Real Talk: Let's get The Agony out of the way first. For the last 12 years we have jokingly referred to a special ride in Santa Fe as "the ride of death." Yesterday we experienced that same idea at a new level. The choices were a "flat" ride of 7 miles along the coast or rides of 11 to 22 miles up to a small town through a "donkey tunnel" so named because that's how the grapes from the vineyards all along the hill/mountain (as far as I'm concerned) were carried to the winery. At first we were going to stick with the short ride, maybe do it twice. However, after Bill's route talk, we said OK sounds like a terrific view and "we can do eeeeet!" First lesson learned: BELIEVE the elevation map on the GPS, and when the green part seems to go nearly vertical, well, so does the road. Forehead slap. Also when the climb is advertised as 3200 feet and we have previously done up to, say, 850 ft, DO NOT engage in magical thinking!!!!!! Second lesson: beware of rides that start out up a steep hill, thinking "if we can just get up this, we'll be OK." See magical thinking comment above.
So, as we soldiered on, it became warmer and warmer. We stopped probably 3 times to catch our breath. Tried continue walking and pushing the bike a couple of times, but it was HOT. The view was spectacular, but nearly impossible to enjoy as we struggled. I get very anxious when there is a steep drop of, maybe, a 10000 feet down scruffy shrubs to the water on the left and a mountain straight up to our right, even if it is filled with grape vines. My perception that Joe is drifting toward the cliff side of the road, when anxiously expressed amidst huffing and puffing, was definitely not well received. This is for good reason. He is working waaaay harder than I am in every way and probably suffering twice as much.
Finally, at about 4 miles into the 11mile route, we gave ourselves permission to turn around. Of course I was then terrified of the descent, especially starting up again on a steep downhill, but Joe, in his wisdom, made me get on and down we went. At that point I said, "This is where I close my eyes," but he said, "No, open your eyes and look at the beautiful view." Again the right counsel. Far below us were mountainous islands dotting the sparkling blue expanse that is the Adriatic. Glorious.
The Good Stuff: We made it down to the ship without mishap and after a few minutes of recovery, decided to try the original short route. To our surprise, the special occasion destination of the day, where all rides were to converge, was just one steep rise away (maybe a half mile on the "flat" ride"--whatever). The wine tasting, grape stomping party was in full swing. We took off our shoes and stood in line to stomp grapes in a bucket and step onto a T-shirt with the logo of the winery: The Grijic Winery (check out the pics). It's a family owned business, whose patriarch has been making wine in Croatia and California for 60 years. Once in California, he won blind tastings against French wines by developing his own unique wine-making methods. After the war here in the 90's, he was asked to come back to Croatia as part of the rebuilding process to establish a wine-making industry here in the California style. The ship (we were told by the captain in no uncertain terms that this is a ship, not a boat: "ships can carry boats but boats cannot carry ships; also, a boat is where you go when the ship sinks") was once again docked in a tiny harbor that had never had any kind of cruise ship (see the pic). We hung our riding clothes in our room, showered, had a rest, and then another nice dinner.
The evening port of call was the island of Korcula, where Joe and I had spent one night on our last vacation trip to the Dalmation coast. I just love it. It's the tiny walled fortress city where Marco Polo was born during its time as a Venetian possession (that's why we learned in school that he was Italian). We wandered by ourselves around the whole place for 40 minutes, then joined the herd for a walk back through the narrow streets to home theater of the Moreska dancing troupe. The performance was charming and very entertaining. It's a set piece that re-enacts a 400-year old battle between the red team and the black team. The Black King wants the princess, but she wants to go with the Red King. Eight guys dance-fight out the battles (seven of them) armed with two short swords each. One of them actually started bleeding and had to be replaced by the young flag-carrier, who did a great job with the rest of the dance-fighting. The music was provided by what looked like a kind of high school band, but did include people of all ages. The oldest dancer gave a little talk at the end; he has been dancing for 60 years all over the world with the troupe. Another short walk in the balmy evening took us to the ship and to bed, rocked to sleep by the sea.
So, as we soldiered on, it became warmer and warmer. We stopped probably 3 times to catch our breath. Tried continue walking and pushing the bike a couple of times, but it was HOT. The view was spectacular, but nearly impossible to enjoy as we struggled. I get very anxious when there is a steep drop of, maybe, a 10000 feet down scruffy shrubs to the water on the left and a mountain straight up to our right, even if it is filled with grape vines. My perception that Joe is drifting toward the cliff side of the road, when anxiously expressed amidst huffing and puffing, was definitely not well received. This is for good reason. He is working waaaay harder than I am in every way and probably suffering twice as much.
Finally, at about 4 miles into the 11mile route, we gave ourselves permission to turn around. Of course I was then terrified of the descent, especially starting up again on a steep downhill, but Joe, in his wisdom, made me get on and down we went. At that point I said, "This is where I close my eyes," but he said, "No, open your eyes and look at the beautiful view." Again the right counsel. Far below us were mountainous islands dotting the sparkling blue expanse that is the Adriatic. Glorious.
The Good Stuff: We made it down to the ship without mishap and after a few minutes of recovery, decided to try the original short route. To our surprise, the special occasion destination of the day, where all rides were to converge, was just one steep rise away (maybe a half mile on the "flat" ride"--whatever). The wine tasting, grape stomping party was in full swing. We took off our shoes and stood in line to stomp grapes in a bucket and step onto a T-shirt with the logo of the winery: The Grijic Winery (check out the pics). It's a family owned business, whose patriarch has been making wine in Croatia and California for 60 years. Once in California, he won blind tastings against French wines by developing his own unique wine-making methods. After the war here in the 90's, he was asked to come back to Croatia as part of the rebuilding process to establish a wine-making industry here in the California style. The ship (we were told by the captain in no uncertain terms that this is a ship, not a boat: "ships can carry boats but boats cannot carry ships; also, a boat is where you go when the ship sinks") was once again docked in a tiny harbor that had never had any kind of cruise ship (see the pic). We hung our riding clothes in our room, showered, had a rest, and then another nice dinner.
The evening port of call was the island of Korcula, where Joe and I had spent one night on our last vacation trip to the Dalmation coast. I just love it. It's the tiny walled fortress city where Marco Polo was born during its time as a Venetian possession (that's why we learned in school that he was Italian). We wandered by ourselves around the whole place for 40 minutes, then joined the herd for a walk back through the narrow streets to home theater of the Moreska dancing troupe. The performance was charming and very entertaining. It's a set piece that re-enacts a 400-year old battle between the red team and the black team. The Black King wants the princess, but she wants to go with the Red King. Eight guys dance-fight out the battles (seven of them) armed with two short swords each. One of them actually started bleeding and had to be replaced by the young flag-carrier, who did a great job with the rest of the dance-fighting. The music was provided by what looked like a kind of high school band, but did include people of all ages. The oldest dancer gave a little talk at the end; he has been dancing for 60 years all over the world with the troupe. Another short walk in the balmy evening took us to the ship and to bed, rocked to sleep by the sea.
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