Day 69 - July 18th: Youthful Exhuberance

Šibenik to Kaštel Stari: 30.9 miles / 1,926 total

Yesterday was a sharp reminder of how close we are to a terminal event. If Christina’s accident had taken out the car, this trip would have gone on pause. We’re at that dangerous point near the end—where it’s easy to relax and lose focus.

As I ran out of Šibenik into a bright, cloudless morning, my mind wandered to the early days of the run across America. I remembered when the awning on the RV was ripped off and the arms dangled broken. For a moment, it felt like the trip might end. What would the Romans do or in this case, What would the J do, made me smile recalling him calmly, pulling the beach cruiser off its perch on the back and riding miles ahead until he found a store to buy his all-time favorite product, duct tape. He and Alex tore off the metal brackets, disassembled the awning and then used duct tape to cement them to the roof. A few hours later we were enjoying a great Italian meal, drinking beers and laughing about it. There is always a workaround.

Christina was still shaken by the accident, like Alex had been back then. I told her: if we made it across the U.S. with that beat-up RV looking like the Clampetts’ 1921 Oldsmobile Model 46, one minor incident here means we’re still ahead of the curve.

We walked through the old town for dinner—Šibenik alive with people, summer air, and families walking under the glow of evening. After dinner and gelato, we returned to the apartment and started planning the final Croatian stretch. Sadly, we’ll miss Josie and Dave in Split on the 21st—we’ll be arriving earlier than expected. Dubrovnik is still 275 km away, and we need to decide whether to finish it in five or six days: 55K or 45K per day. Lodging is tight, so a decision needs to lock in now.

Christina’s room with a view in the apartment

I woke up to a red flag—my left foot’s arch blister had become deep and angry. Rain, humidity, and heat had created a friction nightmare. I layered in the largest Compeed I had and built a foam pad in my shoe to relieve the pressure. Two Tylenol and a slow roll got me out the door.

I found a café and a bakery at 7 AM and started fueling. A couple sat down nearby—May and Lucas. She’s French, he’s Austrian. They met while she was visiting, fell in love, and she never left. Married for two years, they were visiting his brother, who married a Croatian and bought a place on the island across the bay. We hung out connecting over pastries and coffee and then said our goodbyes. They gave me great energy to move into the day with.

Leaving Šibenik, I took a pedestrian path before turning onto a narrow farm road that climbed through vineyards, flanked by ancient dry-stone walls and olive groves. I passed two mountain bikers. Otherwise, it was just me and the rising heat.

At 8:30 AM, I reached Vrpolje, a tiny village. A family was sitting on their veranda, and I motioned to my empty bottles. The man stood up, walked me into the driveway, and held out a garden hose. I filled up, and his wife came over with a slice of homemade cake in a Tupperware. Their son was working on a school project—maps and labels for Spain, Italy, the U.S. I pointed to the States, then to me. Smiles all around. High five for the younger brother, a heartfelt “Hvala,” and I was gone.

That village put me on Route 58, a shoulderless two-lane road winding up into the Dalmatian hinterland. From the summit, I could see range after range of mountains—each one standing between me and Split. The stretch I crossed lies near the Boraja Pass, a historic mountain route used for centuries to connect the Adriatic coast to inland Dalmatia. During Roman times, military and trade routes passed nearby, and in later centuries, the region marked the frontier between Venetian coastal strongholds and Ottoman inland territory. Travelers and armies alike once wound their way up through this same rugged terrain.

At 22 km, I arrived in Boraja, a small mountain village where I saw the first restaurant of the day—smoke curling from a spit-roasted lamb. Inside, a young woman named Eva and her mother were having breakfast. She told me she’d just finished nursing school and was about to start work in Split. “It’s hard to live here,” she said—nurses earn €1,000 a month, and that’s also the cost of rent. I asked why she stayed. She smiled: “I love Croatia. I don’t want to leave.”

I asked for eggs, and she disappeared into the kitchen. Minutes later, she returned with a full plate, thick white bread, coffee, and iced tea. Then she introduced me to her parents, who’ve run the place for 40 years. I asked for the check—they told me I was their guest.

As I left, I felt light and deeply moved. There’s kindness in these hills.

Christina and Jax met me shortly after to check in on fluids. We agreed: we’ll push to Dubrovnik with four straight 55K days, then take a day off after we arrive. No wiggle room.

After a 10-minute stop, I was back out. The blister still hurt, so I popped two more Tylenol. The road continued climbing until, finally, around 30 km, it tipped downhill. I turned onto Route 27 for a short stretch, then Google rerouted me onto a dirt road. I was nervous about the terrain—bushwhacking and sharp gravel weren’t ideal. I tread lightly, trying not to make anything worse.

The dirt gave way to a railway crossing, then a quiet climb through scattered homes before entering the abandoned village of Prgomet. Once a small rural community, Prgomet saw steady depopulation throughout the 20th century as residents moved toward the coast and cities. Now it sits quiet and sun-bleached, with crumbling stone walls and overgrown paths—more memory than place.

I found a rock in the shade and took off my right shoe—another blister. Worse, I discovered that the inner lining had blown out in both shoes, causing the rubbing. This is the fourth pair of Altras to fail on this trip. Brutal.

From Prgomet, I climbed again—up into nowhere, following a winding dirt road that led toward the mountain ridgeline. In the distance: a string of wind turbines. It reminded me of a day in Wyoming, running solo up a remote ridge toward spinning turbines and the thrumming as the blades were pushed by the wind.

Today

Evanston WY, August 27, 2021

At the crest, the Adriatic burst into view. Split shimmered in the distance. One of the most beautiful sections of this journey. Alone on a ridge, surrounded by ancient rock walls, the wind and the sound of the turbines, I remembered exactly why I do this.

I didn’t make it to Split. Christina picked me up 13K out. But we’ll get there tomorrow. Four big days to Dubrovnik.

Thanks for your support.

Cheers,

David