“Updated in May 2026 with new information about the trip preparation.”
From Medjugorje to Zaragoza: 9 kilometers of misery, an unexpected Galibier, and 400 meters that nearly burned the clutch
I left Medjugorje on Sunday, June 22, around seven thirty in the morning. What I experienced there stays with me. What came after — the roads, the hotels, the unexpected turns, an 81-year-old couple having dinner in the Alps, and a stony path I should never have ridden up — that I’ll tell you all about.
Sunday 22 — Medjugorje to Pansion Bijela Ruza: road 62 and 9 kilometers of pure misery
466 km, nine hours in reality. The Bosnians let you leave without stopping you. Entering Croatia, they check your passport again — this time with no visible military presence. The car ahead of me, with Swiss plates from Lucerne but a driver who looked local, got checked from every angle. I guess the passport and the face didn’t quite match up. I went through with no problem.
I got the idea to take road 62 to cross the border. It looked good on the map. On the map. What I found was a road straight out of the Yugoslav era, where absolutely nobody drove, with a steep climb and 180-degree curves that weren’t meant for a loaded Tiger 900. I decided to turn around — but the road was so narrow and kept climbing so relentlessly that I never found a spot to do it. I’ll turn around once I reach the top, I thought. I reached the top. The road narrowed even further and started descending with the same 180-degree curves, just as steep. I rode the whole thing. Nine kilometers of pure misery. Thank goodness everything went fine.
I changed the plan immediately: 60 km of motorway to shake off the trauma of road 62. From there I went to Sinj and took the road toward Knin, marked in green on the Michelin map — one of the good ones. And the Michelin was right: lakes, good asphalt, silence. A riding delight that made up for the morning.
After Knin, 153 km from Zagreb, the heavy traffic returned. Cars not overtaking, a miles-long line, and me passing bikes until I realized the line had no end and there wasn’t much point. You figure that out after a while, of course.
The most dangerous moment of the day: I was riding behind a van with tinted rear windows. The car ahead of it swerved right with no warning at all — in Croatia turn signals seem to be a decorative feature most people prefer not to use — and the van braked hard. I swerved into the left lane to avoid a collision. It happened twice. Genuinely dangerous. That said, and it has to be said: I didn’t see a single accident in Croatia. Not one. They drive without rules among themselves, but they understand each other.
Pansion Bijela Ruza was a real surprise: terrace, restaurant, small room with bathroom and A/C, parking. All for 58 euros. The owner spoke perfect English. I had the last dinner slot at seven thirty, once the temperature finally dropped and it started to cool off. Perfect.
The menu said it all, and the venison was exquisite.
When I asked whether they had parking while making the reservation, months earlier, they told me barely anyone passed through, that they saw few people, that they were isolated, and not to worry — and that’s exactly how it was.
Monday 23 — Croatia to Sandrá: Lake Garda and my niece
467 km, eight hours in reality. This day called for motorway — there’s nothing interesting for riding between Zagreb and Italy, and I wanted to arrive early since I have a niece who lives in Sandrá, near Castelnuovo del Garda. We spent the afternoon together and had dinner with her family. Lake Garda from there is beautiful — one of those views that justify the detour.
The hotel was decent but had its quirks. The A/C couldn’t get below 25.5 degrees — I slept with it running all night, which is exactly the opposite of what you want. Breakfast buffet with a rope — literally a rope so you wouldn’t touch anything — and a young woman who’d plate up whatever you pointed at. A pandemic protocol still apparently in effect in June 2025.
But the highlight of the day was the parking. Full of loose gravel, the kind where the kickstand just sinks in. I tried four different spots before finding one that held. All while a man and two women in the garden watched me in silence with growing interest. When I finally got the bike stable, I went to reception to ask for a piece of wood for the kickstand. That’s when the man from the garden stood up. He’d been watching the whole time — and turned out to be the owner. He’d seen it all. Said nothing. Offered nothing. Just watched.
Dinner with the family was delicious, on a breezy terrace. That more than made up for everything.
Tuesday 24 — Sandrá to La Pierre d’Oran: a gift of a Galibier
Two maps this time, one for the motorway close to Turin and the other for the great Alpine passes.
470 km, eight and a half hours in reality. Time to head back to one of my favorite B&Bs — La Pierre d’Oran, near L’Argentière, close to Briançon in France.
I took the motorway to near Montgenèvre, the pass between Italy and France. And that’s when I realized the Col du Galibier was only an hour away. And that I could do it.
I took the road to the Col du Lautaret and from there up to the Galibier, climbing to the summit refuge without going through the tunnel. It didn’t feel as demanding as other times — but the last two curves before the summit are stunning and demand technique and respect. Worth noting.
The B&B had changed owners since my last visit. Perrine, the new owner, was lovely — they gave me the same room as always, and we spent an hour talking while she prepared dinner. B&Bs have that advantage: dinners with the owners and other guests. That night there was a couple — Alain and his wife, 81 years old, 58 years married. Alain was in a physical shape you’d envy. The next day he got up at six in the morning to go on a five-hour mountain hike with a friend. Over dinner he told stories from his time with such energy and humor that the rest of us kept exchanging smiles we couldn’t help. A good man, the kind you’re glad to run into at a B&B lost in the Alps.
Wednesday 25 — La Pierre d’Oran to Mas d’Azil: the day of heat and the 400 meters I won’t forget
617 km, eight hours in reality. The rough day. The distance day. 650 km on motorway, since you have to get home eventually, and this was the day chosen for it.
What I didn’t know is that it was going to be the hottest day of the year in France. I reached the B&B Source Nature, in Mas d’Azil, near Saint-Girons. As I got closer, I saw a hand-written sign pointing the way. Google Maps also indicated a dirt track to the right. After eight hours of motorway in the heat, a dirt track wasn’t exactly what I wanted to see.
But I rode in anyway. I crossed a rickety wooden bridge that went clank-clank-clank with every movement. I went about a hundred meters. And then I saw what was waiting for me: a track of large rocks — the kind where the front wheel goes wherever it wants and you’re just along for the ride — climbing steeply with a sharp right-hand turn. Tourmalet-style, but dirt. At 35 degrees.
I stopped. Called Muriel, the owner. — You’re only 400 meters away — she told me calmly. — After the turn it keeps climbing straight, but you can leave the bike down there, where you are is already our property. I’ll come get you. And above all, don’t stress. I don’t know why I did it. I really don’t. I decided to ride up. I wouldn’t do it again. I nearly burned the clutch. I stopped three times on the climb. I kept sliding from side to side among the rocks. Every time I stopped, the rear wheel would spin trying to get going again. Those 400 meters felt endless. I arrived at the top wrecked. And then I saw what awaited me: some spectacular bungalows built by hand by Marc, Muriel’s husband. All open-air, no locks, made with fabric, blending right into the forest. Genuinely beautiful.
That night it was just the two of them and me. Dinner was planned for seven thirty — we started at nine. With Muriel — a sophrologist, well-read, well-traveled, and well-educated — the conversation kept stretching out in the best possible way. Marc and Muriel live completely off-grid: solar panels, battery, and generator, no connection to the power grid. Two springs on their 50 hectares for water. They grow almost everything, and buy what they don’t have from neighboring farmers. Their own forests, total silence, a way of living you look at with respect and a touch of envy. The descent the next day was easier. But also a bit too much. A place to return to, without a doubt. Leaving the bike down below.
Thursday 26 — Mas d’Azil to Zaragoza: the final day
415 km, eight and a half hours in reality. The final day
Getting home. There isn’t much to tell about the days you just want to be over — motorway, kilometers, your head already back home. What there is, though, is that particular feeling of the last day of a long trip: a mix of relief and something that doesn’t quite want to end yet. I arrived in Zaragoza. Parked Lola. Went upstairs. Two weeks, several countries, a ferry, an improvised Galibier, 9 km of misery on a Yugoslav-era road, 400 meters of rocks that nearly cost me the clutch, an 81-year-old couple in the Alps, and a sophrologist in an Ariège forest. And Medjugorje right in the middle. That stays with me.
📍 Resources and recommendations
Medjugorje, Bosnia — for anyone wanting to understand the place before going. Worth reading up on it calmly.
Col du Galibier — one of the greats of alpine cycling and motorcycling. The last two curves are the kind you never forget.
La Pierre d’Oran, L’Argentière — B&B in the Alps, near Briançon. New owner, same charm. And dinners with interesting people, guaranteed.
Source Nature, Mas d’Azil — handmade bungalows, an off-grid life, and conversations that go on and on. Leave the bike down below. I mean it.
Sinj-Knin road, Croatia — the green Michelin route that delivers on its promise. Lakes, asphalt, and silence.
MeteoFrance — always check it. Though on that extreme heat day in France, there was no way around it.
🏍️ Motorcycle Ride Through the Balkans: From Zaragoza to Bosnia via France, Italy and Croatia