The UNESCO Albania Tour group of 20. Author is being crowded out of the picture in back right. The dog didn’t need a bike.
UNESCO Albania Cycle Trip
Sept 19 – 28, 2023
Albania
Albania is a country which about 30 years ago emerged from a long dark period of communism. Within the past few years, tourism has caught on like wildfire. They were still a very poor country when tourism took them pretty much by surprise a few years ago. They wanted to capitalize on that opportunity and are building hotels and resorts and repairing infrastructure like madmen and madwomen. They have several impediments to overcome that affect tourists. One, most of the citizens of Albania do not speak English and most tourists do not speak Albanian, considered to be one of the toughest languages in the world to learn. I am language-impaired, and even after living in Mexico for four years, I still speak a form of Spanish the linguistic specialists refer to as Buffoon Spanish – unrecognizable by true Spanish speakers. Two, the infrastructure is still in bad shape, which includes roads. Three, the medical care, especially outside the major cities, is weak, at least from a pampered American perspective. No ambulances or life flights in the boondocks or personal therapists to hold one’s hand while riding in the ox cart to the hospital if there is one. If not, then to the mortuary.
This past September, my wife, Sonya, and I joined an international group of 18 other cyclists to cycle for 8 straight days in Albania. Most of the group were experienced in self-torture and had experienced scrapes and falls, and maybe a few broken bones regularly. I certainly have had my share. On this trip, I had two, but not on the road where 99.9% of bike accidents are supposed to happen, but in a little cottage after the fourth day of cycling, which was a very hard day.
Group
The group including an American friend, 14 Canadians, a Norwegian couple, a Flying Dutchman, and our Albanian guide and driver. It was a grueling and action-packed, trip, somewhat different than as described in the brochure. It was a phenomenal experience in so many ways: the beautiful country and people, and our diverse group of bikers. The trip, which included mountains, plains, and the Ionian coast, was a total of 295 mi. and 21,032 ft. elevation gain, and over some horrible roads and occasionally a lot of traffic. If my wife and I hadn’t had E-bikes, our leaders would have put me on a plane home the night of Day 1. Sonya, being a final candidate for the role of Super Woman, would have made it with energy to spare.
I have kept personal names out of this saga because I suspect that some of our group were in remote Albania because they were running from something, possibly the Mounties of Canada. The group included one other ‘Merikan, besides my wife and me. Then there were fourteen tough Canadians, tough because they were all born under tree stumps in the frozen wasteland of northern Canada, raised by wolves, later to be rescued by Seargent Preston and King, his trusty husky. In that Canadian group were two physicians who pampered me with plenty of medical advice when I whined (see 2 photos below), but they didn’t have any Band-Aids. In the States, we refer to doctors as quacks if they don’t carry Band Aids everywhere. These two quacks fought over who was helping me the most. All the Canadians were solid folk, very casual and very funny.The couple from equally frozen Norway, were also conditioned to Arctic conditions, normally only inhabited by reindeer. The husband and wife were 70 and 65, respectively, and had biked all over the world for years. They were super-nice and super-tough and never said a negative word about E-bike softies or complained about anything. The only problem I had with them, and I complained bitterly to our leader about it, was that they spoke English with a Norwegian accent, and we ‘Merikans, who only speak bad Anglish, have a problem with that. There was one individual from the Netherlands, the home of Dutch Boy paint and leaky dikes, we called the Flying Dutchman, because he was FAST! You would only see the pavement melt as he went by. The Flying Dutchman was well-conditioned to long, hard rides all over the world, but his new bike wasn’t, and he had endless flat tires. I think he staged the daily leaks, discreetly jabbing a pin into his tire, so he could rest and shmooze the women. He was rugged and macho and one of the Canadian women tipped me off that he had been shmoozing my “innocent” wife. The Albanian staff got so frustrated working hours on his bike that they asked to borrow my AR-15 that I always carry to dangerous countries. They knew the United States had been dealing in assault weapons with the Albanians for years, starting their dealers out at a very young age.
Itinerary
Day 1 (Sept 19): Tirana. We gathered at our hotel in the Albanian capital and largest city, Tirana. to listen to our Albanian guide, Arjan discussing our trip agenda. Arjan (whom I first called Marlon because of a hearing loss) conveniently left out the brutality part. Even with E-bikes, which most of us had, there were several days that were definitely designed by sadists—at least for me. I’m only guessing about the others because they never whined, which I did nonstop.
Day 2 (Sept 20): Tirana to Pogradec. We bussed east from Tirana to the huge, natural Lake Ohrid, located on the Albania – Macedonia border, got dropped off above the lake, and then coasted downhill into the town of Pogradec. Ohrid is one of the most interesting lakes in the world. Deep and loaded with endemic species.
Day 3 (Sept 21): Pogradec to Korce. We cycled 32 miles south from Korce, which involved a tiny climb of roughly 450 ft. the first few miles to a plateau where we remained for 25 miles. That night we were all still in a jocular mood. At least publicly.
Day 4 (Sept 22): Korce to Sotire. By this time, we were getting comfortable with each other, which was good, because this was the first day that we were physically and mentally tested. I failed both tests. Not only did we have a significant climb after a 7-mile cruise, but the headwind was horrible. Trees were even snapping off and barns were sailing by. It made me think of Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. By that point, I was beginning to suffer what I discretely call when I’m not in the company of schoolchildren, the “Blazing Ball Blues.” The evil twin of the BBB was the mid – shoulder blade knife stabbing issue. The twins were the nemeses of all unconditioned cyclists. That day we rode over a horrible uphill gravel stretch due to roadwork, requiring walking the bike at times. That night, we stayed at a working farm, but we could have been at Buckingham Palace. I was whipped after only three days of cycling, and thinking about the five days remaining gave me the shakes, vomiting, and a heart rate of over 200 bpm. I reminded everyone who noticed (not many) that I was the oldest rider by ten years. The next oldest were the Norwegians and the Flying Dutchman, and all three were seasoned self-abusers whom had been raised on water, black bread, Muesli, and rocks. I was raised on McFatBurgers and Domino’s Death Disk pizzas.
The Exploding Toilet Incident. That evening after showering, I was sitting with my pants fully on, putting on my shoes, and it exploded. At first, I thought it was a bomb planted in the toilet by one of my fellow riders whom I may have zoomed past that day or an Albanian communist terrorist hanging around 30 years, randomly planting toilet mines around the country. Or Sonya??? Not so, because I was still alive. All over the bathroom were huge chunks of brittle plastic lid. Apparently, I wasn’t losing weight, a key objective of the trip.
Day 5 (Sept 23): Sortire to Benje.
The Suitcase Who Wanted to be a Shark. Around 3 a.m. the next morning,as I was doing the geriatric shuffle-stumble back from a now more-convenient-to-use-toilet, a large chunk of hell broke loose, and I nearly died, again. I didn’t but I did see a few fragments of my life pass before my eyes, and I did spout large quantities of blood all over our once-cozy room and bathroom. You know, an 80-year-old doesn’t have that much blood to eliminate. Not looking down, of course being dark and all, I had tripped over my open suitcase, and I fallen into it. Not onto the bed but INTO it. It was the tiniest that Sonya could find on Amazon with enough room for one change of clothes. My first reaction was that the two events were linked hate crimes. The room looked like Leatherface had been there with his sharpened Stihl. Actually, as it turned out, it was the Micro-Suitcase Who Wanted to be a Shark. I take a blood thinner which allows me to bleed to death from a popped pimple or a hangnail. It didn’t help that our first aid kit consisted of 6 aspirin, 1 ChapStick, and 10 microscopic band-aids. Sonya whispered a lot of bad words that morning as she was trying to stem the flow of blood with Albanian ultra-light toilet paper. She seemed more worried about waking our neighbor than she did saving my life. The cycling that day was an easy downhill, but I still bled like a stuck pig. Not to mention that my bike seat had become the CIA’s most effective interrogation tool, surpassing waterboarding and skinning alive. Each time I dismounted, I wanted to club it to death and also get a transfusion. It made things worse that nobody was paying attention, and I was whining really loudly.
Day 6 (Sept 24). Benje to Gjirokaster. According to our daily map and route description, Day 6 was the easiest day of all, and it was. We ended up in Gjirokaster, a premier example of a well-preserved Ottoman city. Everyone except me went on a walking tour that involved a short climb to a castle. I was in opioid-demanding pain, so I joined our driver, Bato, for a Raki, which was 153% alcohol), the national drink of Albania. Better than Oxycodone. After one shot and you can still walk upright. Two shots and crawling become the preferred mode of travel. After three shots, your conditioned Albanian drinking companion call the undertaker. Bato also maintained that Raki was an excellent aphrodisiac, and since he spoke no English, he kept pointing to our crotches and flipping his forearm up and down like it was a puppet on a string and grinning lewdly.
Day 7 (Sept 25). Gjirokaster to Sarande. This was the day I accepted reality and hopped in the van with Bato. It was an easy day for the riders, too. It started on a windy pass after a van/cab ride for everyone to be followed by a screaming downhill to the Ionian coast. Meanwhile, in the van, Bato and I were rehashing the sex benefits of Raki. At some point, one of the Canadians joined me in the van, sick with the viral bug going around the group. Now I had someone who understood English, and I could drone on about my various maladies, while he just smiled and nodded his head. Another disgusting stoic. We stopped for a short rickety ferry ride and tour of a famous Greek – Roman UNESCO World Heritage site, Butrint. I hobbled around the site, whining. The perspective from the van allowed me to focus on other things: photography, road conditions, Raki stories, and our fantastic meals, coffee breaks, and nightly accommodations. And me.
Day 8 (Sept 26). Sarande to Himare. Cozy in the van, Bato and I conversed by laughing, giving thumbs up, high fives, etc. Meanwhile the group was toiling away climbing up and down along the coast (see profile), heading north from Sarande. This was the second toughest day with an elevation gain of over 3600 ft. The two women in the group without E-bikes, performed impressively.
Day 9 (Sept 27). Himare to Vlore. This was the toughest day of the trip, and I was still in the van. Heh, heh! The route included a few, very steep but short climbs at the beginning, with the last climb of over 3000 ft., and up five switchbacks to Llogara Pass, which looked out over the Ionian Sea – a total of 5500 ft. elevation gain over the entire day.
During the break following the downhill, one of the tough Canadian women accidently locked herself in the bathroom. I was the next in line, feverishly working on the handle trying to free her, when her husband appeared, wondering what I was doing trying to bust in on his wife. Eventually, the owner opened the door, and she tumbled out, tactfully avoiding my waiting arms, into the arms of the Norwegian woman, an excellent example of international cooperation. At our last meal together, when we made our final comments and farewells, I told the story a little differently than it actually happened. I said that I told her husband that she was resisting my attempt to get at her and do something inappropriate. Knowing that, her husband said, “Oh, OK, if that’s all,” and then proceeded to dial the Albanian mail order bride business.
All 19 riders made it to the pass in grand style. Since the remainder was a screaming downhill run, I decided to put my suffering aside and go for it. I could not believe how rugged that made me. Arjan and Bato warned me that it was steep, and they did not want to pick up my bloody corpse in a ravine or plastered up against a tree; they’d seen the results of my agility. The ride was fantastic and so fast that I felt like a bobsledder. I managed to stay on the road. One of the group’s strongest riders, a high-speed downhill addict, sailed off the road, crashing near the top. We came over the hill in the van and there he was – flopped over a curve barrier, like a dying salmon, and not moving. He looked dead. As it turns out, he had the wind knocked out of him and was only bruised and cut up, but no broken bones. He was relegated to the van for the remainder of the trip, which did not make him a happy Canadian. Given his skill level and fearless persona, there was talk going around that one of the jealous males in the group had sabotaged his bike. I think he staged the who thing for attention.
That night was our last night together and we were going our separate ways the next day. We told stories at dinner and laughed a lot. Even the Flying Dutchman, to whom I gave a lot of shit, had a wonderful sense of humor, apologizing to everyone for his addiction to flat tires and causing record blood pressure levels with the staff. I know we are going to miss each other; there wasn’t a bad apple in the entire group, which is rare on grueling endeavors like this one had been. It definitely was a lifetime high for me in a life of world-class adventures. Who knows, maybe we’ll join up for a ride in Siberia in the winter. Or Death Valley in the summer.