It’s time to think about the Roman Empire.

Deaf people can do anything except hear.

…or stay upright while running. I stepped on a ghost skateboard at the 18.5km mark and ate shit in front of someone’s driveway. By ghost skateboard, I mean I don’t know what exactly took me down. General incompetence? I’m enjoying the attention I’m getting on Strava right now, though.

However, I did not appreciate the woman in a red blazer and Sally Jessy glasses who emerged from a driveway to wave me down, probably to talk to me about Jesus. I was just five minutes away from home, and I am certain she did not even notice that I was bleeding. Nah, I am not stopping for Jesus: I need an ice pack. Driveways were unkind to me today.

Today’s post isn’t about running or going down; instead, I’m taking a trip back in time to discuss going up, and on a bicycle.

July 9/Day 4: 86km and 1,639m of elevation gain.

Ed and I caught up with Hannah in Mojstrana, the birthplace of the famous beekeeper, Mihael Ambrožič. A Slovenian website claims: “Slovenia is often described as a land of bees.” When I read that, I thought, “Nope, this is news to me.” I was already invested, so I read on to learn a few things about this supposedly renowned apiarist. Ambrožič’s passion for beekeeping began when his father gifted him a beehive.

“Son, today you turn ten. Here’s your present. I love you.”

“BEES! Thanks, Dad!”

Ambrožič went on to sell over 10,000 beehives until his death at the age of 58. But did he die doing what he loved, which was apparently keeping bees? I could not find this information.

So, I’ll move on to the part where Ed, Hannah, and I stopped at Psnak Inn, an 18th-century building featuring a restaurant. I’d been carrying bananas and a small glass jar of almond butter in my panniers, so rather than join Ed and Hannah at one of the tables at the inn’s patio, I snacked from a bench, well out of the way of the service area. I recognized that it wouldn’t have been appropriate for me to eat my own food at one of their tables, even if it wasn’t busy.

As I was putting the cap back on my jar of almond butter, I looked up to see a server dressed in traditional Slovenian garb giving me a disapproving look. I tried cheating my way out of the awkwardness by pointing at my ear to denote that I couldn’t hear. At that point, Hannah had rushed over to interpret for me.

Fine. I’ll have herbal tea, AND I AM DRINKING IT AT THE TABLE WITH MY FRIENDS.

I’m glad I did; otherwise, I would have missed their hilariously passive-aggressive laminated (!!!) note:

THE COMIC SANS FONT IN ALL CAPS REALLY DROVE THE POINT HOME.

I don’t trust Google reviews much these days, but I just had to see what others were saying about this place:

“You can come all week and order, but once you sit on the grass to admire the view, the hostess runs over to let you know you’re on her property and if you want to stay longer, you have to order something immediately.“

“…biblical waiting times without attention for waiting customers.“

“They even charge for tap water.“

To be fair, the place also has good reviews, mainly because of its beautiful location. I was also permitted to use their restroom, which I did twice, though my use mostly amounted to washing my hands. I still had a backlog of food sitting in my gut. The apricots and prunes I’d wolfed down the day before hadn’t done the trick.

Fatema caught up, joined us at the table, and immediately ordered a meal, making the server swoon. It would be the last time we’d see Fatema until Bovec, but not the last time she’d see us.

Within an hour of departing, Ed, Hannah, and I reached Kranjska Gora, the base of our big climb of the day. We learned something new about Slovenia at the tourist info centre. Whether one can take their bike on the bus depends on the driver’s mood. Earlier that day, Fatema had mentioned that she planned to take the bus over the Vršič Pass. This made us a bit worried for her, but if she could charm the cantankerous server at Psnak Inn, we figured she could wheedle even the most sullen bus driver.

Ed, Hannah, and I took the gravel trail for the first 10% of the Vršič Pass.

This route involved fording a creek. Ed wasted no time and marched right across, still wearing his cycling cleats. Hannah put some effort into keeping her socks dry, but then gave up and went for the immersive experience. After all, who has time to be a delicate, dry damsel?

I did. I took off my socks and shoes and gingerly made my way across the creek. Good-natured Ed clomped back into the stream to help pull my bike across.

I took long enough to put my dry socks and shoes (also very dry) back on that Ed had time to snap this picture:

Not long after our creek crossing, the gravel trail connected to the road, where we were to zigzag through 29 cobbled hairpin turns for 10km. The road, built by Russian POWs during the First World War, was originally entirely cobbled, possibly to make Mr. Ambrožič’s already-sketchy job of transporting beehives over the Julian Alps more treacherous.

The Julian Alps are named after Julius Caesar because of a strategic Roman road built south of the area during his rule. The road in question, the Via Gemina, is actually located in the Vipava Valley, which we wouldn’t reach for another four days. I believe the name can simply be attributed to the Romans’ toponymic narcissism.

Here are some other things named after Julius Caesar:

• the month of July
• a lunar crater
• a comet
• a pizza chain best known for something called Crazy Bread
• the salad
• the C-section, although this one is debatable

Anyway, here’s a beautifully moody photo of the rugged northern face of Mount Prisojnik. Photo credit goes to Ed, not Julius fucking Caesar:

Ed gets credit for 90% of the photos I’ve shared of our Slovenian trip. If the photo kinda sucks, it’s probably mine, although I am proud of this one:

Hannah’s primary camera was a Camp Snap. This screen-free digital camera encourages focus on capturing real moments, such as this one:

See if you can figure out who took which photo in the following gallery:

What about this one?

Fatema did, from the inside of a bus. The bus driver was kind enough to let her and her bike on board, yet dickish enough to pass Ed, Hannah, and me too closely.

We didn’t actually see Fatema again until we arrived in Bovec.

…to be continued.