The sparkling Oracle and ' Baku beach '

Once again I was gripped by an excitable apprehension as Condors wheels rolled onto the streets of Ardahan in what promised to be the final days cycling in Turkey. A weighty collection of new maps, successfully received from England would take me to countries to which I had no understanding or knowledge. Put simply they would guide me to countries that I had never heard of! Places that aroused deep rumblings of excitement and that would steer me to the lofty gateways of the Himalaya! I had received and taken stock of all the wintry items last worn scaling the Swiss Alpine Peaks. A whole hot summer separated me from those spiring hills and with a slightly improved sense of knowing I calmed my mind as it wavered a little thinking of the megalithic distances still to peddle and the challenges yet to overcome. With only a failed delivery of spare tires to hamper any notion of being ill prepared…… I was off! Heading East once again, to the border of a new land.

It had been an inspiring Turkish cycle ride The compacted contours and vertically challenging climbs had taught me much about the resolve that would be needed to scale the peaks of the Himalaya and of the great satisfaction to be gained by reaching their summits. It seemed the lay of the land and its sneaky hidden peaks would continue to bewilder and surprise all the way to the Georgian border. After nearly 2 months of gazings and tracings on my crumpled 'Carte de Turk' I had developed an intimate understanding of its scale and of its reckonings on altitude and gradients. Concurrent with the worlds’ trend toward bicycle unfriendly divides between countries I was prepared for a rather hilly hello to Georgia. Alas this particular 'hilly divide' would prove to be an everlasting reminder of an eclectic country I was now eager to leave. With a flourishing level of fitness I was a fare match for these imperviously inclined slopes and so began the final ascent in Turkey. I raised my eyes skyward, and there towering above my instantly faltering confidence lay the steepest, highest and most rancorous slope I had the misfortune to steer toward. Battle commenced between an intensifying Anxiety and the stubborn refusal to relinquish my cycling bravado to this dismal gradient. Perfectly timed and like an angel descending in answer to my tumultuous sweat induced doubts a young man on his one geared stead heroically came to my rescue. Heading toward a nomadic settlement dotting the upper slopes of this heinous incline we became silent cycling allies. To date it is the longest period of peddling I have ever sweated through with my bottom off the saddle. My language deteriated, my eyes blurred under the strain, my unwavering silent cycling companion stayed by my side. Faultless in his mysterious encouragement he unsuspectingly re-assured my exasperated lungs and legs that we would continue to the top. We weaved, wobbled and gasped (correction, I weaved and wobbled and he steered away to avoid a collision!) for a whole hour in a permanent state of disbelief that I was still upright and with serious misgivings as to whether my body would continue to volunteer its services. As I had grown to expect with these capricious inanimate rocky foe's they would still deliver more than one thinks is manageable in fare play …..and so began the slow decline into cycling immorality ..…………….The wind began to blow…. in fits of gushing roars it overwhelmed my attempts to stand and peddle simultaneously. I was reduced to a crouching ball vainly attempting to seek cover from its lashing venomous jaws. My angelic companion had escorted me to over 6000 feet, his now distraught looking and severely flapping tent home needed some attention and he departed. Morale civility descended further as the temperature plummeted to below zero. I was a cyclist with summer still fresh in his mind and an unfortunately stubborn refusal to accept this impromptu climatic turn that was unfolding around me…. After months of overheating under the scorched sky's of Turkey I was severely perplexed to find myself feeling cold; very cold and so very quickly. Shivering limbs, layered in frozen sweat were blasted by an ever more vocal wind. It was a terrible struggle to co-ordinate the unpacking of Condors ‘rear end’ to retrieve my warmly goods (at least 2 months ahead of schedule) alas, belatedly donned in everything I could find, the decline in civility continued.









Although this guileful rock took on a more amenable gradient I had now ascended into the nubilous world of dense, gusting clouds, their dampness scrolling past at a terrible rate, collecting its self on my eyelashes which began to freeze, pearl like on their tips. There was nothing to do but keep peddling into and upwards through this smirk, in the hope that there may soon be a grand descent and a return to a landscape where one can see more than few meters ahead. In some insidious play on surreality my surroundings at the summit of this monster added more cantankerous ingredients to this mirky soup. Two large over turned lorries appeared with spilled loads littering the road, a few minutes upstream from this metallic blockade I wobbled past an eery circle of Turkish soldiers. Arctically dressed to the nines they huddled around a burning oil drum, faces gleaming orange, lit by its flames it was a bubble of colour in this insidious monotonal gusting lanscape. With a rather muffled cheer of relief I began the descent. A landscape of rich green valleys re-appeared as I speedily free wheeled below the clouds and into colour the road stretching 1000's of feet below me. The wind calmed itself, kindly allowing me to erect my tent in the peace of a glorious sunset, the last to be seen in Turkey.

It was so very exciting. The last stamp had been stamped, the last farewell sung and after the custom official's disastrously comical attempt at taking Condor for a spin round his security post I regained control of my trusted metal steed and ecstatically rolled its 2 wheels into Georgia. Sorry….. just to clarify, let me say that again………. I had left Turkey! And Yes, Now Georgia was here all around me, rolling under my wheels, wafting through my hair and feeding my delighted eyes. I cheered, wooped and raised my head high to site the first Georgian to wave at, and wave I most certainly did! completely oblivious to the atrocious road (rubbled track) that constituted the main route into the first village of this new land. An extended stay in Turkey had imbued me with a ravenous appetite for an alternative to the moorish Turk culture, sugary cups of tea and all! I was achingly desperate for some flat road cycling but most of all I felt the excitement of a world cyclist passing into a new kingdom with not the slightest notion of what lie ahead. Marvelous!

It was time to ride proudly into my first Georgian village. A roadside graveyard, brisling with heat and flames forced some rather wayward steering and provided a most distinct and peculiar warm welcome to this new country. A 1940's clanging brass bell announced the gallant arrival of the village fire engine to extinguish this worry some prognostic vision. I quickly construed this heated scene to be the result of some mishandled graveside candle and made a mental note to alleviate any foreboding interpretations and skedaddled promptly away from my literal warm welcome! On to the village square, where I would learn my 8th word for "hello" and "thank you". I was awakened to just how stagnant my mind had become after 2 months of Turkish cycling. I had been immersed in Turkeys pleasantly proud ways for such lengths of time that I had forgotten the marvel of surprise and wonderment at entering a new country. I was regaining the sense of being a cyclist on the move, and that I really was peddling into a new adventure! Devouring celebratory cheese and a new selection of delights for my insatiable sweet tooth. I sat under a tree becoming progressively more shocked at just how shocked I was with the once orthodox sights unfolding before my eyes. Sitting amongst this Salubrious scene I was witness to scenes of young men and woman frolicking frivolously. They were laughing together! Yes in public! My eyes had inadvertently been Dare I say, Muslimified……..It felt scandalous to see woman wearing short sleeved tops with skirts to match, parading around chivalrous young men. This scene of this Overt flirtatious bravado climaxed when a middle aged woman, winding down the window of her 1950's Russian car said "hello"! To re-iterate this spine tingling moment a woman in public had smiled and then enquired upon where I had come. This upheaval in my perceived acceptance of public behavior continued as I realized she was the person driving the car, HER car! Until that moment I had Thoughtlessly been witness to 2 months of "hello's" or "merhaba's" from my friendly 4 wheeled road companions in Turkey without seeing a single woman at the wheel!...…….It was obviously a time for some mental re-adjustments….........I could only summarise from this lunch time feast (in all senses!) that I had once again (all be it ignorantly) stepped foot and wheel onto roads sided by church spires and crosses and taken leave, for the time being of veils, beautiful domes and hidden female independence. This most welcomed female independent informed me that the Georgian language is noted to be one of our [the worlds] oldest known languages. I later learned the rare oddity that the Georgian word "Deda" means mother and that "Mama" means father (or something along those lines) and is one of the few indicators or proofs that there is no universal language or natural tongue for the human species.

Condor bumped and rattled deeper into Georgia as I recovered from the liberalisations just bestowed upon me and duly overstepped the mark an hour later with a sneaky picture of some very scary looking tanks and military installations at a rural railway station causing a raucous with the local heavies armed not so much with shiny guns but shiny bottles of beer. Indeed the appearance of soldiers equipped with alcohol not arms (excluding of course the 2 tanks they had been lounging around) in a new land was a little disarming to say the least. It was time for some masterful, and by now well rehearsed theatricals for diluting these mischievous acts of cycle tour photography. In a hybridised mangle of all the languages I may have recently encountered I would launch forth my verbal defense (or is that attack?) pausing only to breath and possibly allow time for the threatening body to answer a "question" I had asked. Most importantly during these charades was to never acknowledge a single English word, a single pointing or for that matter any notion whatsoever of rational communication made by the possibly dangerous party. In fact when courage allows, completely ignoring the unfolding drama and persons can work wonders for a hasty recovery and prompt departure. It was a fine performance, bored with their communicating's they retreated to the shade of their metallic sun shades and I peddled on with speedy leg strokes, speedy heart beat and a slow return to calmly gazing upon my new surroundings……. Phew! With the lowering sun no longer warming my back the apprehensions grew as I scanned the land for a suitable place to pitch my tent for the first time in a new country. For the most past these first night camps in strange lands are uneventful affairs but with no knowing of local land owner ship or local tolerances for tourism, unnecessary angst can so easily bubble from irrational mental improvisations incited purely from a tired mind having spent 6 or so hours in the saddle. A most concerning fictitious reality that invariably causes needless worry as I scramble through wooded glades only to quickly scamper away when sighting a distant man or the sounds of approaching people. Torch lights would be shaded, standing in the open would be avoided and a general level of quietness would be maintained. When rested, thoughts of these first evenings of thicketed undergrowth explorations, dragging Condor into the most secret of crannies would entertain me no end. Of course, within a few days I would return to a casual acceptance of local visiters and impromptu discovery. Alas these comical recollections do little to dispel the same fears and anxieties the next time I find myself on the first evenings camping in a new country where the whole affair is once again repeated.

As a lasting reminder to this wonderfully rousing first day in Georgia I was disturbed from deep sleep by a truly transcendent vibration, slowly its rumblings amplified. Tent zippers began rattling to this mysterious vibration so in a desperate and dreamy state of mind I peered into the moonlit surroundings. There, some 10 feet above my head were the encroaching's of yet more metallic monsters! I was awake, they were there, their large protrusions of silhouetted nozzles were unmistakable. I was being deafened and shaken both mentally and physically by dozens of tanks passing high above my head. The afore mentioned foliaged cranny offered little in way of comfort to the threatening nature of these screeching masses. For their second coming there was no sign of beer toting military men just the shuddering outlines of these hulking cumbrous heavy metal monstrosities. Calmness once again prevailed, zippers and bones alike ceased to rattle. The ground quaked no more, these metallic specters of the night had left me in peace. In the hope that Georgia would allow me to calm a slightly ruffled mind, I fumbled through the days events and peacefully lay my head on my cloths bag to return once again to blissful sleep.


Georgia had certainly been most inventive in her first days welcomings. The prospect of a formidable Himalayan winter and irksome Visa entry dates would lead to a rather fleeting visit to Georgia that would later leave me wanting and with the regret that more time could have been spent in this beautiful country. The Socio-Religious transformations that had pleasantly shocked my sleeping senses were but little appetisers to the wonders I would feast my eyes upon. Over the following weeks cycling I was surrounded by the new found beauty of Georgia. Above me were charming, luscious valley walls, below me great roaring torrents and most importantly ahead of me a beautifully flat road! How its affable nature pleased my legs as they propelled me East along glorious subtle descents, nested amongst tree lined rural avenues. The enduring head wind with its huffings and puffings failed miserably to detract from the joys of seeing, impossibly seated sky scraping forts and churches perched atop soaring columned rock. This whole gravity defying mass hung over the dashing flows of a river that pleasingly escorted me for most of these memorable days of Georgian cycling. It flowed through petite, beautifully foliaged villages lined with people resting under thick, capacious tree canopies, a fond reminder of the days spent in Romania, and a satisfying sight indeed after a largely sparse Anatolian Turkey I had left behind.

Such grand scenery turned my exploits toward discovering a Georgia away from the major artillery roads. The charm of this more hidden and much less accessible Georgia repeatedly concluded with an appearance of seas of impassable holes. Monstrously sized gravel piles completely disagreeable to Condors suffering rims and spokes. These crevasses (far too large to be classified in the same family as pot holes) would prevent even the slightest glance away from the track and the next wave of approaching, rocky turbulence, an absurd way to see Georgia. Often prompted by someone’s gesture of disbelief that I would wish to continue cycling this chosen ‘road’ or once even in marvelously spoken English, I was advised to immediately turn around as it would be quicker to re-join the ‘motorway’ rather than continue my present course. It was s cruel turn of events. The enjoyment of cycling in the first wind to blow from the West for 5 weeks ended prematurely. I would have to about turn and cycle into its scornful jaws for 20 whole miles, by which time of course it had reverted to its blowings from the East! Oh the cynicism of a jaded cyclist!

Tbilis, the capital city of Georgia was drawing nearer. A rural Georgia had treated me well, providing me with a plentiful supply of fruity feasts. My coming would be seen from a distance, followed by their speedy gatherings, in a feat of dexterous prowess with our arms outstretched their juicy gift would be collected all without breaking a peddle stroke. Tucking this mouth watering harvest into Condors bar bag I would chuckle at the humorous semblances these hearty occasions had to my lycra clad racing cousins whilst they collected water at some mind boggling speed on their light weight mega machines. They were generous offerings indeed as an eccentric landlady in Tbilis later informed me, the prices of veggies and fruit in Georgia had quadrupled on the previous years prices on account of the extremely high summer temperatures. Confirmation that it really had been a sizzling summers cycle in Turkey.

Surreptitiously cycling into orchards or vineyards early evenings became times for culinary experimentation. I would erect my tent and prepare for a feast. These hideaways offered an excellent alternative to the customary savory evening dish I had grown accustomed to. Fine concoctions were mixed. Bee honey (carried from the mountains of Turkey). Ginger (wrapped in the bazaars of Istanbul) and of course there were the fruits of Georgia! Plucked from the trees and vines around this fruity camp spot and the weighty load in Condors bags I would stew, simmer or brew or is that simmer, bake or boil? Whatever it was that I was cooking it tasted great! I would sleep fondly on these evenings with a sweet tooth tamed (at last) by these sugary delights, little portions of which would be spared for the porridge pot in the morning offering a truly splendid start to the days cycling.

Fueled by these fruitful evenings of camping it seemed after only a few effortless strokes on Condors peddles I was gliding into the Capital city of Georgia. Distant recollections of the grand structures of Istanbul and Ankara had been my last aesthetically pleasing source of human architectural achievement and it had been sorely missed. It was delightful to explore the grand streets and walled riverside walkways of Tbilis. I found myself overcome by a strange sense of walking the streets of Europe. It felt old and had aged beautifully. The High vaulted ceilings and grand, finely carpented doorways of my chanced upon Guest house opened onto a typically styled inner courtyard, roofed with hanging grapes and floored with smoothed stone paving. I was sorry indeed to leave this haven and would spend the following days doubting my urge to continue so quickly.

Passing through the gates of the Tbilis guest house, the afore mentioned eccentric landlady informed me of the correct time, a seemingly innocent gesture but none the less one that brought Condors wheels screaching to a hault. I glanced at Condors trip computer, I checked with the lady again, I splurged forth some watch pointings at a passing man in the street …………………. It was time (pun intended) to resign my self to another most artfull, timely subterfuge. I had spent the whole week cycling in an alternative time to all the smiling, generous people of Georgia I had passed. Another time zone had been crossed!. Seconded only by border crossings it was most certainly time to celebrate time! The clocks had covertly ticked themselves a few more hours into the ‘future’. Of course celebrating such great acts of cycling time traveling takes time and prompted a happily embarrassing late departure that day from Tbilis.

These times of time change always induced a few days of curios re-adjustment. My life on this wonderfully lengthy adventure now separated its periods of wake and sleep based purely on the rising and setting of the sun. One would awake as its warm rays filled the tent, eat lunch invariably as it was high above my head and would sleep when its warmth faded behind me. It was a naturally cyclic rhythm and proved a most able cure for any misdemeanors of the mind or irritable discontentment. Then quite abruptly during these moments of 'time traveling' I would be tilted from this very balanced relationship between day and night of wake and sleep and be tipped into an afflicted state of temporary confusion. During these periods of ignorance, of not knowing the correct time the general happenings of the day would seem to drift from what had inadvertently become so familiar. Then, upon news of a time change the world suddenly snapped back into place. Cattle were once again herded into their night time shelters at around 7 o’clock instead of a strangely early 5 o’clock. People could be seen lunching under trees at lunchtime not late morning……….Now I’m confused!……………………. I think that is the way it goes?….……………Suffice to say they were dislodging periods with lessons to be learnt on ones trusting of trip computer clocks. The only true remedy was to steal ones gaze away from these deceptive digits and return it to the sun!

It now felt as if I were crossing the globe at break neck speeds. No sooner had a time zone been crossed but I now realised another border crossing approached. There ahead were its interminable gridlock of lorries to which I would once again triumphantly cycle past towards its check posts and other whimsical points of bureaucratic stalling. Just time to stash excess moneys in unpleasant places in the hope it will not be discovered and ‘retrieved’ to prevent it leaving the country. A few Dollar notes were deposited into the bar bag matching the amount scrawled upon a piece of paper that describes the sum of money brought into the country in question. I had done very well in maintaining this illusionary status quo whilst stashing at least two or three hundred US Dollars (to be re-scattered around Condors carriers once away from snooping eyes). These financial safe guards had proven invaluable when bank machines consumed bankcards or more commonly when there simply were no bank machines (or bank).

Occasionally I would remember to do a little currency exchange research before arriving at these locales of insidious characters and shady dealings, arming ones self with a few figures helping to gauge the magnitude of wrong doings inherent with emptying ones pockets of currency no longer needed in such deceitful surroundings. Unctuous, chicaning men would swoop and hover around Condor and with a leanered patter and casual smile the whole affair was now embraced as a jovial skirmish with dishonest doings and with a practiced hand the small deal is completed (an emphasis on small, with only enough money being exchanged to buy food and essentials till areas of more honest repute are reached).

The last vestiges of Georgia were shed and I leaped, front wheel first into Azerbaijan. Unfurling my second map (in as many weeks) revealed a comfortingly flat platter of land and there on its Eastern edge I spied the Caspian Sea, the great barrier separating me from the allure of the ‘Stans’. My colossal diversion around Iran and the circumvention of its political complications had now begun in earnest. Istanbulian Frustrations, bewildering decisions and days of planning had succeeded! Goodness me, Condors wheels were on Azerbaijan soil! Mysteriously this crossing into Azerbaijan had provoked a considerable swirl of mental commotion. Whiring and spinning into some cognitive calamityI had suddenly become quite flustered. At this landmarked moment there had been no cheers, no woops of joy and certainly no triumphant arm raising (now traditional). It was a most peculiar sensation, surfacing almost the instant the ‘line’ had been crossed. I realise now it had been brewing in the soup of emotional highs and lows of cycling for some time and needed putting to rest. In fits of mental flounderings I reassured myself that all was well……...................... In fact, all was well! I was physically well, and very happy to be in Azerbaijan. Confused but with resolve it was now that I must decipher these imperious ponderings. The action of movement and doing some exercise seems a marvelous catalyst for rooting out such canundrums so I cycled on, stooped in thought for some time, then in an explosion of clarity I had rooted out an almost profound realisation. No. More important than a realisation, it was a real sense and a penetrating incite. It was a deep feeling or knowing of the vast distances I had peddled, to reach countries that before that incredible first peddle stroke in London I had no understanding of whatsoever. Then, in Istanbul I had made another decision to cross 1000’s more miles and had the courage to again make that first peddle stroke with a resolve to keep peddling till I had got there!….. and now I had got there! The gate had quite literally (and mentally) been opened for me and I had passed through both into an unheard of country and a new way of looking at it. I had crossed huge distances fearful of feeling the confidence in my own abilities. Despite having already achieved such a huge amount there had been a great struggle to truly comprehend what marvels could be achieved if I put my mind to it. It was an extraordinary thought to feel such confidence bubbling inside and have a newfound sense of knowing that I could, quite possibly make it all the way around the world on my bicycle! I had peered into a sparkling oracle and its refreshing insight into this great adventure of mine would come to my aid repeatedly in the coming months, indeed its gentle mental imprint, permanently adjusted the view of my rapidly expanded world. It was the vivid reality of physically touching this exotic sounding country that had seemed to trigger this revelationary incite and I was now quite daunted by an immense new found strength and an epic notion that where ever I chose to point Condors wheels I could (and would) go!

I steadied Condors wheels (and my mind!) at this seemingly boundless idea and finally held my arm aloft and cheered my entry into Azerbaijan.

In the days to follow, the local greetings were frenzied, the children precariously excitable and the gathered crowds large. Rows of glittering gold teeth beamed at me, sparkling through car windscreens or roadside shades. Alas crossing into Azerbaijan had marked the vengeful barking of my perilous four legged canine foe’s. Following weeks of blissful peace the return of their grizzly, frothing vehemence appeared frequently. Bounding across harvested fields or splashing up muddy lanes they would confront an accomplished and now quite unperturbed cyclist well adept at dealing with these hostile accostings. A premature and most unwelcome ending to the gladed valleys and plains of Georgia only seemed to fuel the ferocity of there snappings and increase the frequency of these terribly unsociable visits. The fine smells and sounds of the Georgian countryside appeared to have been but a brief natural gesture to which I would later regret not having digested more thoroughly.





A few days cycling through prophetic lightning storms and the beautiful colours of nature had slowly devolved to rusty browns and dreary greys. Stalks, stems and branches were supplanted with veins of grossly sized twisting pipes, riveted girders and gantry's. The tweetings of birds were displaced by the abhorrent screeching lines of old exhausted trains snaking through a desolate landscape dotted with grotesque animated metallic arms and struts. The world around me had mutated. Nature had been superseded. I was quickly being enveloped by the metallic power of the Caspian Sea oil industry. The ceaseless passing of trains trailed corroding trucks of oil or gas stretching behind for at least a quarter mile. The imposing pipes had been lurking by the roadside all the way from the Turkish border and now lay on the land as great bloating corroded tubes supplying Europe with its gluttonous appetite for oil. The plunging and rocking of oil wells crowded the horizon where trees had once stood...……..where was I ?……..what landscape was this? My geological (or is that political?) nescience had plunged me, unsuspectingly into a surreal, almost cataclysmic landscape whose encroaching forms filled ones imagination with apocalyptic visions that would only intensify as I descended into the nucleus of this disenchanting scape and right to the shores of the Caspian Sea.



It was a typical Azerbaijani evenings camp. Perched upon my camp chair I would receive visits from proud looking men atop their fine black stallions riding so dramatically against tenebrous landscapes illuminated with flashes of lightning and the cavernous booms of distant thunder. Men with cattle in tow would stop for a chat where an oversized melon could be offered in exchange for a few welcomed moments of his time. It was under such entertaining circumstances just as I was saying my farewells to my horse riding visitor that I was alarmingly distracted. I had spied the flapping of some dislodged part of Condors front tyre. With pan washed and cake eaten a close examination of this offensive flapping revealed, to my great consternation large parts of rubber tread pealing away from the body of the tyre. Grrrrrrr……………..I cursed, I profused, I irrationally spewed forth wrong doings toward the postman of Ardahan for not delivering a new set of tyres.....…………..I stood, I sat, I walked, I sat again. Then I sighed, drew deep breaths and flirted with the idea that I could try my hand at some rubbery field maintenance so I Super Glued, I UHU'ed and I taped and now, feeling slightly more encouraged, apologised deeply to the absent postman of Ardahan (well out of ear shot of course!), the innocent victim to my irrational profusions and then hoped Condor could limp to some unlikely bicycle repair shop. It was an unhappy contemplative night as I realised how vulnerable the trip was with no spare tyres. Had I waited long enough in Ardahan for the delivery of new tyres? Could I find replacement tyres to fit Condors wheels in a commercially dilapidated old Russia where shops were sparsely stocked? ..........I had often fallen prey to shop shelf tomfoolery, where single items (surely the last one in stock!) were displayed but most certainly not for sale. Chocolate bars for example would be stuck to glass panels hiding an empty interior, a cruel yet stark reminder of the skewed economy of the world I had cycled into. Bicycles rarely had gears or breaks and wore tyres that I very much doubted would comfortably bare the weight of Condors load. It was a tenuous situation and a test in maintaining an optimistic out luck. Fortunately a ray of hope beamed upon Condors metallic self and a hardware store in the next large town housed 3 dusty tyres hanging from the ceiling that fitted perfectly. The spare tyre tied to the rear rack became the impromptu target for the relentless snapping of canine jaws, now employed as a canine fender it became a fine distraction from ankles and rear panniers (obviously helping little with its real purpose of providing a ride free of punctures). I was learning very quickly of the importance of good tyres (I would painfully learn much, much more in the months to come). I was unaware of what pressure these Russian tyres could be inflated to. The tyres quite simply popped off the rims if pumped to an adequate pressure. At lower pressures the tyres clung tentatively to the wheel but Condors weight flattened them dangerously close to the rim. My average speeds were now somewhat lower and the exchange of tyres (and lower tyre pressure) was the only explainable reason for this most deflationary situation. I immediately began mentally re-plotting routes and considering possible towns for emergency tyre mail drops. It was a situation that would worsen dramatically over the subsequent months and would frustrate to the point of lonely explosions of hopelessness and rare fits of anger. Nevertheless for the present we were back on the road with a re-kindled appetite for the new and an unquenchable optimism that better tyres could be found or (if visa time limits allowed) the possibility of ordering and waiting for some armour plated ultra touring tyres to be posted from England. In an attempt to “keep the show on the road” there would not be a town I would pass through without going to great efforts (new sign language for “these Russian tyres are rubbish!”) to re-supply Condors constantly failing feet.

How excited I had been at the thought of casting my eyes along its expansive horizon, to gaze far beyond the desert shores of Azerbaijan toward the exotic sounding lands of Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan. On the 16th of September 2006 I finally doused my eyes on the glints and sparkles of the Caspian Sea, prompting a triumphant unearthing of the mangled chocolate bar stashed for 2 weeks for this most prodigious moment. It was deliciously consumed above a prolific metallic terminus, a hub of gritty oil reality, growing from the sea under the shadow of splurging columns of black smoke. On that dusty ridge I sipped cool clear water gazing upon lofty gantries spewing forth, monstrous columns of fire, choking the shore (and my celebratory mood!) with their belching convulsions. On that bleached roadside perch I saw the final consummation of this oily tumultuous scene fading into the waters of the Caspian Sea, copiously studded with gridded towers and platforms. These oil bastions of the waves and there overpowering, power giving forms rose from the watery depths and would incite a gritty shift in my understanding of the gathering of oil for the West. I understood little of its workings but it was terribly rewarding to know what these oily monsters actually looked like and importantly what it actually felt like to be amongst its corrosive gloopy presence. The descent into the heart of this great oil collecting machine would bring me close to Baku, the Capital city and primary sea port to a rapidly transforming Azerbaijan. The shoreline cycle ride passed surreal deserted beach resorts with their straw umbrellas blowing as forlorn stalks in the shadows of hulking oilrigs perilously close to the shore line. Dilapidated refineries, great arching bridges of corroded pipes and the hills choked with pumping oil wells enveloped my rather strained enthusiastic self, it was gritty cycling and rest was needed. The sun was setting on this insalubrious scene and with keenly trained eyes probing this metallic spaghetti the search began for any cavity, aperture or inlet where I may pitch my tent and sleep.

It was a small peninsular of sand nestled amongst this industrial mass that would serve as my home for the evening. I was weary, hidden from the road and only 20 feet from the sea, it would suffice. Since breakfast and with a determined resolve to see the sea before nightfall I had peddled myself and Condor to a new record of 80 miles. Needless to say on this notable evening I was very tired. Alas, little sleep would be had on an evening that would leave its mark upon me forever. It was an evening that would flood my eyes with desperate tears, its nocturnal wrath would engulf me so absolutely and at times I would fear that a permanent dint be inflicted to my happy cycling self. And so began the evening whose vehemence would haunt me repeatedly in the months to follow...when recalled, this most appalling disproportionally sized episode would be known simply as 'Baku Beach'

The stove was being repeatedly extinguished by the gust of a strengthening coastal wind. It has been the only time to date where cooking was not possible outside and with an exhausted patience I cared little for experimenting with burning petrol stoves inside the tent. My eyes were tired and a glance at the boisterously animated Caspian Sea had me retreating to my inner quarters where cold snacks and a warm sleeping bag would more than suffice. I rested my weary head upon the pillow. Despite a curiously extended sunset my eyes closed on what would transpire to be a very long night. The rattlings of this infernal oceanic wind grew. After only one hours struggles sleep in a stubbon defiance to the winds vocal badgering it was time to don the last line of defense, my trusted ear plugs. Normally employed to hide the sounds of nocturnal prowlings around the tent they worked marvelously in muting its increasingly more terrifying raw. An hour of muted sleep came to an end with a large bump to the head. It hurt. I yearned to sleep and failed to register the knock as anything to detract me from much needed rest. The next knock cracked my head with an eye opening (quite literally) strength. It hurt more. The chance of sleep was reducing at an alarming rate…........ the tent began to flatten around me, its poles contorted at disturbing angles, crushing me under its grotesque force. The first inklings of hopelessness washed over me as I struggled with what to do. I heaved upwards with all the strength in my tired arms. It was so very powerful this wind of Baku Beach. I strained my arms in the hope that the wind may subside or that some revelationary idea may be bestowed upon me. I feared greatly for the tent. It was flat against my body and being shaken well beyond its expected bounds. I rested its spine upon mine, pushed my back upwards and struggled to dress and tie shoe laces. Something must be done and getting out of the tent may shed some hope on this imminent tent shredding and most horrible of camping calamities. It was the middle of the night yet the sky remained a crimson gold. I gazed somnolently toward the heavens (I was asking for help). My eyes glared into the riotous flames of lofted refinery outlets scorching the rapid descents of great fractious swirling clouds appearing to blister and boil as if it were some distraught, giant upturned witches broth. The boiling sky hovered over a now very frightened cyclist as if poised to unleash some horrific act of aerial cruelty upon my highly strung nerves. An apocalypse was descending upon my cycling adventure. I stepped out into this world and was instantly engulfed by its impossible reckonings. Its blowing vehemence cast me down to the floor with such absolute power I began to worry for my safety. It hurt. Sand and water blasted my face stinging the cuts to my arms and knees. It hurt (again). I crawled back toward a mangled, demolished yet to be shredded tent. I grappled, crawled and carried large rocks but nothing could hold firm its brave stance against this devilish wind. Its imminent shredding exasperated and for the first and only memorable time since my departure from Shepherds Bush I quite simply did not know what to do. I was completely out of my depth. With hopeless, fearful tears streaming from my eyes I lay in a gritty hollow vainly clinging to a guy rope hoping I could at least preclude a sinking fear that the tent would blow into the violent frothings of the Caspian Sea. An ear plug dislodged exposing a helpless cyclist to its monstrously acoustic might. I had been exposed to a terribly real, old silent movie and now the sound had been turned on, it was booming and blooming loud! I heard thunder rolling ever closer across a giant rolling sea, its swelling mass defined by the strobes of intense lightning, the might of this scene had clearly yet to show its final intensions. Any resolve to act or simply do anything to combat this force of nature seemed only to wet (and wetter it would get!) its appetite for greater deeds of wrong doing. Sheets of water began to fill the air, horizontally inclined needles that seamlessly cut through water proof clothing and pinched painfully at exposed skin. I felt my self sinking, first mentally and within 10 minutes physically too. My hollow, the last stand began filling with water. Muddy sand began to free flow over a collapsed tent. The sky burned, The sea roared, the air cracked and boomed……….I roared......I screamed......and then shouted out in deviance to t his irrevocable cataclysm. I would do something…..anything…….and that is what I did. I pulled hand and knee through this torrent of mud, gathered 3 more large rocks and rolled them over the guy ropes to which I had been mercifully clinging. I had done something I had managed to move without being blown into the sea and had also prevented the tent doing so too. It was 3 o’clock in the morning and most definitely time to break camp (and broken it certainly was!). I attempted to get vertical, to stand tall against this storm. My feet quickly disappeared into the muddy abyss, I fell (again), my hands disappeared in a similarly gloopy fashion. I crawled and pulled myself around this unctuous wallow for 3 hours. Condors wheels jammed in the mud. I repeatedly cowered against these malicious forces at play, clinging to rocks with one hand and some sodden camping item in the other. The ‘sand’ bank to which I had innocently descended onto the Beach became an unassailable fortress wall of flowing mud. In half an hour only one pannier had made it to the summit of this glooping 15 meter slope. Repeated failings did little to dint my strengthened resolve following 3 hours of doing battle against this elemental madness.




I would leave this apocalyptic wallow! I would sit proudly on Condors saddle and ride away from this despicable scene! I stood with the notion of increasing my scrambling momentum only to reach the base of the slope and be blasted terribly to the floor (read more cuts and bruisers). Crawling on all fours provided many close summit attempts, alas a fresh torrent of glooping muddy sand would take hold of my fragile footings and once again I would slide to its base. I tied each pannier in turn round my waste and plunged my arms deep into this sodden incline preventing them from slipping. It worked! It was a messy affair but with diligence, and in a final show of miniature mountaineering dexterity Condor was raised out of this swamp upon my shoulders. I was free......I had escaped from ‘Baku Beach’! I sat on the road side; a sodden, soggy, soiled pulp of cycle touring happiness! An angry Caspian Sea calmed its self, placated by the rising sun, in only one hour the wind followed suit. The deposits of thick clogged mud were scraped and gouged from Condors moving parts, I then place my sodden self atop the saddle and left the scene, never, ever to forget what happened on ‘Baku Beach’. 10 minutes later I was perched at the door of a café, drinking the nicest cup of tea I had ever tasted. I had weathered and quite literally worn the storm and that afternoon I entered the streets of Baku. A swampy, dripping mangle of brown, gliding past shops of high fashion and windows dressed with delicate pastries.



These intractable returns to Islands of western decadence were becoming more challenging the further East I traveled. I would enter these disparate urban worlds as a muddy, haggered cyclist…….. bemused, transfixed or quite simply dazzled by sumptuous interiors, indulgent facades stiletoed, suited urbanites dripping with watches, necklaces and mobile phones (now all very distant familiarities). I had lived amongst a country’s rurality for months at a time, feeling apart of its ways. I was forced, willingly to integrate amongst its people. I would be welcomed as an often needy cyclist whose affluence and wealth had seemed muted simply by Condors presence (and my dirty cloths!). Where there were other cyclists we would cycle together in Harmony. I applied much needed oil to their sqweeking chains and they would guide me to the market stall where I could buy more Russian tyres or stock up on puncture repair kits. I felt accepted. Arriving in these havens of elevated richness Condor would be left to rest in a hotel room and doning my urban vestments of cleanliness, the one set of garments strictly reserved for these descents into Western decadence. How lucky I was! How privileged to hold the keys to these opulent metropolis’. I was now recognized (and sometimes segregated) as a wealthy Westerner. I would feel abstracted from all that it was to be touring cyclist on the road and it would be a few days before I felt comfortable with my new found status along with the acknowledgment that there were toilets (that functioned), running water taps and palaces that served food on china plates. Oh it was a Joy ! But now a joy that I held a deep and often spine tingling appreciation for. I walked through the ancient enchanting alleys of Baku and strolled along its clean parades with huge LCD advertising screens. I gazed quite astounded by its glittering shops, feeding an Oil wealthy contracted tour de force, to which I was always assumed to be a member. I was accepted into its Ex-pat folds as a Scottish contract engineer instead of my previously assumed self as a German cyclist. I tickled the keys of a perfectly tuned piano in exchange for free apple cake! I drifted lazily through wonderful lounging afternoons, the pages of ‘Mobey Dick’ poking above delicate cups of fine espresso coffee. I read of local news and events over early evening glasses of wine chuckling at the eclectic almost eccentric headlines and articles in the local newspapers All whilst visa applicants were being processed for the ‘Stans’.

80% of the world’s supply of Caviar derives from the Caspian Sea. In 1985 stocks amounted to 28,000 tons (of sturgeon fish) in 2005 had been reduced to 1000 tons.

Taxes ares paid 36 times a year in Azerbaijan !

Oil and Gas supplies are expected to run out in 25 years, by which time Azerbaijan could reach the status of a developed country or could squander its gift and face a rapid economic decline.

Azerbaijan is the home to over 1000 ostriches – African Ostriches are the most revered growing up to 2.6 meters in height and producing eggs for up to 40 years each weighing 1-2 kg!

A special low interest rate is offered for ostrich loans.

There are 57 Oil and gas fields in Azerbaijan employing 60,000 people.


Elastic shipping timetables were researched and a lengthy chain of Bureaucratic forms and applications that would hopefully lead to the foothills of the Himalaya was almost complete. An Uzbekistan Embassy official kindly informed me, whilst I pleaded for a Visa date extension (on the grounds of grotesque headwinds and a very long country) that Baku was known as the ‘windy city’! and re-assured me that “our great country [Uzbekistan] would not be windy”. The ship that would transport Condor and myself across the Caspian Sea was expected the day after I received the last remaining Visa sticker. With a possible 10 day wait it was a marvelous stroke of good fortune and gave me the real chance of cycling across the length of Uzbekistan within the allocated dates (decided in Turkey via Email!). It was time to take stock of luxury items, tuck the maps for Kazakhstan into the map reading pouch and digest the last vestiges of Urban convenience. I returned to my favourite coffee shop for one last fine offering before setting sail and was promptly refused entry! And unless Condor was removed from in front (de-face) of their marble and glass frontage there would be no espresso for me ……….. It was time for a return to the life of a long distance cyclist!