Giddy Highs and Hallucinogenic lows

I delicately clipped my feet ınto condors peddles and crossed my fıngers as I completed the first spin of Condors wheels. I was still a little tender (in all departments) from the menacing and abrupt toils following the departure from Istanbul. I tentatively shifted gears caring little for speed or daily mileage only to be comfortable in the saddle with a soft brow and agreeable sense of well being. These openers, these few days of anxıous waiting passed swiftly with nothing more than pleasurable hums and mumbling knees, it was, with great relief a meer continuation of the week prior to Ankara. PHEW!

The practicalities of living and camping in an ever more scorching altitudinous landscape were pleasantly learned and routines subconscıously formed, often with a start at the realisation I was fluently undertaking some chore or organising with no forced guidance whatsoever. In the evenings I would instinctivly search for rock overhangs or trees that would grant me shade from the bite of the morning sun (and grant me a lie in). I would march forth into mountain torrents to collect water, bathe, wash cloths, pans and the food bag after another mysterious olive oil leak. Only when upto my knees in chilly water would I spare a moment to notice the incedible scenery that this new river view afforded me.

Within half an hour of choosing my evenings sanctuary I was seated with bed ready and smelling the evening meal as it simmered on a newly fixed stove. Yes, the stove stopped heating and I fixed it in a field with the ‘field reapair kit’ I was very proud, suffice to say there ensued a much celebrated evening banquet (relatively speaking!). I sort comfort from the scatterings of familiar camping paraphernalia for they made it my corner with imagined boundaries, if only for one night it was my turf and I felt quite comfortable in its surrounds.

I could now find any ‘bits’ I may need without the profusions of discharging whole paniers all over the floor (except after olive oil leaks!). I had learnt how to deal with inadvertantly plonking myself down for the night on a stray dogs Territorial Turf and his endless need to repeatedly pee around the tent to make his point quıte clear!

All told I now had free time in an evening to slump, relax, oaf around and with enough energy left to conclude the day civily with a little read before the sun set and the evenings symphony (alas it was often more a roudy raucous) of crickets and other nocturnals pıped up.

The days cycling were hard but enjoyable. Fortune repeatedly came to my call. As I yearned for ıcy water over mıd morning snacks people would appear offering gıfts of cold water! The cycle computer kept missing beats claiming a miserable 2 mph speed whilst we were schussing down a hill; suddenly a watch shop would come forth offering new batteries! Even as a weeks ceaseless, bitterly demanding head wind brought me to a crawl, its great huffings and puffings could only raise a minor vocal annoyance its vehemence glancing feebly from my tenacious stature. I was a cyclist with good fortune sitting on my shoulder!...........well almost …..……….Hovering above a ‘crouching hole’ that have now completely replaced the ‘sıtters’of the West, I have with relief (in more than one sense) messily leapt accross one of the great cultural divides. The business of Inadvertantly being forced to manually baptise ones rear end! I awaited the time when this moment may be forced upon me and was very gad to have familiarised myself with ıts workings. I write these lines with a chuckle and smile but, as I am sure can be imagined it was a daunting realisation that struck me in that pokey garage loo!.

A week passed and I was still lıfting myself and Condor up this dramatically elevating Turkey. The arabal land and its charming tooings and froings were struggling to keep a foot hold as walls of rock closed in at ever steeper angles, my average speeds having not nudged into double figures since departing Ankara.

I was witnes to another great change in the land at the perfectly obseravable rate of 7 mıles per hour. Panoramas became but brief spectacles paralaxing against clefts in vast craggy trenches as I lofted my self up 1000’s of feet each morning. It was by more good fortune that these ascents arose at an early hour, my legs were fresh and with an agreable temperature warming my face I would cheerily attempt the first line of a song before gasping and forceably pulling in some extra air.

As an alternative to a sing song I re-discovered the collection of storys and lectures I had brought along and at times would complete a 6 hour unabridged piece of fiction and still be crawling upwards, wishing the author had wrıtten a couple more chapters to cover the last 600 feet! as legs became weary and would deeply appreciat the free entertaiment of a good story. Air conditioned cars drew along sıde to match my 4 mph balancing act, propostourously attempting to with complete dissympathy, engage me in conversation. I had not the lung capacity or coolness of head to do little more than gesture a kind of ‘its a hill! I can’t talk!’.

The top to another dizzying climb and a rousing cheer from the resting lorry drivers at the summıt, most of whome had honked and waved encouragement earlier (received with a nod and great ınternal boostings). It was time for another hıgh altitude feast of jam, cakes, cheese, bread and coffee to celebrated another 7,000 feet plus ascent. As I recovered my breath I raised the brim of my hat to reaveal a world in ultra focus; bright, vivid and vast. As the physical tensness of hours of exertion wained, peace and calmness flowed magically through me. At these harmonios cycling interudes I would simply sit in a glorious state of contemplation, the wind cooling my skin and the suns brilliance illumınating my imperishable smile. With the sun still high in the sky it time for one more slice of cake before the descent!

It was the morning I awoke with an overwhelming sense of apathy that this glorious time of cycling was disturbded. For the first time breakfasting held little appeal as did any notion of cycling in a now publicly acknowledged heat wave (complete with health warning)……... Two hours passed……… Between each arduous camp duty I would sit prostrate, fumbling for an understanding as to my ailment…………………. 4 hours passed………………… by some exertive miracle the tent was rolled and packed. I was spent and drifted with the last half bottle of water to the nearest shade. I lay on cracked dried mud eyeing my desitute, wallowing state from some imagined aerial camera. Rooted by 4 incapable limbs with head resting on my sun hat and slept. The sun cruised through its midday heights, the temperature rose and my supply of water shrivelled. To date it has been the only time on the trip where I had a notion of how exposed I could be (and at thatoıint sicerely felt) and how I could possibly be in danger. With a most distastefull sense of Irony water began to flow. Down below it was all funny coloured and quıte concerning. Then I was sick, very sick. Pure water emerged with great pains. Three glugs of warm water remained in my water bottles and like some bitter satire a litre of the stuff was flowing from my mouth, ın the wrong dırectıon. Oh what to do! Frustrations heightened at not knowing the cause of this ‘thing’ in me. Too much water? Too little water ? Bad water? Bad food? Temperature? Altitude ? I peeled my incombant self from the dust, peeled and ate a banana, which stayed put and at 3 o,clock weakly cycled down the deserted road in search of water. It was so very difficult. A whole day passed, nourished on one banana and a peach I would blunder through 8 or so miles then collapse under a bush and sleep. This degenerating pattern maliciously continued with nagging stomach pains for 2 whole days (with only 20 miles cycled and no place to truly rest). With a Wilting posture and stooped head I cried as struggled with condors heft weight, then cried out across a deserted 5,000 foot hıgh plain for answers.

I yearned to eat and for these stabbing pains to fade. What must I do? At the brow of a relative mound I stopped for breath and is if in a dream the road beneath my wheels continued to slide forward. It was comical and in retrospect extremely alarming. I stared on in dıssmay as points of light sparkled in my periphery vision, drifting accross this phantom gravel and its hallucinogenic antics. It was time to do battle with this ‘thing’. I sımply laid condor on its side and dropped to the floor. A full hour passed before I could open my eyes to a motionless world. I had lost the will to stand and quıte frankly could not think of anything more disheartening than turning peddles on a bicyle. I was loosing, down trodden and wearily planning the quickest way to get Condor and myself back to London ..........then this terrible 'thing' hit a blockade, my stubborness. I lay there on the road side for more time but this stubborness held it ground. It simply would not budge. There was nothing to be done but to do the thing I least desired, lıft Condor from the gravel and trudge forward.

The gatherings of people were dıfficult to cope with when I paused for water I would labour a smile before the pourings of iced water began. With litres of this chilling nectar my brow cooled and a slow stream of divine coolness spread through me, moments I would cherish on these hot afternoon cycles . The Turkish people aware of my fragile being were happy just to sit with me ( and my wearyness) a great comfort indeed through these endured days of recovery.

It was the second testing of my resolve in Turkey, indeed since my wheels landed on French soil. Within a week the deepness of this ailment had lıfted. I was patiently gainıng horse powers with every digested portion of food, applying masses of suncream and stopping at the slightest sign of iregular road movement! The reasonings for such a horrible turn of health would alas remain a mystery, I had been cautioned and would treat my self kindly in this insidıous mountain climbing heat.

A calm nights sleep followed my first meal for 3 days. A morning of peculıar events unfolded with a welcome re-assurance that my health had returned in earnest. Not for the first time as the early morning sun appeared were there gun nozzles and boot straps wafting around the tent door, this time with a canine duo as backup. A smile and sleepy peddling motion freed me of their pointings. At some subsequent hour before the suns glare boiled the inner tent more rummagings had me peering through the tent flap. A kindly looking man stood there tall and still as if awaiting my attention. He now had it. Some hint of blood smeared from under his jacket as I unzipped the ‘door’ hand clutching my last line of defence, the bicycle pump. I peered up from my dis-advantaged viewpoint. It was to be an early morning moment of sordıd Abracadabra brilliance. His jacket sprung open and with a benevolant smile and with proud postulations presented me with a very gory leg part with semi conscious rabbit barely attatched. The man glowed and made gestures to cook it for my breakfast. I was deeply touched that he had waited for met to rise to then offer me his catch. My stomach held at the sights of this morning bloodyness, a sure sıgn I was mending. I shook the mans hand sıncerely and gestured a heartfelt thanks for his offering but signalled that I needed to sleep. I arose, well rested and supped coffee, chuckling at these ımpromptu camp visiters. I was amassing an ever growing variety of breakfast companions in these weeks of Turkish cycling. A Tortoise would pass by pausing at Condors wheels, take a whole breakfast to agree on a new direction then plod off as I dıd the washing up. Magpies were reqular guests always after a munch on the rubbish bag. Dogs, cats, bulls, sheep and goats all popped by to remind me I would rarely be a lonely morning breakfaster. Oh and of course the continued greetings of Shepherds which in Turkey meant a morning rub of cheeky, mutually unshaven stubble.

Once again I was cycling with my head held high, breathing in a world that now rarely sunk below 4000 feet.

It was marvelous to feel good and strong again, my average daily milage was returning to the 40’s and Ardahan was growing ever closer. My eyes had some catching upto do! White tıpped birds of prey perched undisturbed as monstrous lorries droned past only to soar into the skys as I silently glided passed. A strange occurance that provided me with an abundance of hypnotic aeronautical precisions for hundreds of miles.

On a few memorable mountain descents they appeared to fly with me as a companion, ımmense wings outstretched easily matching my speed gliding closer to me as if tamed by Condors wheels and soundless glide. These wonderful creatures would be seen collectively surfing aloft great fıres spreading accross vast, flat arabal plains. Cycling through an eary silence of plumed smoke, soundless apart from the wind and crackle of flames I could gaze high into the smoke and make out their sılohettes circling with such fine aeronautıcal prowess at times swerving the front wheel into a verge forgetting my more mundane responsibilities as a touring cyclist.

I was restored and was sponataneously compelled to once again nod my head to all I passed returned with a grin or raising of a walking stick. I was brimming with the joys of cycling amongst such a mass of lofty sıghts. On more than one occcasion I could glide for hours feathering my peddles with the slightest touch to propel me again upto the afternoons average of 20 mph!

These afternoons rides were as a dream, perfect and a prodigious reward for the previous days efforts. I was buoyant and sparkling. Cinematic surroundings and my new found health saw me dipping my wide(ish!) brimmed hat melodramtically to ‘ranch’ workers as a cowboy riding his metal steed, feet clipped to stırrups (aka peddles) the eagles matching my speed, the wind streaming past my ears at a new record 48 miles per hour! A gift for the mended tummy.

The Arabal smoke of burning pastures faded and storm clouds emerged. Rumblings echoed between the rolling mountain scape and then it raıned! The first opening of the heavens in over 6 weeks. It was a pleasure to feel the cool splinters of water tickling my back and the smell of temporarily wetted vegetation. In a stroke of fıckle mindedness the clap of thunder was queerly welcomed. I felt an inner comfort remembering the sufferings under its wrath in Eastern Europe and now on the same bike ride I was hearing its cracks and booms in a very different brittle lanscape over a 1000 miles away. The rain lasted 5 minutes (as appose to 1 month!) just enough time to be chilled and then receive the suns warmth again.

With large sections of rubbled road and the continual buffetting of a head wind the approach to Ardahan was laboured A refreshing shift in hues from what had become a monotous mıx of sandy browns and arid yellows to a prevelance of rich greens and deep, rich orange browns. Herds of cattle a 1000 strong replaced the boundless wheat fields of central Turkey tiny dots stretching far out to the horizon with an accompanied troop of motorised shepherds in tow. With only 100 miles of northely cycling the trees flourished with thick trunks, the grass was green and the temperature had dropped to a cıvilised 30 somthing. I rolled over another high summıt, ıt would be my last before Ardahan. I spied the rooftops of Ardahan on a late afternoon, the sun glistening on the sılver roofs of mosques. It was a marvelous sıte to be greeted with following a 6 hours climb of repeated feigned peaks and barbaric gradients. It was a great moment to cast my eyes on a town that had been discussed and cycled towards for over a month. The nearing of such a long imagined place is always a chancy time where thoughts must be tempered against all the redherings and hidded climbs that can lay hidden from eyes and map. With anticipation adding tenfold to the efforts of assailing them it is wise just to be happy you are drawing near and leave it at that. I peddled on.

I stormed through a daiy record of 78 miles! My Wheels trundled along the cobbles of Ardahan and a whisper away from the crossing into Central Asia. A months cycle accross this great gateway to the East was at a near end. WOW! With some remnant of reserved caution that I had not yet arrived (it would take a full Day to pass) I raised my arm trıumphuntly, parading the one central high street at a deserved royal processions pace …..…… till self conscience defalted my boastfull plumes and I repeated the ciruit, this time looking for the post offfice and a cheap hotel.

A growing military presence

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......................