Kulle Pass (or, back in the saddle)

I had meant to kick off writing this blog with entries from the Children's Tour of Kosovo in the beginning of June, but as I mentioned in my second entry (and I will spare you the gory details) I came down with a norovirus the day before the start. After being so dehydrated, I was wracked with fatigue and did not get on the bike again for another week. After building my strength back up, I took a short business trip to Vienna, only to land myself in an Austrian hospital with a kidney stone. Needless to say, my Strava totals for the month were wretched. After returning from Austria, my metabolism had downshifted into an off-season mode, and I needed something to motivate myself and get back in the saddle.

I had already set a one-day distance goal early in the season, and completed 320km brevet out of Athens, Georgia in April. So not thinking small, I signed up for Le tour des Stations in Switzerland in August, whose ultrafondo features a rather psychotic 220km course with 7400 meters of climbing. New goals set, I needed to find some hills. Luckily, Kosovo has plenty of these. Today I'll describe the 100km route from Peja, Kosovo into Rozaje, Montenegro, which crosses twice over Kulle Pass.

Simon (red) and I in the Marec Valley, Kosovo

I was in for a motivated week, whether I wanted it or not. A cycling buddy from the British Army was in town, Simon, who I had met last year after leading him up the Brezovica climb in the Sharr Mountains. Simon had qualified for the Gran Fondo World Championships in Italy this September, but as his usual cycling routes took him through the Salisbury Plains in England, he wanted to take advantage of the climbs available once he was in Kosovo. Simon is, how should we say, slightly competitive. When we met him his first night for a short evening ride, he pushed the pace of the false flat climb to Grashtice so hard that one of the guys fell off the back and lost his lunch in front of the corner store. Gjenghis and I felt that an appropriate training route for him would be Kulle Pass. In a way, this was a test for me, too. I could do the usual local climbs, but Kulle Pass is something special. I had done the climb three times before, plus a few extra climbs up the Category 1 segment to the first border. 

The city of Peja lies in western Kosovo, at the start of the Rugova Gorge and with the Prokletije range towering above the city. The Prokletije Range, also known as the Bjeshkët e Nemuna or Accursed Mountains, runs from the Kosovo/Albanian border near Prizren northeast into Serbia, rising from the plains at 1800ft (550m) to peaks of 8800ft (2700m). Until quite recently, the only road in this region between Kosovo and Montenegro was over the Kulle Pass at 6000ft (1800m), a long series of switchbacks up to the first border station to leave Kosovo. The roads then climbs steeply through a so-called "no-man's-land" for over 10km until finally reaching the Montenegro border check, the land in between having been a disputed border territory between the two countries. On July 14 Gjenghis, Agim, Valon, and Bashkim joined and started the ride from just outside downtown Peja.

Gjenghis and Simon on the first climb to the Kosovo border.

The first part of the ride was a flat warm-up, allowing everyone to loosen their legs and to curse the muddy road from the bikes they had just cleaned. We stopped briefly to fill up on water, and then the climb started abruptly at the village of Radac. The road climbed through over a dozen switchbacks over the first 12 km, averaging about 6% grade but sometimes kicking up to 12%. I kept a good pace at first, but then something was niggling at the back of my head that told me to slow down. Simon was fixated on his power meter with Gjenghis baiting him from behind, and I let them pass. The other three were somewhere behind, but I figured I wouldn't see them until we regrouped at the Montenegro border. As usual, the climb started hot, cooled down a bit by the time we reached the Kosovo border, and then turned decidedly chilly during the next 10 km to the summit. On Strava, I created a segment for the entire climb (an HC, or beyond category), but it can be frustrating with the border sitting in the middle. I arrived at the Kosovo border just as Gjenghis was leaving, but then was held up for ten minutes as the border guards searched other cars before getting to me.

Crossing borders on bikes now seem somewhat routine, but each border crossing has a bit of a different flavor to it. The crossings between Kosovo and Albania tend to be fairly lighthearted, with guards joking about crazy cyclists. The only one who ever felt vaguely nervous about crossing between Kosovo and Albania was Jen Whytock, who famously asked if she would be arrested for carrying a banana over the border. The Kosovo – Montenegrin border feels much more serious, with guards on the Montenegrin side talking but not quite joking about crazy cyclists. On this crossing, though, the Montenegrin guards were rather fascinated with the Speedplay pedals.

Climbing the neutral zone.

The climb up through the no-man's-land has always been my favorite part, though I realize other riders only remember the road pitching up steeply on 10-11 percent grades. For me, the uninhabited neutral zone between the two countries reminded me of the Colorado high country. Although the elevation only tops out around 6000 feet, only slightly higher than the city of Denver, the geography looks and smells very much the same as the canyon between Golden and Idaho Springs.

We regrouped just past the Montenegrin border, Simon seemingly in pain trying to stretch, Gjenghis stomping his feet with cold and wishing the other riders would hurry up. The descent from the border to the city of Rozaje I took more slowly than the other guys. That particular descent I always remember as being cold, even in July, the road surface varies between "grand tour perfect" asphalt to rutted potholes, and I often found myself navigating the winding mountain road with one hand, taking photos with the other. The road through the Bosnian village of Dacici is always stunning, with a view of the next range of hills in the distance.

Descending through Dacici

The town of Rozaje itself is often sleepy, not more than 10,000 inhabitants, but we found it bustling in the town square. As usual, we stopped for coffee and rested a bit before the Category 1 climb back to the summit. Gjenghis and I had previously agreed that we would put more effort into the climb back, and follow a slightly different track than we normally did, to cover the usual paths cyclists take (and where there was a full climb segment). Simon grumbled something about food, so we stopped at an ETC grocery store, conveniently about 50 meters from the start of the steep Strava segment climb.

Gjenghis and I tore off ahead of the others, and once out of town I let him outpace me ahead. I was following the best pace up the climb, and said I would be happy with Gjenghis taking the KOM (king of the mountain) with me in second place. I had a strange stitch in my side from the start of the 10% climb through the town, but tried to ignore it. My Wahoo computer said I was just behind pace, and after Dacici I picked up slightly where the road flattens a bit at times. I was well on track to taking 2nd place when my back exploded in pain, stretching from my right kidney diagonally toward my center-- I instantly realized this was leftover bruising from the kidney stone, and why I'd not gone full gas on the bike since leaving the hospital. I had 5km left on the climb and was forced to sit up and slow down. I still somehow managed a KOM on one of the intermediate segments, but lost four minutes by the time I reached the border crossing.

Not seeing Gjenghis, I thought he might be waiting at the summit (the Montenegro border is actually about 500 ft in elevation below the summit), but once I arrived there realized he wouldn't be waiting around in the cold. I took the cold and bumpy descent down to the next border, a fast ride but one that seemed noticeably rougher since last year-- at least we weren't descending in the rain, as happened in May. At the Kosovo border there was an unusually long line of cars waiting to cross into Montenegro, with a small herd of cattle sitting on the grass around the hairpin corner. Figuring that the four guys behind me were fine without me, I headed off down the last the descent, thankful this time for no wet roads or logging trucks.

Our previous course track had taken almost exactly 100km, but with the slight change in Rozaje I arrived at the parking lot just under a metric century. Gjenghis was sitting at a cafe with a large bowl of fruit and ice cream. I tore off back down the flat road for the final missing 5km, then joined him, finding raspberry sherbet on the menu.

For Gjenghis it had been frustrating. His Garmin lost some data points on the second climb, not registering his time despite him clearly outpacing the previous riders. We've had trouble with Garmins in the steep mountains, which prompted me to buy a Wahoo Elemnt Bolt last year. I now have to get Tracy to bring a few back to Kosovo, as they are in demand.

After everyone was back and accounted for, we drove back up the first two kilometers of the climb to an amazing restaurant overlooking the mountain we'd just tackled. A few beers and grilled trout didn't quite make up for whatever calories we'd burned, but it was welcome.

The back pain had gone away almost as soon as I'd crossed into the no-man's-land, but its persistence worried me and I promised to listen more closely to my body when it told me not to go 100%. Admittedly, it was never easy doing that with Simon around. The so-called "recovery ride" the next day was fast-paced at first (which I ignored), though I may have played a role in several of us extending the ride to well over 100km. I'm not sure it counts as recovery if it's longer than the original ride, but it did feel easier.

It was a good start, though the Tour des Stations will be over twice the distance (not a problem) and over three times the elevation climb (more worrying). The test to see if I was back on form would come the following week in Albania-- but's that's another story.

Real food at last

Cows: or how to navigate in Kosovo

Uta Ibrahimi poses at the start of the Cycle Kosovo for Children

What people notice most about my photos and stories from Kosovo have to do with cows, and this seemed to start from my arrival here. Cows are perhaps one of the best ways of describing what cycling is like in this country. Everyone remembers the photos, and no one seems to believe the stories. I meant to be writing about the Cycle Kosovo for Children ride, which started yesterday- but two days ago I was struck down by a norovirus, and this is my first time even looking at my computer, let alone a bike. I had to let all my friends ride on without me. They ride into Albania today, likely facing 100F (38C) heat, as they ride between Peja and Gjakova.

Rugova Valley near Peja, Sept 2015

Kosovo is almost the exact opposite of where I grew up and started biking in Wisconsin. Hilly where Neenah, WI was flat, wild instead of placid, confusing instead of being built on a grid system of roads, etc. The county of Kosovo is quite young in some ways, only gaining its independence from Serbia in 2008 (and that is still disputed), following a brutal war in 1998-99 that was ended by NATO occupation. The NATO troops are still here, and the country is still rebuilding, dealing both with its Yugoslav past and a largely unregulated pattern of building since 1999. The country is only 4200 square miles, about the size of Rhode Island in the US or Cape Breton in Canada. It's surrounded by hills along its border with Serbia to the north and East, and two mountains ranges along its borders with Montenegro, Albania, and Macedonia. With a population of around 1.7 million, its largest cities are the capital Pristina (pop. 200-300K, depending on who you ask), Prizren, Peja, Gjakova, and Mitrovica.

My wife Tracy and I arrived here in August 2015. We had been in Budapest earlier in the year when I was hired, and I'd spent the summer training for hills and not having any idea what to expect when I arrived here. I'd brought one bike, my older Trek1000 trainer, and only a small handful of shorts and jerseys. The first day out was not promising, I had put on new tires and tubes, and after only 2km one blew out a sidewall, destroying the new tire. A second ride confused me terribly, as the Google maps bore no resemblance to actual roads in the city, and I could only leave by cutting through someone's backyard at the top of a climb. Starting in the spring before I arrived I'd been following two people on Strava, Tolga Kerveshi and Gjenghis Torbance, who both wondered what this guy from Washington, DC was doing giving kudos to all their rides. But Tolga noticed the moment I first rode out on my bike in Pristina, and started showing me the local roads.

The roads here don't always follow a logical pattern, even when new. Main roads connect towns and villages, with spurs leading off to side streets, once in a while connecting elsewhere. New roads are often being paved (for the record, mountain biking was not popular here for a long while, owing to risk of landmines in certain places), but they don't always lead anywhere. The role of 'scouts' is to check these new roads, which often climb 300 meters to nothing more than three houses and a large dog. We mostly avoid the main roads, instead leading through farmlands and small villages in the high hills and mountains. Studying Strava rides is done constantly by people here, and others notice immediately if a new road is found, because there are certain patterns and only certain possibilities through the mountains and hills. Straight out-and-back routes are more common than loops, and some of the loops we've defined from Pristina can be quite brutal. And there are cows.

Jen's introduction to Kosovo

When Jen Whytock visited in September of last year, on her first ride we took her to Batllava Lake for a 100km route. On the way back to Pristina was a long climb and a very steep, sweeping descent. At the top, I warned her of the hairpin corner at the bottom, but also how the year before I'd nearly killed myself going 40mph (65kph) around a corner only to face a herd of cows standing in the middle of the road, which had not been there only ten minutes earlier. When we descended, there were the same cows. They had been part of her warning package (mostly dealing with traffic behavior), but I always sensed that people thought I stopped every time I saw a cow, not that the roads were lousy with them. She had to wait in the middle of the road as a herd of two dozen swept past her, climbing an 18% grade. And in many ways, the cows describe what the experience is like here.

A young bull in Rugova Valley, August 2017

There are few fences in Kosovo, so the cows roam freely, often unattended and yet knowing where they want to go. There is even a herd at the Montenegro-Kosovo border on Kulla Pass that walks itself back and forth across the border station. The cows still have their horns (which one notices when hurtling toward them at high speed), are grass-fed and healthy, at times even jumping barrier fences along roads when they do exist. I've had to weave through cows herds on the roads during two road races, I've seen them wandering through the cities, and I hardly ever ride without sharing the road with them. Contrast that with Wisconsin, where we had plenty of cows, but all behind safe fences as we rode along straight, flat roads. The experience cycling here is very in-your-face, it's a state of constant alertness, always wondering what is around the next corner, feeling that the road merely passes through the countryside, not dominating it or defining it. I never considered cows to be wildlife before, but here they own the landscape, not the humans. Even the road conditions, which admittedly are not the best, seem ephemeral and can be washed away at any time. One might read about how roads in England were defined either by adhering to local customs and paths, or the Roman roads that made straight lines regardless of terrain. Kosovo still follows its old paths in many places, and on the bike one sees a world that is somehow frozen in time. I've probably never felt quite as alive cycling, even in Colorado or the French Alps. Things may be chaotic, riding through traffic in Pristina or Prizren may be like swimming in 12 dimensions, and racing can be downright frightening (but that's another story).

So navigating the cows, roads and traffic here requires people. The GPS maps on my Wahoo computer are wonderfully accurate even in deepest Alabama, but in Kosovo they are a rough sketch. The cows still own the roads, and I had to be taken under the wing of Tolga, Gjenghis (who became my teammate and training partner), Migjen, Agim, Albion, Artan, Bashkim, Valon, and others. Teaming up with Uta, fresh back from Nepal, is a way of trying to share some of that knowledge. I wish I were with them today, even in the blistering heat of northern Albania.

Tolga leading me through a cow herd toward Badovac Lake, October 2015.

Intro- cycling Kosovo

Tamara Gorge, Albania (2017)

I began cycling, seriously cycling, 31 years ago when I rode my first English century in Wisconsin. My passion for riding bikes came and went over the years, but in the time since moving to Kosovo it seems to have become a parallel life, and is about all anyone sees on my Facebook or Instagram posts. In a way that makes sense- I rededicated myself to road biking in 2012 while working with the US Air Force. I was surrounded by men and women who ran half-marathons on their lunch breaks, and myself needed something to control the stress of being on call 24/7, trying to solve complex security risks. I still do that, though no longer with the US government, and cycling is the best escape and way of seeing this small but complex region of Europe.

Everyone says I'm crazy for cycling in Kosovo (especially my university students), but it provides a sort of thrill one could never find on the tranquil backroads of Wisconsin or orderly bike paths of Ontario. It's almost impossible to ride here without guides and scouts, and I was lucky to fall into a local cycling "family" who showed me the ropes from almost the minute I landed in Pristina in 2015. I've since taken on the scouting and guide role, myself, most recently with Butterfly Outdoor Adventures, plus those brave souls who've come here (e.g. Jen, Simon) to tackle the big climbs of the region.

Jen Whytock in Rugova Valley

The climbs... that's all we have, climbs and descents. I grew up on the Great Plains of the US where 15 meters would be considered a climb. Here, one can't ride more than 30km without hitting a mountain, and some routes have multiple Hors catégorie (HC) climbs. That took some getting used to, however hard I trained before moving here, and my wife even says my body shape shifted (I now wear size small jerseys). The climbs are a hardship and a thrill, a dopamine rush and a quick way to finish off monthly Strava climbing challenges.

I started this blog because friends back in the US, where I still go back to ride Audax ultra-long routes, kept asking me to send emails and stories about the strange mix of in-traffic racing, wild cows, and amazing scenes of the region. This week I'll be riding on the Kosovo Children's Ride, 500km around Kosovo and Albania to raise money for children's health. This blog will start with those four days, and hopefully describe the unique place this is for riding and exploring.

And I'll post photos of cows. Kosovo cows are something remarkable.

JW climbing through "No-man's-land" between Kosovo and Montenegro, Kulle Pass (HC climb)