Day 62 - July 11th: Slovenija!

Trieste to Rupa: 31.5 miles / 1,711 total

Yesterday’s stage took more out of me than I expected. By evening, I was wiped. Christina and I tried to map out our next few days, but I could barely keep my eyes open. We’re entering Slovenia and then Croatia with little sense of the roads, towns, or lodging options ahead. We’re still tracking within 12 km of my original plan, but the black box inside has been recalibrated many times to get us here.

For our last night in Italy, we went with something familiar—a Chinese restaurant, figuring those would be few and far between going forward. As a final Italian sendoff, we followed it with a stop for gelato.

Today’s route climbed due east from the Adriatic and Trieste into the mountains, then across the Slovenian border. I’d been running parallel to it yesterday near the coast. Now, we’re cutting across this rugged corner of the peninsula toward the Croatian coast. I followed the SS14 out of Italy, then picked up the E61 in Slovenia—both roads with tight shoulders, blind corners, and enough traffic to keep things interesting. Sadly, no chance my running buddy could join me today.

I just retired my fourth pair of Altra Torins—each lasting about 350 miles. Great shoes, but the insoles are laughably thin. Every time it rains, they bunch up, leading to blisters. That’s happened with every pair. I can’t help but think they are trying to cut costs out of the shoes but they have gone too far.

I left Trieste at 7:30 a.m., a bit later than usual since breakfast isn’t served there until 7. Gotta roll with the culture. I ran out the door into cloudy skies, damp air, and 54°F, with rain in the forecast.

The first 4 km were straight up—about 1,000 feet of climbing from sea level up to the ridgeline I’d been eyeing to the east. The small access road eventually gave way to the SS14, which I followed for nearly the next 47 km.

What I hadn’t realized: the SS14 runs parallel to the RA13, a major highway. That meant the SS14, while mountainous, wasn’t packed with traffic—it was actually a pretty enjoyable run. The road ribboned along the ridge with gradual climbs, cutting through what was historically part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire’s overland trade routes. These winding passes between Trieste and the interior have long connected Italian and Slavic lands, a corridor of movement, goods, and armies.

At kilometer 13, I reached the border of Slovenia. Armed soldiers were inspecting a tourist bus. One young soldier—clearly the one in charge—asked in broken English where I was coming from. I smiled and said, “Portugal.” He laughed and waved me through.

At 17 km, I reached Hrpelje, my first Slovenian village. This area lies within the Karst Plateau, a region known for its rugged limestone terrain and traditional farming culture. I tried a market café, but it was understaffed, so I moved on to Pekarna Hrpelje Bakery Panificio a few hundred meters up the road. A small shop with a bakery counter and a bar tucked to the side. The proprietor—a bearded man in his 40s—greeted me in Slovenian. When I asked for English, he nodded and helped me order a coffee with milk and a pistachio brioche.

Next to me, a large man was having a tallboy—at 10 a.m. Another man came in, and the large man next to me polished off the tall boy and grabbed two more, one for him and the other for the new guy. The proprieter behind the little bar grabbed a chilled bottle of something strong from the fridge and filled a glass a quarter of the way the topping the rest with Coke and joined in drinking with the others. I said goodbye—nasvidenje—which they appreciated and gently corrected my pronunciation. I ran on, letting them get on with their festive morning.

At 26 km, I reached Markovščina and stopped for lunch at Gostilna Basa Damjan Basa—the only restaurant in town, like most villages in this part of Slovenia. Nearly every small town I’d passed featured a smoker out front with a pig roasting on a spit, clearly a local tradition.

Bavarian-style music played while workers sipped beers and wine on their lunch break. I passed on the pork and went for homemade truffle pasta—€10 and excellent.

Back on the E61, the trucks picked up as I neared the Croatian border. With no shoulder and winding mountain roads, it got stressful fast. Then the rain arrived. At kilometer 41, I crested the day’s high point—and was suddenly caught in a full hailstorm. Visibility dropped. I hadn’t packed properly for this, so the only way to stay warm was to keep running. I weaved from one side of the road to the other, trying not to get pinned on a blind corner.

Twenty intense minutes later, I reached the border crossing. Once across into Croatia, the sun came out. I had 8 km left to Rupa, a small border town with a long history as a strategic waypoint, sitting near what was once the Roman province of Dalmatia and later a contested border zone during the Yugoslav era.

Christina and Jax were waiting at Guesthouse Rutar. I was soaked, and once I stopped, the exhaustion hit. I showered, lay down, and noticed how loud everything was in my head—the traffic, the terrain shifts, the storm. Time for a beer, some food, and rest. Same forecast tomorrow.

Thanks for following and for the support.

Cheers,

David.