Black Hole

Joining the frenzy

It's mad, it's bad, it's dangerous. It's also one of my best experiences so far: riding into Istanbul at rush hour. I've tackled several big cities since I set off, and if I've learnt one thing it's this: you never know what you gonna get. Barcelona was hectic with its string of junctions, but the good thing is that there aren't any confusing suburbs to contend with if you're coming from the south. Marseille was a joy, cruising through bustling immigrant neighbourhoods all the way down to the yacht jungle that is the Vieux Port. Tirana cost me a year of my life: I'm still coughing up the soot that thousands of miserable Mercedes Benzes sent flying around. And Athens, one that I hadn't been looking forward to, turned out to be a breeze: a single straight road that shuttled me right into the heart of the city—Omonia Square and Syntagma Square.

Gavin on his recumbent

But Istanbul... The place has something of a reputation among cycle tourists. I remember reading about a chap who was a bit too hesitant at the busiest junctions and ended up waiting for gaps in the traffic that never materialised. Determined not to let that happen to me I decided to take a breather and brace myself for the plunge. Suddenly, something big pulled up next to me, blocking the sun like an ocean liner. Another cyclist! But not a regular one. The bloke smiling at me from under a bright red cap was riding a recumbent. This in itself is quite unusual, but what made it positively stupefying was the fact that it was packed like a camel. I counted no less than six panniers, and the entire thing seemed to be held together by a web of straps, hooks and drying clothes. Gavin, however, is no flying (or riding) circus. This Englishman left southern France in May, cycled to the UK to say goodbye to his folks and then headed southeast, covering seven thousand kilometres in three months. Examining the monster he was sitting on I could hardly believe it. 'There's food for four days,' he told me, 'and I can carry a week's supply of water if necessary.' To my relief he admitted he isn't lugging around his entire household. 'In Slovenia I got rid of a machete and a wok.'

Together we formed a solid block that made the fifty-kilometre descent into madness a little less insane. We dodged swerving lorries, navigated extensive stretches without a hard shoulder and marveled at the immensity of it all. Gavin likened it to a black hole, and that's exactly what it is. Anything coming too close to this sprawling city will be sucked up without mercy. Maybe that's why road rules don't seem to apply here: motorists just have no volition of their own.

With people cheering us on from open car windows and the sun setting over the chaos, we made it to Bakırköy in one piece, just in time for the last ferry to the Asian side. First occurrence on the new continent: a cracked spoke. It didn't even bother me. It had been a glorious day, and the best part of it was that there had been someone to share it with.

I'll Be Doggone

Making friends in southern Spain

I've always thought of myself as a dog person. It's not that I actively dislike cats or want them all killed, stuffed and shipped to a Dead Cat Museum, the revenues of which be used for the construction of spa resorts for cute puppy dogs. But there's something of the jaded pasha about them that tends to work on my nerves. They start meowing for food, you oblige and then they walk away as if it's suddenly dawned upon them that they're late for an appointment. Dogs are just a bit more predictable. Bit daft, too, but that makes them all the more likeable.

Recent events, however, have led me to reconsider my take on the matter. Dogs are mean. Simple as that. It started out all right. I still remember the nosy specimen I met on a country road in southern Spain. It was coming from the opposite direction, spotted me, made a U-turn and then started following me. Each time I looked over my shoulder it was still there, happily trotting along. Whenever I took a break the dog too would take a break, lying down right next to my bike. This went on for miles and miles, until my little companion got into a nasty fallout with another dog. I kept looking back, hoping it would catch up. It never did.

France and Italy were uneventful, dog-wise, and in the Balkans I never saw any of the ferocious street dogs I had been promised. They must have migrated to Greece, because that's where they were all waiting for me. Fresh in the country, my mind still buzzing with everything I had seen in Albania, I suddenly found myself face to face with two snarling mongrels. Before I knew it one of them had dug its teeth into one of my rear panniers. Pushing the pedals with all the power I could muster I managed to get away. After a kilometre or so I stopped, still trembling, and stuffed the pockets of my cycling shirt with a couple of pebbles.

A week ago, I found myself in a similar situation. Village, empty road, couple of dogs yapping at me as I approached—they weren't very big, I'm afraid. Again I decided that speeding rather than braking would be my safest bet. It wasn't. I think I gave those mutts a big fright when that sandy patch in the corner of the road proved too much for my worn-out tires and I came to a halt right in front of their noses. I immediately got up to check if the bike was OK. It was, and fortunately I hadn't sustained any serious damage myself. Just a small abrasion below the hip and two tiny holes in my treasured cycling shorts. Plus a new boost to my growing dislike of dogs.

I hear turtles make really nice pets.

Roadside Religion

Villages might be many miles apart, water hard to come by and leafy rest areas wishful thinking, but in Greece the weary traveler never needs to go far for a moment of reflection. All roads, from the most obscure dirt track to the busiest motorway, are lined with colourful shrines. Some are ready-made miniature churches bought at the local DIY, others look like they were painfully put together in someone's toolshed. Draw closer and you will find the picture of a saint staring back, patiently waiting for you to light a candle, say a prayer and be on your way again. Still thirsty, perhaps, but spiritually nourished.

Back for More

The daily puzzle

Shortly after waking up the other day, a trace of grumpiness still lingering, I decided I'd had enough. 'No more of this tomfoolery,' I said sternly. 'Basta. A world cyclist has his pride.' I stuffed my mouth with the remainder of a Nutella sandwich, gave the map of northern Greece a long hard look and took a swig of γάλα πλήρες (full-fat milk). 'Today,' I announced to no one in particular, 'I will take the motorway.'

Looking back on this momentous decision, I realise I had been working up to it for weeks, if not months. Now, don't get me wrong. There is nothing I would rather do than steer clear of interchanges, exhaust fumes and roaring trucks, and forever pedal down rolling country roads, brooks ababble and birds atwitter. As I never tire of telling myself, this trip is not about getting from A to B as quickly as possible. The world record for the fastest lap around the world is safely in the hands of a sun-burnt lunatic from England whose picture I saw in the shop where I bought my bike, and I have no intention of breaking it. But sometimes a world cyclist tires of pushing his heavy-laden mule up fifteen-percent inclines. Sometimes all he wants to do is crack on. Well, let me tell you, motorways just seem to be made for cracking on.

I savoured my first forbidden kilometres near Thebes—a force to be reckoned with in ancient Greece but today just another sleepy provincial town. Before entering the motorway I paused to check for signs warning that what I was about to do is subject to corporal punishment. I didn't see any, so I took the plunge.

At first, things went swimmingly. The motorway that had looked so imposing on the map turned out to be a laid-back two-lane affair with a wide hard shoulder put there for my convenience. I was zipping along effortlessly. Could it be that this road is surfaced with some kind of special low-resistance asphalt, I found myself wondering. Or was it sheer excitement that was pushing me ahead? Moreover, no one really seemed to mind that I was there. The girl at the toll booth let me through with a smile, and the owner of a roadside restaurant refused to take my money when I wanted to buy a Coke.

Mikołaj and Piotr, my partners in crime

Just as I was thinking what I fine example I was setting to all those CO2-emitting Greeks cruising by, I heard the sound of a siren. My initial reaction was to ignore it. For a minute that seemed to work. Perhaps some moron with a customised claxon, I thought. Then it sounded again, this time a bit more insistently. Deciding that turning my head wouldn't make the situation any safer, I kept going. But I could feel something menacing creeping up to me. Then a large four-wheel drive overtook me. No police, I noticed to my relief. Some kind of road authority, by the look of it. I was escorted to the nearest exit and expected a good talking-to. And I think that's what I got, though I can't be sure. It was all Greek to me what this guardian of the motorway was saying. Fortunately, he was very patient with my faked astonishment. ('Really? So you mean I can't use this thing over here, a bicycle, on that road over there, a motorway? It's always so interesting to learn about national customs!')

Things were smoothed out when I was joined by two Polish brothers, Mikołaj and Piotr, who were caught for a similar offense: hitchhiking. The brothers, one of whom spoke some Greek, were forced onto a bus to Lamia, while I had to promise to stay away from the motorway. I tried to put on a solemn face, but deep down I knew I was like a dog that's had a taste of human blood. Sooner or later, that dog will be back for more.

A Day at the Office

At times I can't help but feel that this whole cycling thing I'm doing, slaving away in the saddle, is not unlike having a proper job. Granted, there are some notable differences, the most important of which is that, sadly, I don't receive a paycheck at the end of the month. Or a gift basket at the end of the year.

Every morning I get up at seven, the same hour my alarm clock used to go off when I was still at the old job—the irony of it never fails to escape me. I toy with a bit of breakfast, get my things together and by nine I'm eating up the first kilometers, reluctantly at first, like a grumbling office clerk working his way through a stack of emails, but quickly brightening up as my legs find the right pace.

The good thing about this job is that there are no phone calls to answer, no obnoxious clients to deal with. There are deadlines to meet, however. In this corner of Europe campsites are thin on the ground, so it's essential to keep going, to make sure you reach that red triangle on the map before nightfall. Often, your efforts remain unrewarded. Many campsites seem to have vanished into thin air, probably closed down due to the crisis. The best thing to do then is to vent your frustrations at the watercooler, or, in my case, at the soft-drink fridge at the petrol station, where employees and customers alike tend to eye me somewhat suspiciously as I enter, as if I've just disembarked from a two-wheeled spacecraft. Invariably, they start shooting all kinds of questions. 'Where are you from? What's your destination? Why are your traveling alone? Have you come in peace? What does your wife make of this?'

The good thing about this quasi-professional attitude I've adopted is that it's easy to justify taking a few days off every now and then. These bikeless days really do feel like a kind of weekend. After two days of reading, pottering about and taking naps—in other words, doing things that aren't too demanding for a sore behind—I feel like a new man, ready to tackle the length of a medium-sized country.

Recently, I even went so far as to take a real summer break, combining a week in Athens with ten days of bliss on one of the Cyclades. Back at the office you realise holidays always turn you into a bit of a spoilt brat. 'What? I have to stay here all day? Exerting my brain and all that? No beaches, parasols, flip-flops?' It takes a few days to settle in again. If my stiff legs are anything to go by, I've still got some serious settling in to do.