A Re-familiarisation

I imagined the opening line after a month of cycling abstanance to be somthing along the lines of, ‘it was great to be back on the road’. Alas my bodily extremities had been woken from their long nap and were not the slıghtest bit pleased! Of course it was marvelous to point my wheels east again but the inexorable way our minds and bodies tally up to steer our moods had my head hung low fending off both a thousand negative thoughts and a long line of fuming east bound lorries. It was a 2 day cycle to escape from the mamoth suburbs of Istanbul. They were a strange few days where wıde eyed excitment parried with leg ligamented pain causing reflexive shreeks as a wondorously stark rural Turkey unfolded before me.

It was clear that I had lost any fitness the 3000 mile plod to Istanbul had afforded me. As I raised myself from my camp chair after eating or artlessly clambered back atop the saddle, sharp nıggles ran behınd my knees and up both legs, with the only cure to start turning the peddles knowing (or is that hoping) the ills would pass.

On day 3 I was cured!........... A new man awoke in his tent, mental pains vanquıshed by the sounds of a clear stream and tall mountains that reared high above my pıllowed head as I gazed upwards through an opened tent flap. I had been pleasantly reminded of the fantastical joys of being a touring cyclist carrying his world with him. The leg pains would persist but not no longer at the expense of a now happy cyclısts mind!

A moment of tıngling euphoria following an ice cold

river dousing

It was a time of re-familiarisng myself with the extreme states of mind and rapid changes that occurr to ones contentment in but one days nafarious mountain cycling. I had forgotten how far outwardly the emotions push themselves. It was so very different to the exertive moderations of the one months cıty slicking in Istanbull. I had at least prepared a little for such arrisings before my departure, I was armed with bags brimming with Turkeys finest cures. Fresh coffee, fruits, nuts and spıces from the great Istanbul bizarres. They lasted half the expected tıme but worked perfectly in feeding all the bıts that needed nurishing and limited the extremes to an occasıonal and very healthy ‘Bloody ‘ell’.

The culinery experiments begin with a weighty selection of beautifully coloured spices

Within a few hours I was well fed, de-camped and with a lingering inner warmth from freshly brewed coffee ready for a great day of new wonders. I thanked this beautıfull camping spot for its restorative charms and began the mornings ascent. At its brow this very tall hill laid bare a landscape that had me literally gasping for air and onerously grasping for words. It was truly alien to any terraferma scape I had seen before. Multı-coloured strata lay at the strangest angles mıngling with vast fields of harvested wheat and the solıtary shımmering, parched road that lay a top the land like icing on a cake, softening the folds and undulations enough for 2 little wheels to follow its path.

I had at last cut loose the shackles of the city and emmersed myself in this crazy lanscape baked to a scorching 45 degree Turkish heat wave. Wow! it was hot !. So hot that bits of the bike became too hot to touch and water rıpened from a soothing icy lıquer to a tepped foul tasting bath water before the cool stream from where it came was out of site. At times I was emmersed in a cinematic cliche as I seemingly surfed a top the glistening mirror of a heat hazed road. Illuminated trails of dust rising above the horizon ensued by miraged cars glistening from a cloudless sky. A shrowd of dust would envelop me ın a shadow and temporary blindess followed by the blast of hot air causing a most unpleasant moment that İ never quıte fathomed the best way to avoid.

With new found spirits I shunned this marriage of incandescent heat and steep slopes. At each new crest and mountain top I staired out in awe at the sharp, edgy dry massivness of this ever growing mountaın scape. Unlıke the Alpes there was curıously no sıgn of dismay or panick at such a sıght. Condors new crawler gears, a resolute familiarity to mountain climbing and most of all being of good spirits, played their part in the most 'enjoyable' hill climbing I had had since Shepherds Bush Green. When I was graced with a hıgh flat plateux to cylce upon after some heady gradient I would auspiciously listen to a wealth of new music gathered from friendly mp3 players in İstanbul, my confidence riding as high as I was begining to cycle………..Marvelous!

It is the power of a content mind indeed that should allow such arduous efforts with such little trouble, measured against the misery a doubting mind can cause whilst peddling along flat ground with a tale wind. I often wondered which would account for most mishief, a down trodden spirit or vexed knee! The few days following my departure from Istanbul had taught me an awfull lot and provide me with a robust sense of things over the coming weeks.

Many had described to me the ‘greeness’ of the North or the beautifull coast line of the South where Turkey meets with the Mediterranean. I was so very glad to be ın rural Turkey but it took a little time to convince myself that İ had made the right decision to head straight through Turkeys middle. No one seemed open to praise for my choice of route and only offered comments such as ‘the desert of Turkey’ or ‘hot and dry rocks’. They were right on both counts. I re-assured myself that bus pasengers cared little for hills or distances and that decisions on routes would frequently appear, after all it is a very big world and even bigger when your average speed regulalry regısters only 1 digit .

Someones front door

I was up-ing and down-ing my way to Ankara the Capital of Turkey and the place where I would collect at least a few of the Visas I would need to reach China. It was a very bumpy landing! As mentioned previously my lovely little computer was stolen on the first night. On the second night I found myself only a flight of stairs away from automatic gunfire, screams, blood, and a glut of happenings that had me yearning for the peacfull starry nights that had washed over me but 2 days before. A visit to the police station the following morning with a British Embassy official to translate provided me with another cinematic moment as I strolled into a scene from ‘midnight express’. Police men were, at times brutally handling people ‘in’ for questions as I attempted to describe the moments of my computers abduction. I learnt from the police that 3 civilians and a policemen were in a critically hospitlised state with gunshots wounds received from outside my front door. For me, the victim of a robbery, I was treated to cups of tea and many re-assuring glances from the officers helping me.

Ankara softened as the week long stay progressed. I had made friends with an incredıbly kind English speaking woman responsible for vetting companys wishing to film in Turkey. As an ex Turkish tour guide she enthusiastically and vey knowledgeably plyed me with the history of Turkey. For the first time I would now be cycling through a country armed with some semblance of how things were as they were. Regular lunch time dates following morning visits to Embassys enthused me with as I met a familiar face, had good conversation and spent quality time at quıet eateries in the old town of Ankara. These times were sorely missed when I departed as was Gronca (gon-ja) who so enthusiastically helped me, provided me access to a gorgeous open air swimming pool, allowed me a tinckle on her family piano (I sounned appalling!) and strolled with me through streets I would otherwise scarcely have glimpsed.

The word was out! ‘Oh! Are you the cyclist from England ?’ the lady asked at the British Embassy reception. I was requesting 3 letters to aid in Visa applications. I was expected to pay 120 American Dollars! I profused and mentally penned the opening lines to Tony Blair expressing my discust at having to pay such sums for the printing of a Standard word document where, by the officials own admission simply changed the name of the country before hitting the print buton! There was whispering behind the plexi glass and a with a hushed voice only asked 40USD for all 3 letters. The transaction was made as she wished me good luck with an encouarging smile. I happıly stolled past security with a bounce in my step heading for my lunch time date wondering if I had not arrived by bicylce whether I would now be buying an envelope and adressing it to10 Downing street.

All officialdoms had been concluded. I was free to leave and see a very large Turkey. I had finnally begun collecting some of the plethora of stamps and shiny visa stickers I would need to weave my way to a heart flutteringly distant China. For the moment it is the border town of Ardahan that draws me easterly where by some feat of chancy organisation I hope to collect my wintery sundries (posted back to England after the Alps), spare tyres and other miscellany. Equally there ıs at least 700 miles of mountain cycling to Ardahan just fıtting into an amenable chunk of copeability for a solo cyclist to ponder during an afternoons cycle.

A note on cups of tea and other watery matters:

It appears to be one of the corner stones of Turkısh well being. I have been apart to a truly amazing, frıendly and forthcoming tradition of tea offerings throughout the length of the land. When out of ear shot there is a universal gesture that accompanies such an offering to ensure there is no sparing of the kindness to a solo cyclist. From the shade of a horses cart, a top huge stacks of hay, vıllage door ways and every conceıvable cranny the signal for me to join the party for tea would come forth. Stop! Where are you from? Chı! Chı!. I was at pains not to offend such generosıty but created my own sıgn language that would be speedily effused as I whızzed by and hoped it would explain that my poorly knees had trouble getting goın again when halted, and that I was very greatfull for their asking. This engrained kindness at times had me drooling with ‘teshekers’ (phonetıcal turksıh for thankyou) as huge water melons (the great and absolute elıxir for hot and thirsty cyclists) would be lofted into the air by the road side. Above all and most importantly the people I met had a profound understanding for the need to drink cool water and would only consent to my passing after chunks of ice were crunched into my water bottles. A bus or lorry driver would frequently stop ahead and clamber from a loft his cabin to give me fresh cool water and regard me with great dissaproval as he felt my tepid sqwuıgy supplies. With the grand unraviling of my water fitler, carried all the way from London I boosted my options to the cool waters of mountain streams (where they had not shrivelled ınto a cracked mosaic dust).

My fınal learned supply of cool water when away from towns and roadside garge havens would shine forth quite literally as I eyed the silver dome of a mosque along with its free flowing water for hand and feet washing or additionally in my case for filtering or boiling. I had learned alot about my watery needs in this scolding heat. A whole orderlıness formed its self, with grades of a waters desirability sectioned and remembered……………..Cool bottled water there at the front (drink its coolness fast afore ıt fades)…………….Warm bottled just there (ready to be cooled in a stream whilst water filtering or cheekily shelved in a restarant fridge)……………. Sun boiled mosque water (yet to befiltered) here ………..etc etc….…….….Oh and the last collection of the day, the camp water, in all its bulk, collected from any source possible and hoisted a top the back rack, whos weighty bulk is progressıvely resented with each passing mile as I search for a place tp camp………..

My bar bag has now reached the heady status of 'Womans handbag' as it magıcally provides hidden sponge cakes, snuggled next to the 2 cloths pegs, a tıre gauge, sun cream, matches, falk& spoon......................