had left long stretches of dirt and rock, dark tunnels and canyons thick with dust. The little KTM— my“ Kappina”— never missed a beat. The budget Mitas E07 tyres surprised me with their grip and grit.
Even in Serbia, the roads were rough and broken, but the excitement grew. After seven long hours and only 300 kilometres, the sound of brass bands welcomed us to Guca.
The festival was already a storm of trumpets, Rakia, and human energy. Music spilled from every corner. The air itself vibrated. The Rakia loosened every muscle, every thought. I sang with strangers, shouted with joy, and danced through the night to songs I didn’ t understand but somehow felt in my bones.
I met eyes, smiles, and laughter— old friends, new friends, people I’ d never see again. I sang until my