Getting noticed

Mark finds some grumpy old men to talk too - they're probably more compliant than our group of 'A' types...

Up and away by 8am.  It’s becoming a running joke that no matter how ‘relaxed’ Mark suggests we can be the next day, we all leave pretty early anyway.  I guess everyone is excited still by the riding and, with weather and scenery like we’ve been having, can you blame us?  

From a practical point of view, leaving early gives us all a chance to take wrong turns (ahem), tea breaks, pee breaks and petrol stops.  There’s nothing worse than getting into the destination after dark, trying to hunt down the hotel and knowing you’ve got a long day to come tomorrow.  Get in super early and there’s sometimes a chance for an extra excursion, exercise or nap – depending on your whim.

We rode today back out from the Kengal Fish Springs, then after only 7 miles hung a left and North East.  Very quickly we were climbing up steep gradients as the massive hulking landscape jostled and barged the road from side to side, up and down.  It reminded me of some areas of Morocco, with the rock strata, changing colours and textures clear to see.

At Divrigi there is a old fortress gripping the side of a steep hill.  It looks ripe for exploring on foot but we’ve no time for that; instead we call in at a grand old mosque next door.  It’s pretty impressive, but we probably got more enjoyment from the teenage school kids who sidled up to watch us watching them. 

The same the world over, they were nudging and winking, giggling and gaffawing at the strange bikers – particularly Tiffany, of course.  Pull out a camera they became tough and macho for the shot, but a few sharp words from a passing teacher and they scuttled back to class.  I have fond memories of school days, and the scene reminds me very much of those.

Oliver, Rory and Cyman were the earliest birds today, as usual.   They are also a very quick trio and ride extremely well – I’m rarely ready in time, but enjoy hanging onto their wheels when I can, sometimes later in the day.

The American contingent rides together, as do our Aussies.  I ride for a bit with Mark, for a change, and we find a good tempo.  At one point the view becomes irresistible, so I stop and grab the camera – far below the ribbon of road is flanked by mountains and lies neatly across the green pastureland.  From here I should be able to video the other groups behind us, as they weave across the valley and climb up the hairpins.  

After scanning the road intently for a while their bikes appear unannounced ‘off camera’ and I scramble to catch some footage.  The hills overlap to such an extent I’ve been watching the wrong valley.  Doh.

After a bit of dull motorway we’re suddenly waved down by a fluro-jacketed official.  Mark is ahead of me and already reaching for his documents – fine, says I, assuming a passport and vehicle registration check.  Fine, says the official, but he means something very different.

Mark asks the whereabouts of hidden speed traps.  If only.

About an hour and a half later, after much to-ing and fro-ing and attempts to wriggle off the hook, we are ‘ping-ed’ for a speeding offence, along with Colin and Shirley (much to their chagrin).  To me 2 kmph over the speed limit on a dual carriage way was not serious…  However, like a golf official, the officer points us to a rule book that says motorcycles may not travel at the same speed as cars – not even fancy BMW motorcycles.  I’m now 75 quid lighter, and a little wiser.  

Lighter indeed, as the bike seems to travel very rapidly thereafter: stubbornly, I seek to make up time and get value for money from my donation to the Turkish road fund. 

The last 100 miles of the day put me in a good mood, despite this afternoon’s expensive brush with the law.  ‘Positive thinking’ I chant to myself, and reflect I was overdue a ticket.  Meantime the road is higher still as we cross several mountain passes.

My tentative descending is much improved, and I’m more comfortable braking - smooth and grooved.  Drop-away hairpins but my momentum lingers, the bike’s QE2 weight held back by my fingers.  It pushes to send me around the bend, one slip here: a week to mend. Picking a rhythm I’m loose, yet poised – it needs deadly concentration.  And what thrilling noise! 

We trace through our tyres the geography of this superb region, and the temperatures fluctuate as we do so – the heated jacket comes into its own, but there’s no need for other gadgetry:  the MP3 player mute against the more musical notes coming from the engine at full bore.

Big as a Great Dane.  Hellava guard dog.

Below, either side of the river, flood plains or steeply sloping fields give us a changing tapestry to watch. Lean agriculture is maintained stubbornly, in spite of the hard stony fields and biting winds.  We’re still at over 1000m and there are few tractors out here.  More common are the many flocks of sheep or herds of cows, driven by one or two weather-wearied shepherds. 

I believe they move the flocks hundreds of kilometers towards the mountain pastures lush after the snow melt – or maybe that’s Iran?  There are certainly a few settlements and villages, suggesting a more permanent base.  The young chap opposite indicated he stayed locally and worked a day job.

Frequently the flocks of, say, 100 sheep or 50 cows cross the road ahead of us, necessitating a quick shedding of speed to a go-slow approach.  Not too slow though, as the famed Kengal sheep dog – 80Kg of big boned bared-teeth enthusiasm – has a liking for two-wheeled motorists.  Several of us tell tales at the tea stops of close encounters with these flock defenders. 

(This morning I petted a friendly retired example: kind of like a very large golden retriever.  I was sad when a staff member pointed out the dog’s ears had been removed in anticipation of possible fights with wolves.  I reflected again that this is a no-nonsense land.)

Lower still, train tracks accompany the swollen rivers that divide each main valley.  The road dances in between, and we delight in the variation that gauge-bound passengers must envy as we swoop off around another bend and up over another outcrop, tiny riders under the white capped mountains that look over us from afar – harbingers of adventures to come, no doubt.

We finish for the day in relatively simple wooden cabins.  Nothing flash, save for the flooded river meters from our doors.  I suppose wood floats, right?

Oliver enjoys a smoke with his bike.