The flight was easier than I expected. I had a window seat on the Chicago-to-Frankfurt leg, and when nobody took the middle seat the aisle passenger and I spread out a little — not quite enough to sleep, though. I’d set myself a 7pm goal off the clock to beat the jet lag, and missed it entirely. Border control dragged on long enough that I started to worry about making the connection, so it was almost a relief when the Ljubljana flight ended up delayed for reasons that had nothing to do with me.

I’m riding out here with my friend Mike, and he and Klement had all the planning covered before I landed. Klement and his brother Risto met me at the airport, and on the drive we passed through the village Tadej Pogačar grew up in. Before settling in at Risto’s, we met Mike at a nearby restaurant for coffee. Then we got sorted at Risto’s place, made a quick supermarket run for water bottles and nutrition bars, and headed back to the same restaurant for a late lunch.

What was meant to be lunch turned into the whole afternoon. Mike peeled off to meet other friends for dinner, but the rest of us never moved — it became a kind of holding court as Klement’s university friends drifted in for drinks and stayed through dinner. Mike doubled back later, and we still hadn’t left our seats.

Mike and I are up in the attic — a little apartment with a kitchenette and a bathroom, quiet and separate from the house. Risto and his wife have been wonderfully generous and welcoming hosts: they’ve handed us the place, and come morning there are eggs from Risto’s wife waiting for us. I slept ten-plus hours straight, the deepest jet-lag remedy there is.

We walked into old town Ljubljana for coffee and stumbled onto an Asian food festival, grabbed a table, and took turns fetching food while shuffling chairs as the sun crept around the historic church tower. Klement’s younger sister, her husband, and their kids joined us for a while. We got back to the house in time to catch the closing stages of La Vuelta on TV — a must-watch in this house, given how closely Risto follows the sport.

That night we talked packing, then ate Turkish street food — börek, flaky pastry filled with cheese, washed down with a drinkable Greek yogurt. Risto mixed proper gin and tonics, and we talked about his daughter’s upcoming trip to England.

Tomorrow the riding starts: legs rested, pantry stocked, and Ljubljana the warmest possible landing. Time to point a bike at the Julian Alps.