Croatia Women's Rally - Part 1

It was a warm summer morning. Ever since I woke up, I had been frantically checking my email. But it wasn’t there just yet. It didn’t arrive before breakfast, nor before my workday began. As much as I didn’t want to keep my hopes up, I found myself obsessively refreshing my inbox.

However, just when I was about to grab my lunch, I heard the familiar ping from my mailbox. I opened it with shaking hands, and after seeing the two huge words at the top, nothing else seemed to matter anymore. “YOU’RE IN.”

I wasn’t sure I’d get days off work on such short notice. I didn’t really have a budget set aside for another spontaneous trip this summer. Heck, I didn’t even have a gravel bike! But none of that truly mattered. These were just a couple of minor, solvable bumps on my way toward an unforgettable adventure. “Opportunities will present themselves. Recognize them, act on them.” This was my opportunity, and I would make sure I took it, no matter what.

Then came the wait - and the slow, electric buildup before the trip. I scrambled around, trying to borrow or piece together a bike capable of handling what looked like a moderately demanding gravel route with a few “moments.” I knew my cyclocross bike wouldn’t really work well on that kind of terrain. 33c tyres are fun for riding through grass, sand, and mud for 50km, when at the end of the day you’re rewarded with a nice, restful evening in a hot bed. Not for riding all day through rugged Croatian off-roads with all your luggage hauled between campings. Not an option.

I was rescued by my absolute best friend, who lent me her trusty Grasshopper - a Trek Domane with sturdy 40mm gravel tyres. This should be enough, I figured. From the route, I knew some sections were quite steep, so I ordered a bigger cassette, upgrading the loyal, roady 34t to a much more forgiving 40t. With luggage, every tooth mattered.

Once I’d secured my ride, booked a hotel in Trieste, and bought the plane tickets, it was high time to start preparing. I split the preliminary route into seven stages, saving one day for rest or some kind of emergency. I researched sleeping options and read up a little on the areas I’d be riding through. Everyone in the Rally group chat was focused on avoiding overplanning, on going with the flow. But this was not me. I always have a contingency plan to a contingency plan. I knew I can improvise and adapt, but I needed a solid, dependable plan - along with a handful of ideas on how to modify it on the go, just in case something came up.

Then I turned to my packing list. I adjusted it to suit a warmer destination than the high mountains, updated it with some lighter electronics I’d recently acquired, and removed all cooking gear in favour of eating out. As usual, I weighed every single item. It totalled just under 8kg, including the bags. With a roughly 10.5kg bike and 1.5kg of water, that brought everything to about 20kg. Not great, not terrible.

The anticipation thickened as the rally crept closer. Three days before departure, I was already packed, zipped up, and quietly buzzing - ready to go.

Prologue

I woke up relatively late. I had slept exceptionally well and was ready to conquer the world! Okay, maybe not the world, but Trieste - for sure!

After a quick breakfast - finally reunited with sweet pastries and authentic Italian cappuccino - I found a nice, cozy spot in the small courtyard to assemble my bike. I rolled in with my trusty bike case. Scattered around the tennis table, there was another girl just finishing up assembling hers. She was also riding the rally, of course! That’s how I met Avri.

Helping each other out, we quickly wrapped up building our bikes and decided to go for a short shakeout ride together.

I pulled out the route I’d prepared before the trip. Short, easy 50kms just to stretch out our legs, I said. The rollout from the center took a while, between stopping a couple of times to adjust the saddle on a borrowed bike and navigating through the chaos of Italian traffic, as drivers were haphazardly moving in all possible directions, accompanied by their ever-present, expressive horns. But soon we made our way north, toward the outskirts. And as soon as we left the central part of the city behind, the road shot sharply upwards.

On the map, it looked easy. One big-ish climb at the beginning, couple rollers at the plateau above the city, and then nice, long roll down the hill back to the seaside. On the map. Because as soon as we started climbing, I ran out of gears, despite both riding light and having cassette bigger than usually. After one small “kicker” that got us out of the major urban area, we turned into a tiny street of houses, passing an ominous sign declaring a maximum of 30% gradient in front of us…

The road was extremely narrow, with cars parked in every possible space, making it close to impossible to let the cars pass. Fortunately, the traffic was close to non-existent – just one car overtook us. But were not meant to ride up the steepest segment of the road, as we turned right, into an even narrower alley. Tarmac was soon replaced by ribbed concrete, topping at around 20-22% just before it ended up with a flight of stairs.

THAT I did not expect

I said, half angry at myself, half ashamed of my planning. How did I overlook this?! Bikes are meant to be ridden, not carried!

Yeah, there was something about stairs in the Komoot summary! - Avri said.

Fortunately, there were only a couple of steps - the end was visible from the bottom. A few seconds later, we were able to mount and ride again. Two hundred meters later, after grinding our way to the top of an enormously steep ramp, we hit our first off-road segment. Short, steep, bumpy, and loose. I tried to ride it, but after just a couple of cranks my overinflated rear wheel spun out on a big rock, dumping me into a patch of loose gravel. I looked up, saw the gradient, the quality of the surface, and Avri pushing. I accepted my fate. Still annoyed at myself, I started slowly walking the bike up the slope.

The path ended with another set of stairs. Oh, how happy I was that we didn’t have to carry any luggage that day! I hauled my bike up and over to the road. Our route led left, but I turned my head to the right for a moment, and caught my first glimpse of the city below. Oh, how beautiful, miraculous, it looked! A small part of the center peeked shyly from behind the valley we had just climbed, framed by forested slopes, with the harbor stretching far beyond. It was a view to be cherished.

But the climb was far from over. Turning left, the paved road rose sharply for a few hundred meters before leading us into another gravel path. This one was, in contrast to the previous beast, an absolute marvel. Climbing gently with a perfect mix of firm hardpack and small, technical slabs, it was pure joy to ride. A wall of greenery towered on the left, and a line of shrubs on the right shielded the path from the cliff’s exposure. It was the kind of setting that reminded me exactly why I still love off-road riding. The air was thick, though. Hot and humid, it made us sweat like crazy.

That path led to the top of the climb, where it transformed into super-smooth, premium gravel. A couple of easy kilometers and a quick gas-station stop later, we entered forest paths again. This time, they were all rideable, but very challenging.

Hey, this is really techy!

I silently nodded, fighting for traction on a steep, rocky uphill ramp. The daemons from the past started catching up with me. Guilt creeped in, like a quiet assassin of joy.

Yeah, I didn’t expect it to be that hard!

At some point, I found myself struggling with my confidence. I knew the features we encountered weren’t beyond my ability. I was just rusty, and a bit untrusting of my own skill. Gosh. It felt so strange, knowing I could ride these sections, yet comically rolling down them with one leg clipped in, like a scooter.

At least we’ve got a taste of what the rally trails might look like
Yeah. I’m not sure if I’m happy that we did, or hopeful rally won’t get harder than that - I said.

Oh how that would unfold soon!

Descending back to the city, we cut a couple of sections short and replaced some gravel parts with tarmac to expedite our return to the hostel. We had a dinner to get to. I got Pati’d. I had heavily underestimated the trails. My initial thought was - 50k, that’s gonna be like 2 hours, right?! Maybe two and a half. Oh, my naïve, roadie thinking! It took us over four, counting all the pauses and stops.

The road down was narrow, relatively steep, and windy, but with knobby tires and an upright position, the bike simply didn’t allow me to gain enough speed to need to brake hard into the corners.

That’s why I nearly froze with terror when I grabbed the brakes to stop for a red light at a pedestrian crossing. Instead of stopping, the bike began reluctantly shaving off some of my speed, as if I was feathering the levers instead of grabbing them like my life depended on it. The crossing was approaching at what felt like the speed of light, while my actual velocity seemed to stay disturbingly constant. The world went quiet, everything slowed down, and I tried to use sheer willpower to brake.

I finally stopped, my front wheel almost kissing the zebra-crossing paint, after about 200 meters of fighting gravity and momentum. This wasn’t the best omen before a 700km route through Croatian hills. But with no time buffer, I knew I had to suck it up and plan all my descents as if I were riding carbon rim brakes in a downpour. And, honestly? Been there, done that.

During a welcome dinner, Lael Wilcox, the absolute hero of women’s bikepacking world, and a titular organizer of the rally, said that “the route is only a guideline; make it your own in any way you want”. Little did I know how true those words would become for me in less than 48 hours…

Day 1 – To the seaside!

The big ride started with all the greetings, gear admiration, tech chats, and talks about preliminary plans for the next week. We all cheered each other on and reveled in the sunny morning. After a quick sendoff from Lael and Bea, the route author and our main support during the ride, Luca took an official group photo and we started slowly rolling toward the trailhead.

The day’s route began with a long, leisurely cruise along the old rail track. Champagne gravel, the warmth of the sun, and a very mellow gradient made for a perfect warm-up. I quickly spotted Flo in the crowd - her hand-painted pink, white, and grey bike made her impossible to miss! We started chatting about the possibility of getting down to the seaside in one day. We had our eyes set on that, but decided not to lock onto the plan just yet. We let the adventure decide for us.

As we moved quickly, passing a lot of other riders, Fiore joined us, and together we started moving fast. Soon we realized we were at the very front of the rally. I took it as a good omen. If we kept this pace, an evening in Bakar seemed more than possible. We rode along a huge cliff over a deep valley, the first of many magnificent views and landscapes, and then continued through dense forest, crossing into Slovenia.

The ride through the Kojnik reserve was the first real test of our “gravel” skills. Scenic, green, and vast, the fields formed a kind of plateau surrounded by undulating hills. Through them wound our road, or rather, our path - rocky, coarse, and technical. It constantly shifted between a rutted dirt track with deep grooves, pebbly gravel full of loose rocks, and steep ramps with jagged stones jutting out. We moved slowly, carefully choosing our lines. On the short but brutally steep ramps, I had to balance between sitting and standing, deloading the wheels to push the bike over obstacles while grinding away in my easiest gear - still too hard to keep any respectable cadence on 17% inclines. But of all off-road skills, this is what I’m especially good at!

A lot of the girls had caught up with us earlier when we stopped for a coffee, so now there was quite a substantial pack moving across the plateau. We were all riding, cheering, and looking after each other as we progressed through this seemingly never-ending sea of green.

During a short stop by the water fountain in Brest, I met Claire and Laura. They were both also thinking of riding all the way to the sea. I reminded myself of a chat with Patrycja before the Rally, when I told her my idea of riding the whole 140km on the first day:

You’re INSANE! You’re going to be riding alone!

But I trusted myself. Worst-case scenario, I would just change my plans on the fly. And yet, it was only 40k into the ride, and there were already four of us thinking the exact same thing.

The descend that followed was a tarmac one. Long, flowing, with most corners easy enough to allow for keeping momentum. I was of course vary of my less-than-perfect brakes, which over 30kph were more decorative than functional, but I didn’t care. I was just braking earlier than I normally would – skill learned on long, wet descents in the Alps and my local terrain. Despite more relaxed position on a borrowed bike, more rolling resistance from gravel tires, I was flying. Familiar feelings kicked in, the elation of speed and flow overtook all other emotions, flooding the body with endorphins. Riding was automatic – it was happening somewhere between my consciousness and subconsciousness. It reminded me that my zen in on the road.

One easy road climb later, I saw Mia at a small kiosk by the roadside. Pulling over, I noticed a huge deer carcass on a trailer. Oh gosh. Inside the bar, a couple of already half-drunk local men were nursing their beers. They looked like they hadn’t seen a young woman in a very long time.

I have no idea what they ‘re saying, but I’m sure they’re talking about me. I’ve been here for a while now and they’ve been staring at me this whole time…

Well, I thought, they’re about to see way more women heading this way. This was the first place to buy anything other than plain water in a good 40k.

Soon, as I predicted, more of us arrived, together with Bea and Luca in the support car. But the party needed to move, and after a few restful moments and plenty of laughs, we started mounting our bikes. That’s when someone noticed and complimented “a flower” in Flo’s right pedal. She looked down, staring for a moment at the grey, fluffy things sticking out. The problem was that, apart from those seemingly cute little “feathers,” the inside of the pedal looked red and… meaty.

That’s how we met Dave, as she called him. Dave, her new taxidermy friend, was a mouse lodged deeply inside her SPD pedal. Flo found a stick on the ground and started to dig Dave out. Even without a clear view of the operating “table,” I eventually had to turn away, as the scene started to make me feel mildly sick.

While she worked, we all tried to piece together how Dave had become her morbid passenger. The most convincing theory: she must have stepped on him when we stopped on that meadow a few kilometres back, and then “clipped him in.” The truth will forever remain a mystery. Fortunately, after a couple of far-too-long minutes, Dave was left behind, and we finally rolled downhill again.

The next climb was easy. Hardpack gravel, mellow gradients. I rode it alone. Mia vanished the moment the road tilted upward, and together we’d already distanced everyone else on the false flat before. She waited for me at the top, where the track shifted from friendly, smooth gravel into a narrow trail, almost swallowed by overgrown bushes.

We dropped into the uneven path, and with each metre the rocks grew larger. The pleasant gravel ride quickly turned into a bumpy, rocky, XC-style descent. I tried to hold a straight line, stay off the brakes as much as possible, and keep enough momentum to stay upright, yet not so much that I’d be catapulted into the bushes. What would have been a casual, eyes-closed cruise on my 26” full-suspension felt like a full-body ordeal on 40mm tyres.

I was also hyper-aware of how little clearance I had between my front wheel and the bar roll. Getting the bag, or worse, the air mattress inside, abraded by the tyre was at the very bottom of my wish list.
I could see Mia was struggling too. We rolled downwards, bikes bucking underneath us. Eventually, the ride grew so violent, and my arms so pumped, that I gave up and dismounted. Mia followed immediately.

That’s for sure NOT a gravel path - I said Back when I was racing XC marathons, plenty of riders would walk that descent on MTB bikes. And we’re riding it on gravels!
Yeah… With different tyres it might have been fine, but these narrow ones are definitely not up for this.

I “scootered” the next few metres – right foot clipped in, left foot hovering over the ground, gently stabilizing myself as the bike bounced beneath me. Thankfully, the trail finally spat us out onto something that resembled a surface. I clipped in and pushed through the tall grass until tarmac appeared like salvation.

But it still wasn’t over. The descent into the village twisted down the steep, narrow roads. After surviving the previous MTB-style chaos, I got a little… speed happy. Too happy. I completely forgot about my brakes – the ones that turned decorative above 30 kph. I was barely able to scrub enough speed to clear the hairpins safely. Luckily no cars came the other way, and I reached the bottom in one piece.

You’re a very fast descender
Thank you! Skill and experience, I guess.

I left out the part about the brakes.

It frustrates me how, unless someone comes from MTB, roadies never really pay attention to technique. It’s all power-power-power with no time or place to train actual bike handling…

With just under 80 km done we reached crossroads. Straight ahead, on tarmac, was the way to Mia’s booking. Left, off-road, was the Rally track toward Klana, and potentially the coast. It was a bit after 3 p.m. Still plenty of daylight.

I think I’m gonna ride to the sea today. - Mia said I don’t want to do the mountains in the rain or some gunk. Can we stop for a sec so I cancel my booking?
Sure thing.
I’ll just book something in Bakar while I’m at it. Wanna share?
Yeah! I think I’ll pass on tent with the storm that’s forecasted.

The climb to Platak was long, but never truly difficult. It began on a smooth gravel road leading through dense forest, the gradient steady and forgiving. For this stretch we paired up with Zoë. She kept trying to convince me to go on without her, to ride my own pace. But we had already been moving for over six hours. That’s usually my “perfect” ride duration, and we still had 45 km to go. I was starting to feel it.

But more importantly: I came here to meet people, to ride with them. Mia had vanished into the distance long ago, and we had no idea how far behind the others were. So I happily stayed with Zoë. The gravel eventually gave way to tarmac as the road tilted upward again. On paper it didn’t look hard, but fatigue was setting in. I shifted into my easiest gear, dropped into a steady cadence and began the “snake road” – slaloming across the road to ease the gradient. I crept upward, meter by meter.

Just before the Pass of Death, Passo dello Morte, I spotted a small clearing on the left. I stopped, mesmerized. Through the gap in the trees I caught my first glimpse of the Croatian coastline. It shimmered in the distance, almost hidden behind waves of rolling hills. So close, so impossibly inviting. But my Wahoo was coldly unsentimental: riding the opposite direction, we still had more than 400 meters of climbing before we’d earn the sea.

We rolled into the ominous, narrow passage leading toward the pass and onto the plateau behind it. The tarmac broke into gravel again, the track curling right and deeper into the mountains. On the left stood a road sign, riddled with bullet holes, a stark reminder of the Balkan war.

The highest point of the ride, 1180 m above sea level, greeted us with a transition from smooth, easy gravel into tarmac. It was half past six, with the sun already hidden behind the surrounding mountains. The road was engulfed in dense, damp forest. The temperature read eleven degrees Celsius. On the route profile I saw a small dip – a short descent and a slight hill before the the long plunge all the way to the shore. Mindful of that hill, I opted to wait with putting on my down jacket until the next crest, especially since I was already wearing my Shakedry.

I started descending. In an instant, the shivering cold pierced my body.

Five minutes later I stopped at the roadside, shaking uncontrollably. Regardless of the incoming hill, I decided to wear my puffy jacket anyway. I felt so cold I figured it would at least trap whatever heat I’d generate riding up.

What looked on my Wahoo like a “climb” turned out to be a false flat, a 2-minute “kicker” averaging 2%. As soon as it ended, we dropped into a descent. A long, flowy, fast and super fun descent. Because it was getting late (dusk was slowly setting in) there were almost no cars. The surface was pristine – it was a wide, main road to the ski center. I could let go of the brakes and gain some speed. Of course, because of gravel tires I was way slower than usual, but the empty road and smooth tarmac meant I could use the whole width and safely cut the corners, keeping more momentum from turn to turn.

But as amazing as the downhill was, the track soon turned left onto a gravel road. It was starting to get dark. I took a very short peek at the map - avoiding the off-road section would mean a substantial detour. I waited for Zoë, and together we decided to drop into the original route. After all, it was only 17 km of smooth gravel, per Bea’s description. That description would soon become quite legendary.

We rolled into the gravel road. Still riding unhurriedly, we passed a couple of really deteriorated buildings on our left. Suddenly 3 or 4 rather big dogs jumped from behind the house, barking aggressively, racing toward us. We stopped pedaling and started looking at each other, coasting and slowing down ever so slightly. We were totally alone, facing four beasts guarding their territory. At some point one of them broke formation and ran behind the buildings. A moment later, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it reappear from the other side, circling us and cutting off any possible way back.

I don’t really recall what happened next. I think I might have barked at them a little, but after a stretch of very tense, very slow forward movement, rotating the cranks only occasionally to keep the wheels rolling, making no sudden or erratic motions, the dogs decided we weren’t a threat and simply wanted to pass. They slowly retreated and finally let us through. As we rode away, they gave a few more barks, warning us not to return. Like hell we would!

Once we were at a safe distance, I was literally shaking with fear. But there was no time to stop and let the stress settle. The day was coming to an end, and we still had some ground to cover.

Then the smooth, premium dirt began to change. First, loose gravel covered the ground. Then the gradient steepened, and with it came more pebbly rocks. After one of the turns, a huge erosion rill split the road in half. Sections of deep gravel swallowed the bike almost like a sandpit. I attacked these with my hands off the brakes, holding the bars straight and balancing with my hips, trying to keep a clean line. To find the safest passage, I crossed the rill multiple times, often choosing jagged but stable rocks sticking out of the surface rather than diving into the quicksand of deep gravel.

A little lower down, draining gutters entered the chat, cutting across the full width of an already difficult descent. With weak brakes and 40 mm tires, my hands were dying. I had to stop almost every 100 meters to shake them out and release the tension. It was also well past sunset, so I had to take off my glasses, hoping for no stray debris from under the wheel. Fortunately, soon the road flattened out, the surface smoothed, and behind one of many turns tarmac appeared like salvation.

Glancing quickly at the map, we decided to stick to the road. With daylight gone, almost 9 hours in the saddle and 11 hours since leaving the hostel in Trieste, I was wiped and ready for rest. The last thing we needed was another sketchy downhill. We flicked on our lights, navigated a maze of intersections far off the official route, and rolled into Bakar in complete darkness.

Six of us made it the whole way to Bakar that day: Mia, Zoë, Avri, Claire, Laura, and me. We went for dinner together, sharing stories from the day. At some point, Avri said:

When I saw you texting for the first time that you want to ride ALL the way down to the seaside on the first day, I thought “God, who is this girl?! She’s CRAZY!”. And now we’re all here, together!

I laughed it off a bit, but mostly, I praised of all of us. This was one hell of a ride, and we absolutely aced it.

I didn’t yet feel the deeper trouble brewing, though the signs were there. After burning well over 3,500 calories, I managed to eat only half a pizza. Eventually, we split up and headed to our beds, desperate for sleep.

To be continued...

Strava - Lael’s Women Croatia Rally - Day 0 - shakeout ride
Strava - Lael’s Women Croatia Rally - Day 1 - Trieste to Bakar

Photographs

@clairesharpe
@exploro.cc