you took pressure off) under the ball of my ‘other’ foot. This was probably because my right foot was taking a larger proportion of the pressure of the cycling, but this was becoming extremely painful, debilitatingly so.
In all its prettiness, the Slovenian countryside began to break up a bit, rucks in the carpet of agricultural greens became folds and forested tops. The road twisted around them. Occasionally Andy Buchs added a hop over a shoulder of land that brought us into another valley.
But I needed to do something about my foot. Then, as I freewheeled into a miniature valley… Aha! a tiny lake… framed to the rear by woodland. I dropped the bike on the grass, took off my shoes and sat at the pond’s edge with my feet in the water, hoping that nobody would mind my probable trespassing. I sat for 15 minutes, happy as a sandboy, if we’re allowed to refer to them nowadays. (I have no idea what a sandboy but he lives a lifetime of happiness, so there you are.)
By 2pm the heat was closing around me like a padded cloak as I came first to modern suburbs, then solid late 19th Century villas and finally into the streets of a medieval old town above the river. This was the town of Ptuj. I bounced over the cobbles, weaving under the castle before reaching the bridge. Half way across the chequered flag on my navigation device flashed for the second time. End of Leg 2, another 360 kilometres done (total 750km). I collared an unsuspecting passer-by – as it happened he was a photographer waiting to take images of a famous Slovene racing-driver. He snapped me and the bike with the castle in the background. Ptuj felt like a lovely town, but doubtless if I go back it will feel like an insignificant settlement around a pretty old town.
Next came something unusual for a bike-packing event, and to me a moment of unexpected and delightful generosity. Racers are not permitted private hospitality, but about 10 kilometres from Ptuj a fellow racer in the event had arranged with the organiser to open her home to all the competitors of 45 South-West. I rode through the appalling afternoon heat, nipping over to the wrong side of the road to garner any shade. Eventually I found the address.
I was expecting a couple of other riders; they had already moved on. But her Dad was on hand and playing host. We had no mutual language, so we muddled along; he pointed out the fridge, stacked with Cokes and energy drinks, and implied I should make free with them. I confess I had six. There was past and spag bol in a pot. And there was a hose where I cooled off and soaked my kit (which dried in the sun in 20 minutes). At 4.30 Dad headed back to work, leaving me for the second time that day as happy as a sandboy, sitting in the shade and waiting out the worst of the heat. It was still boiling at 5pm.
Another thing to note about Slovenia is how well it treats its cyclists. I was amazed how considerate the drivers were, and that was when I wasn’t on a cycle path a main road, which has right of way even on quite large side-streets. Another reason return on the steed some day, perhaps under less pressure.
Following 50 miles of flat riding, as dusk fell into night 3, the ground really kicked up and we entered a string of tight, remote valleys via a series of sharp ascents and descents. I knew it would be bad as soon as I spotted a sign to a monastery; narrow roads that wound remorselessly up into forested heights, ideal for a monkish refuge from the world. The climbs were just a few hundred feet, but six or seven of them came in succession. And they were steep. At one point my navigation device registered 23%.
So it was a relief to return to the flatlands of the Savinja River, where I looked around for somewhere to hide away and sleep for a few hours. Eventually I found a field of hops strung on frames made of angled telegraph poles and wire. Perfect, I’d be out of sight in the alleys of trailing plants. As I fell asleep, the strings of hops rose and fell on the wind, deep black against the grey night sky. They seemed to approach and then retreat, threateningly, like Harry Potter’s dementors. Evidently I was dehydrated to the point of delirium again.
The dementors weren’t there to suck out my soul, however. Instead they were playing havoc with my insides. After all the sun I developed the runs and made a few urgent calls deep into the hops.