Ljubliana to Grado
The first thing I did when I came to Austria two years ago was buy a 26er. I had just left the States for what would be one of the longest stretches I had spent anywhere outside of the DC area. I was combing through Willhaben, the German speaking world’s craigslist, when I stumbled across a good condition, rigid mountain bike. As soon as I saw the distinctive “Bridgestone” decal running across the downtube, I knew it had to be mine. It had a decent drive train and some beefy canti brakes. I could already feel myself ripping through the streets and up through the narrow “Wanderwege” (hiking trails) snaking through the hills above the city. My first trip comes and goes, ending an incredible first season on the bike. I had taken it to every interesting corner of the city, and even ridden it 50 miles to the capital of Slovakia, Bratislava.
I started thinking about what bikepacking gear I could bring to Austria. How could I customize this bike to be a monster at everything? A gravel bike replacement… a stupid trail bike… a grocery getter? I decided to get some giant velo orange crazy bars, a new stem to accommodate said giant bars, and a new seat. First ride out of the shop: I crashed the bike, somehow severing one of the bullhorns from the bike in the process. At this point, my bike had reached an undoubtedly goofy, but functional state that I was happy with. Most importantly, I didn’t mind locking it to a post and leaving it for hours.
As 2024 came around, I had come to the conclusion that this bike can handle whatever I can, so I start looking for a nice bikepacking trip I could do right out of town. I learned I love trips that start in your own backyard, having completed the Trans Virginia with my friend James a couple years back. My research returned a pretty and well researched route starting in Vienna and ending in Grado, Italy, tracing a path through what was once Austrian crown land, but is now Slovenia and Italy. I could already see the trip in my head, cute little towns steeped in history, tiny cafes on the side of the road, my dependable 26er going up or down whatever I ask it to. My previous bike packing trips had all been in the United States, all on the East Coast, mostly starting from my house in Washington DC, usually up the toe path to one of the camp sites along the Potomac River. Even though I was starting to consider Vienna to be “home”, this trip would be worlds apart from my normal routes back in the states.
We had 4 days to complete our journey, and it was also my buddy Steve’s first bikepacking trip. We decided to trim some of the flatter Hungarian sections off the start and do what I thought would be the highlights. We picked up the route at stage 8, starting with a roll from the capital of Slovenia, Ljubljana, (great name by the way) through the border town Postojna, to the bustling harbor of Trieste, once known as the Vienna of the Adriatic, then curving along the northern coast of the sea towards Grado, a sleepy formerly Austrian, now Italian, resort town
Getting to the start was a journey in itself, involving several trips to Wien’s Hauptbahnhof to organize tickets.
9 hours and 1 transfer later our bikes were dubiously crammed into the back of a Slovenian Intercity train. We awaited the conductor nervously, our train had shown up without its bike rack. The bikes were piled up next to a back door and a toilet we were hoping no one would use. “Dober dan” we said to the conductor who was eying our stack of Austrian paper tickets, his puncher hovering above them, deciding whether he would let our inappropriately stowed bikes slide or if he would throw us to the curb at the next town. Something seemed to pass over him and he nodded, clicking a hole in our tickets then handing him back to us. The most complicated part of our car free journey was almost complete.
We pulled into Ljubljana at 7pm, ravenous with hunger after a day of gummy bears and sparkling water, an Austrian train speciality.
We dumped our bikes at the pod hotel we were staying at and roamed the streets looking for some food. We were both getting hangry and having trouble agreeing on anything. Finally, we landed on a big stack of tacos, a delicious surprise in the Mexican food desert that is Europe
We went to sleep with full bellies, ready to see what the first day of riding would be like.
We woke up to temps in the low 70s and blue skies. What followed were 45 miles of incredibly pleasant riding through quiet country roads that began with a familiar but foreign experience of riding through weird exurbs to reach the actual good stuff. But given that Slovenia has a population of 2 million, this passed with a welcome quickness, and soon we were riding through rich green farms, towering mountains in the background and bird songs all around.
This is what I had been dreaming about, and for a first trip for Steve, the bar was being set incredibly high. We followed the route set out by the creator diligently, sometimes going into towns just to turn around. But it was all more than okay. This part of Slovenia is known for its Karst limestone, adding beautiful crystal clear rivers bubbling out mountains to this already idyllic landscape. The route tried its best to avoid the main roads while also not adding insane amounts of elevation or detours. Still, there was the customary shoulder riding which always involves praying that no car or massive truck would decide to flatten us. All of this passed swiftly as we hugged the side of the massive valley that brought a strong tail wind along behind us most of the day.
A final stretch in the afternoon was the only real suffering of the day—a spike in elevation in a relatively tame day of 3000 feet in climbing. We quietly accepted it, as we went up through what felt like an ancient forest. The roar of traffic could be heard, a reminder of the A1, a massive highway that brings goods and hypothetically us, from Vienna all the way to Trieste in under 6 hours. For us, a little under 6 hours had brought us a fraction of the way to Postojana. Here we stayed at the cheapest and only option on hostelworld: a hostel that also happened to be the first floor of a high school boarding school. We seemed to be the only ones who found this interesting. In our cozy barebones room, I enjoyed a strange comfort in being in this bizarre accommodation far from home.
We fell asleep that night around 10:30, already feeling excited about the day to come. The first day might have offered a lot in terms of beauty, but the second day featured more than a 3rd of its mileage offroad.
The area between Postojna and the border had a different feeling, the highway was our constant companion. It was incredibly interesting to follow the lattice of logging roads, narrow inter-village paths and single track towards Trieste.
The other exciting part of that day was the border crossing from Slovenia to Italy. As an American, a border crossing by bike is exotic and exhilarating. The area we were crossing through was rich with history, occupied by several powers in the last hundredish years. As the miles rolled by we closely examined the sleepy villages. Were we in Italy yet? This house MUST be Italian, that cow is DEFINITELY Slovenian.
The mixed surface riding that day was great, at one point taking us on a piece of single track through the clear cut on the high shoulder of the carefully graded railroad track below. One of those places you look at the window and think, I want to ride there!. The perfect level of chunder for a rigid bike. The famous “compliance” of steel bikes? I’ve never felt it on my Bridgestone—I mostly feel jostled around riding it. This time I truly accepted it, banging over roots and rocks at full speed, writing off the teeth chattering and copious chain slap as part of the experience. We crawled towards the coast, climbing over the lip of one valley and then down into the next. The roads here were rough, long double track descents that rattled my patience. Nothing ever lasted too long, and before we knew it we reached another highway overpass. This one we were sure was the border. Two pairs of bored Italian policemen barely glanced up at us as we rolled into their country. We proceeded to make every possible wrong turn and ride past them two more times.
Through villages that felt decidedly more Italian, we reached a beautiful overlook of the city of Trieste. Gazing at the sparkling sea, we felt incredibly accomplished. We had reached Italy! Then the fuzzy feeling passed as I looked down at my phone. While the creators of the route had enjoyed a campsite near the lookout, I had booked us an airbnb in the city center, a thousand feet below. On top of this, I had a work call I couldn’t miss in under an hour.
At this point, I was feeling entirely in my element. I plugged the address into komoot, curious to see what slightly deranged way it would come up for us to plunge through the urban canyons of the city to our destination. It did not disappoint as we pointed downhill into Italian rush hour traffic. The roads were incredible, glimpses of the sea and city filtering in through a lush mediterranean landscape combined with the fear of an Italian driver buzzing you without a care in the world. Steven proved to be a voice of reason on this section, being far more cautious than I am. I didn’t give into my inner idiot, and descended far more safely than I normally would. Komoot took us down through parks, on footpaths and narrow side streets. Finally we reached our airbnb, frazzled by the descent but happy to be done for the day.
We had decided to take the next day off and enjoy some of what the city had to offer. Although it was fun to see the sites, a day without movement began to feel tortuous as the long day stretched out ahead of us. Both of us missed the excitement of being on the move, an unexpected feeling to be honest. Once you get moving, it can be hard to stop.
That night, the people living below our apartment decided to have a loud karaoke party that lasted into the early hours of the morning, which started to sour the fantasy I had about the luxury of credit card camping. This feeling grew stronger as I thought about where the route picked up the next day. A thousand feet above, right where we had admired the city view the day before last.
The next morning we packed up, groggy but excited. Ready to ride what was supposed to be the highlight of the trip, Trieste to Grado. As soon as we rolled out the front door I began my classic mental gymnastics that occupy about 40 percent of my thoughts while doing a trip like this. “Well, this is the whole day’s climbing in one stretch! Just a thousand feet in under 2 miles, and we are basically done for the day!” We set off again, looking straight up at the hills around the city, trying to pick out the view point where we had started. I kicked my bike into its massive granny gear, and we began to spin. The hills were comically steep, and the day was the hottest by far. Luckily, drinking fountains lined the cobblestone road all the way up.
Very soon, we were the only people on foot or on bike, but tiny Fiats and Vespas ripped past us, both up and down. Each time I would smile and wave, a little nod in my mind to the absurdity of what we were doing. To them, this was an everyday thing, and from their expressions, it was probably mildly annoying that they had to steer out of the way to account for the two dumb Americans slogging up their hill.
But again, we reached the top. After many hiking and biking trips, the suffering part of an experience can actually be fun, and I enjoyed the insanity of choosing to do something like this rather than lounge about. We reached the view point once more, enjoyed the views again, sucked down some water and snacks from the store before pointing bikes downward and east, towards a hazy bit of lat land that was supposedly our destination
We then got on the “Via Alpina”, a lovely crushed gravel trail that makes its own journey up and through the alps to Monaco. For us, it was a welcome downward sloping line on the map after our climb out of the city. All we had to do was enjoy the scenery while carefully dodging families enjoying their weekend walk. The day would follow this theme, as we were among the very few bikers on trails enjoyed largely by European retirees. Spring was in full swing here. Everyone was out and about, holding handfuls of white asparagus, foraged from alongside the trails. It added to the quaint seaside vibe unique to this day. The air was salty and the pavement was hot. Towels hung from balconies, and there were abundant sun-burned Germans in jorts .
We banged along miles of trails, curious to see where they would spit us out. As we reached closer to sea level and the landscape flattened out, the touristy air left and we found ourselves in the backside of the Adriatic. Industrial buildings lined the coast and the towns were quiet.
Then, that changed too—we entered the “Riserva Naturale Regionale della Foce dell’ Isonzo Isola della Cona”. It was humid, buggy, and thick with green. It reminded me of beach rides in Southeastern North Carolina, and I happily and nostalgically bounced along the nature trails that bordered the park
The sun beat down on us as we left the last bit of nature preserve in the area. The rest of this flat fertile area had been extensively irrigated. The reclaimed swamp land was all agriculture now. Huge fields of sad looking grapes were bisected by the white gravel roads we rode on. The horizon was a line of trees miles away, and although not my first choice for a bike ride, I enjoyed the uniqueness of it—why other than bikepacking would I see this place? Our water and food was running low, but every possible town/collection of houses we passed would turn out to be boarded up and abandoned. The area reminded me of a Studio Ghibli movie, romantic and strange in its own way.
Grado neared closer, the end of our ride. I was growing hungry and negative. Why is everything abandoned around here? We rode on, passing over bridges and then finally the tail end of a long bike lane that hugged a wide avenue all the way to town. Replacing the desolate monoculture were fake palm trees and golf courses. Old Austrians on e-bikes started whizzing past us. This part of Grado felt more like a cheap American beach town than anything else I had seen on the trip or in Europe in general. On long pavement sections my bike’s massive 3X drivetrain shines. I put it in the big gear and pretend I am on a strange road bike. The rest of the day was uneventful and we pulled into our final night, an economy beach hotel only a bit from the sea.
We dumped our stuff and eagerly rode a few minutes to the sea, as if we wanted our bikes to swim with us. The water was clear and shallow and it seemed to stretch like that for miles. We had to lay down to get our heads under the water.
That night we tucked into bed, looking forward to a good night's sleep. That didn’t turn out great as the AC failed to turn on, and the open window let in a thousand mosquitos. The next day we had a tight schedule to make in order to not miss our train that only ran once a day. It all went off without a hitch, and soon we were on the ICC bound for Vienna, the trip a blur behind us. Both of us laughed about how moving from place to place had been the best part of the trip—the one time we stayed in one place being the most boring.
It felt satisfying to have completed a trip on this bike, something I had constantly thought about since first coming to Austria over a year and a half ago. I had put all in maybe 550 dollars into my bike build. I think I had set my sights a little high when it came to having a bike that’s incredible at everything, but it hasn’t failed me yet. Even if it roughs me up, it’s gone up and down pretty much everything. It has left me with conflicted feelings on the debates of gravel bikes vs. mountain bikes, but it hasn’t left me with any mixed feelings on Bridgestone. I love the bike for all its faults, and am grateful for everywhere it's taken me.
A massive credit to my companion Steven on this trip. He took every part of his first trip in stride and was an incredible companion. Steven is also a fantastic photographer, and he motivated me to take out my camera more and shoot even when I didn’t want to. Please enjoy the rest of the photos we took on this trip.
