Inside the Veneto Trail: From Pro to Slow (Video)

It’s the summer of 2025. Somewhere in Italy, I am pinning a number to a bikepacking bag. No longer elite racing numbers on an aero skinsuit, but a number on a handlebar bag filled to the brim, attached to a steel bike with even more bags strapped to its front and rear. I’m still starting with a number, but it is no longer a race. My last start in top form feels like a long time ago, and I doubt I will ever reach those power numbers again—the ones that once helped me achieve my greatest goals in the sport.

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We arrived in the beautiful city of Cittadella in late June, tucked away in the Veneto region at the foot of the Dolomites. The Veneto Trail was the first event where I ever pinned on a number and truly “just rode.” The only thing set in stone was the start time; everything that followed was open, spontaneous, and a full-blown adventure.

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On my first-ever bikepacking adventure event with Manuel from Bombtrack, I was thrilled to have such a seasoned veteran by my side, especially on that first day. His role seemed equal parts guide and guardian: keeping me calm while constantly reminding me to lift my eyes from the front wheel, to take in the scenery, the people, the mountainous villages, and the rich local culture surrounding us. Before I knew it, he was teaching me to slow down for the small pleasures, like lingering over a perfect pasta dinner, something my previous, always-rushing racing lifestyle had never allowed. “Look here! Look there!” he shouted from behind, again and again, insisting I notice the details. Even as this seemingly office-bound man pedaled hard to keep up with a recently retired pro over the punishing climbs of the Veneto Trail, he never let me forget that the joy of the journey was not in speed, but in the world unfolding around us.

We took it really slow, and at first, it made me uneasy. The idea of spending an entire day in bib shorts, pedaling for hours but barely covering any distance, with no chance to stick to a planned fueling strategy, felt almost unnatural. For the first time in ages, I was riding without a power meter. Add to that a 30T chainring on a steel frame, wide 27.5-inch tires, no suspension, and a rear rack; it was worlds apart from my usual setup.

Around us, the pack flowed past, cyclists disappearing into the rolling hills and sunlit valleys of the Veneto region. I watched them fade into the distance, feeling a strange mix of awe and disorientation. And yet, despite the strangeness, despite the unfamiliar rhythm, I was still on my way… slowly, deliberately, and learning to embrace the ride as it unfolded. Manuel kept smiling permanently, though, while my mind was still fighting against losing it at the same moment. “No worries, Gosse. We’ll see them all again sooner than you think. Ah, do you see that massive falcon circling up high?”

Checking the live tracking on my phone every now and then made me realize that we were already in the last 25 percent, surprisingly early in the event. It was clear that this wasn’t a race for Manuel—or anyone else, either. The goal was simply to finish, and I understood that. This tour is indeed pretty brutal, with lots of climbing. Still, I had to accept that it wasn’t about speed, but very clearly about some kind of overall experience.

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Looking back, I must confess: I would have missed so much had I taken my natural approach, head down, tongue out, eyes fixed on the front tire. Luckily, I realized fairly quickly that Manuel completely understands the spirit of events like the Veneto Trail. No matter how steep or long the climbs were, he never stopped smiling, and those vibes were contagious. I decided to follow his approach and see what it was really all about.

Sometimes the journey takes its time reaching the destination, and for me, it certainly did. It took a while before I could settle into the rhythm, let go of my usual pace, and adapt to this completely different approach. Slowly climbing, pedal by pedal, I began to feel the ride rather than race it—absorbing the landscape, noticing the little details, and learning to enjoy the journey for what it was, not for how quickly I could reach the end. The villages we passed clung to the mountainsides like timeless sentinels, and the everyday life of the locals played out quietly, in unexpected moments: a dog barking in a courtyard, the scent of fresh bread drifting from a bakery, the chatter of locals at a café terrace. Slowly, deliberately, I began to notice the little things I had always rushed past before. Every turn of the wheel, every glance at the landscape, every small human encounter became part of the ride itself. I was learning, for the first time in a long while, what it truly meant to “just ride.”

We kept riding and riding, continuing until the sun was about to set, very long hours in the saddle for someone whose focus had always been 60 minutes of full-gas racing. At one point, I wondered if it was only my ass that hurt, as Manuel simply kept turning the pedals uphill, never stopping to smile.

We followed the general five-day timeframe for completing the 500 kilometers with around 11,000 meters of elevation. Although our pace felt slow to me, we were actually keeping up with most of the pack, often crossing paths with the same people multiple times a day. My mental fatigue began to ease; I started chatting with other participants and immediately felt the group’s friendly, welcoming vibes. It gradually became genuinely fun to share this experience and to swap cycling stories with enthusiasts from all over the globe. As I recounted some of my recent racing experiences, they responded with tales from the Peruvian Andes, the deserts of Africa, and other places I had visited during my career, but always rushed, always racing. For the first time on the trip, I paused for a brief moment to wonder which kind of story might be more inspiring or meaningful. I knew the racing side well, but that moment sparked a real curiosity about “the other side of cycling.

We rode our bikes along this mind-blowing route, carrying what felt like a “private hotel room” that let us check in wherever and whenever we wanted. The freedom it gave us left me with some of the fondest memories. I have a hard time recalling race results from more than a decade of top-level racing, but the strange places I slept during that time are etched in my mind forever. In the same way, I’ll never forget our overnight spots on the Veneto Trail. Where we’d slept the night before quickly became one of the main conversation topics among riders. Everyone spoke with great enthusiasm about their chosen spots, how long they’d ridden into the dark, and whether they cooked their own meal or stopped at one of the many brilliant Italian restaurants. I didn’t meet a single person talking about numbers; the only stats that seemed to matter were the price of a pizza.

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One night somewhere in the Dolomites, I fell asleep as a 29-year-old and woke up as a 30-year-old. With the first rays of sunlight streaming through the tent and a German birthday song drifting into my ears, my first thought was, “My life could have been so different… what am I even doing here? What a pity it would have been if I’d have missed all this.” As I lay there, reflecting, another memory surfaced: would that 15-year-old Gosse, clumsily pedaling his uncle’s old bike for the first time within a local race, have ever imagined that he’d still be riding every day, all over the world, by the time he turned 30? And yet there I was, still on my bike, still chasing climbs and miles, but with a perspective I could never have imagined back then.

Suddenly, the line between racing and riding blurred. I might cycle less than I once did, but without the cage of a strict training plan, every ride feels just as intense. I move through the landscape with the same sense of freedom the bike has always given me, sharing trails with fellow enthusiasts, people driven not by numbers or results, but by the joy of the journey itself. For some inexplicable reason, I switched my jersey for a T-shirt that morning.

I can confirm that bikepacking feels similar to racing; it is fascinating to see how those friendly-minded folks come from all over and tackle their individual challenge. It’s still a performance, but paired with an everlasting adventure at the same time. This Veneto Trail definitely provides both: even as a racer, I only had a few days in my career when I rode 2,500 meters of elevation, off-road, and for five days in a row. Even though we took it slow, it felt good to be forced to ride slow and pay attention to little details along the way, which I wouldn’t have noticed while racing. It fed my curiosity for more of such trips. Riding the 2025 Veneto Trail was definitely the start of a new approach to cycling; this wasn’t my last bikepacking trip.

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My greatest gain has been realizing I can let loose now. No food plan, no sleeping plan, no schedule… just riding, enjoying the moment without making up my mind. The pure mental freedom might be the biggest and most fascinating characteristic of such a trip. That’s what they said before, and they are right. As a post-career option, I leave gravel racing to others, as it no longer seems to match my personal excitement. I’m not exactly sure yet if I might have fully gotten addicted to bikepacking yet, but it’s looking that way, as I actually can’t wait for the next time out.

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