Between Curves and Encounters
It wasn’t supposed to be a real ride.
Just forty‑five minutes from Villach to Mojstrana.
A short transfer. A transition.
But the rain had other plans. And the wind too.
I chose Mojstrana for a reason. Not for a postcard view like Lake Bled, but for something less visible,
a hostel called Lokna.
“Built by backpackers, for backpackers.”
I arrived early.
They were having breakfast.
No hesitation. No distance.
Just a chair pulled in, a coffee offered, names exchanged like it was the most natural thing in the world.
An Argentinian couple—working winters in Italy, chasing seasons across Europe.
Two Scots—Maisie and Micah—restless, laughing, always ready for the next hike.
And CJ, from Colorado.
He showed up in a suit.
In a mountaineering hostel.
It didn’t make sense at first. Then it did.
A climber since he was four. A life built around performance, pressure, expectations.
Now just… moving. Looking for a place that feels like his.
We talked for hours.
About choices. About paths. About what it means to stop—or to keep going.
The hostel itself felt like an extension of that.
Wooden walls. Old mountaineering gear.
A space made for people to meet, not just pass through.
Those nights felt more alive than the quiet comfort of hotel rooms.
The First Test
I left with a challenge in mind:
Vršič Pass.
Early April.
Cold. Fog.
Not ideal.
My plan was simple:
Try. If it doesn’t work... turn back.
No ego. Just progression.
The pass had just opened.
A small sign. A small window.
I took it.
The first turns were manageable.
Then the map changed.
Hairpins. Dozens of them.
"Focus. Commit". One turn at a time.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Seventeen.
The road was empty. No cars. No bikes.
Just me… and the mountain.
The fog thickened until it wasn’t fog anymore.
Clouds.
At around 1,600 meters, I wasn’t looking at them.
I was inside them.
Then the sign appeared.
Vršič—1,611 meters.
I stopped for a second. Not long.
Just enough.
This road, built during the First World War,
didn’t feel like history.
It felt alive.
Then down again.
Another series of hairpins.
Slow. Controlled.
Somewhere through the descent, the clouds opened, just enough.A glimpse of the Julian Alps.
A thread of emerald cutting through the valley, the Soča River.
Not a full reward.
Just a hint.
The Pull
In Kobarid, the next morning,
I removed my Westwind Luggage from the bike,
the Rackless system was off in seconds, great design.
I rode to the Tolmin Gorge.
Water, stone, light.
Where two rivers meet and carve their way through narrow rock,
at one of the lowest access points into Triglav National Park.
Everything felt close.
Condensed. Focused.
I had a plan after that.
Lake Bohinj.
But plans… they bend.
The GPS said two hours. Same as Bled.
So I chose Bled.
Not because it’s famous,
at least, that’s what I told myself.
But somewhere along the way, it became clear.
It wasn’t about Bled.
It wasn’t even about the destination.
It was about going back.
The climb to Vršič Pass again, this time under a clear sky, felt completely different.
Dry asphalt. Open views. And something new: trust.
Every turn made more sense.
Every movement felt… intentional.
Not perfect.
But no longer random.
At the top, there was no doubt.
Same road.
Different rider.
When the Road Pushes Back
The next day was supposed to be simpler.
From Kobarid to Postojna.
Two options.
Safe and short, or slightly longer, through the Vipava Valley.
I chose the second.
Not for a strong reason.
Just a feeling.
At first, it was easy. Smooth road. River on the side.
Then it changed.
Steeper.
Narrower.
Sharper.
Fourteen percent.
Seventeen.
Another pass.
Of course.
Slovenia doesn’t really give you a choice
It just keeps going up.
I was tired.
Five hours of sleep. Heavy eyes.
Then the pavement disappeared.
Gravel.
Cliffside. No guardrails.
Not the place I had imagined for my first real off‑road experience.
Everything I had read came back at once,
"ABS off. Stand up. Shift weight".
All good advice.
None of it felt right, right then.
So I did less.
Slowed down.
Stayed steady.
Kept moving.
The back wheel slipped once. Then again.
Not enough to lose control.
Just enough to remind me where I was.
One kilometer.
It felt like three.
When the asphalt came back, I didn’t celebrate.
I just… exhaled.
Suspended
A day later, I was standing inside the Škocjan Caves.
No engine.
No wind.
No movement.
Just darkness… and space.
An underground canyon so vast it didn’t feel real.
A river echoing somewhere below.
Pictures weren’t allowed.
But like everyone else, I still took a few.
Quick, discreet shots,
not to capture the place, but to keep a trace of it.
Because some places don’t translate.
They stay with you, or they disappear.
Trace
Slovenia didn’t give me what I expected.
It gave me more.
Not in views, though there were many.
Not in roads—though they were endless.
But I learned that progress doesn’t come from perfect conditions.
It comes from showing up anyway.
Trying once. Then trying again.
And sometimes, the road that scares you the most…
is the one that teaches you how to ride.
Forward
But for now,
I’ve had enough of wondering what’s behind the next corner.
I want something simpler.
A straight road.
The sound of the sea.
Grilled fish on a plate.
So I point the bike south toward Croatia,
hoping, for once,
that the road stays flat.
(I have a feeling it won’t.)
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