Having a paddy

Ok, this was Greece, but it's my stock 'rainy weather' shot!

Thunder and lightning for breakfast, along with a hard-boiled egg and carrot marmalade. Yes, carrot marmalade.  Take that, Paddington.

Rain outers on, and we’re grateful Oliver is leading us out of the city – I’m amazed he can navigate so well in these conditions; it’s not just the roads that are slick.  If you're not familiar with it, imagine struggling for vision through the rain drops, dealing with slick patches on the road (paint, manhole covers, oil slicks); dealing with foreign signs and questionable driving standards in an unfamiliar environment... oh, and reading a small map on your lap whilst on the move.  Piece of cake, eh?

In my head a teacher’s voice starts up, to alleviate the depressing weather. ‘This morning, class, we will be riding in the rain.’   I start to run through an internal checklist.

Keep your wet summer gloves on for feel, but try not to get cold. Stay off the white lines and manhole covers - they’re slippery when wet - and remember your braking distances are doubled, so don’t make late turns or sudden stops.  Choose between stinging rain in the eyes, or stare out from behind the misted rain-drops (which is like peering through a net curtain).  Allow for the other road users being similarly handicapped, and try not to miss the crazy driver slaloming up the lanes.  And finally, for the next 90 minutes as we descend muddy, greasy mountain hairpin corners, keep well away from those massive Russian lorries – they probably couldn’t stop even if they wanted to.

It was a rotten start to the day.  Still, at least we were heading to the beach.

This was the day Tiff stripped off (her boots) and went for a dip, Iran-style

By late morning we’ve made it to the coast at Astara and the rain has eased this side of the mountains. [As I write this, another thunderstorm has just knocked out the power at our hotel... and we’ve not had even dinner yet.]  The guys stopped for fuel and, having plenty, I go on to try and experience some ‘culture’, like.   Oliver and Tiffany made the most of the coast and went for a dip.  Hardly Hawaii, eh?

I didn’t much fancy the ‘Russian Bazaar’ that was on the tourist trail, and nor was I ready for another bitter tea that comes at our regular refreshment stop.  I was feeling a bit of cabin fever, I guess, after being rather constrained by our rules and routines.  I took my time and instead followed a little side road up amongst village fields, away from the main coastal A-road.  I was after a bit of 'me' time and distraction.

This area has lots of rice paddies and I wanted to take some movies and some stills of the lovely settings: this could almost be Vietnam, somewhere I visited a couple of years ago.  

Without being told, I'd never have suggested this was "Iran".  You?

Again, he looks grumpy, but he gave me a friendly enough wave.

I had a few mini-conversations with folks who stopped to see what I was doing. It was easy to convey how picturesque the setting was. Green prickles where the rice seedlings were being planted; wonderful reflections off the muddy water of mountains, and of study women up to their knees in the paddy. I really enjoyed just fiddling around with the camera, watching the different activities.

A decade ago I was in Japan for work for a few months.   One long weekend, I accompanied friends out to the countryside and helped harvest the rice crop.  It was hot, hard work and I ached afterwards.  

I remember the harvesting processes now, and I'm very satisfied to see another part of the crop-cycle.  And I don't get sweaty this time.  Back-breaking work it looked.

After about half an hour later, I was getting nervous - best not to let too much time go by in case something happens later on, I said to myself.  Same story - this trip is about covering ground quickly, when I bet a cyclist would actually engage more and thus appreciate everything more deeply.  Tick tock tick tock.

I knew I’d be somewhere in between the various riding groups, and moved on.  As it happened, Mark and our Swiss cheese, JB, went by as I got back to the main road; so I tagged along with them to a lunch stop.  Mark was eager for fish from one of the local seaside towns, now that we were on the coast of the Caspian.  We looked, we hunted, we were willing...  Yet again, however, we had to make do with lamb kebabs.  For the fifth time in a row.

Anything...  so long as it's garlicky...

The rest of the ride – the last 100 miles of the 270 we did today – was pretty uneventful. We’re even become adept at predicting the hazards that keep us wide-eyed – cows in the outside lane (munching from the central reservation); local motorcyclists weaving past at high speed to impress us; curious car drivers pulling alongside and barely watching the road thereafter as they look over our bikes. Big, bad lorries and plenty of smartly attired speed cops - watching us, watching them.



This evening I’ve been grumpy. You didn’t have to be Eyore to groan when realized I’d left a small camera at yesterday’s hotel, or possibly on the bike over night. Add it to the long list of lost-in -action items.


I then proceeded to wipe a rather funky video that I’d taken hours to prepare the night before: all that time, effort and original footage now gone. To those who say I never swear… cover your ears.

I decided to end my losing / loser streak.  Exercise: something to generate those endorphins I usually rely on.  That'd do the trick I was sure - and the hotel had facilities so this would be great.  Something to burn off the stress and nerves.

The Reception guys were unable to explain why the hotel manual in each room mentioned a pool and spa – they’d either only just started working here, or else the facilities are well hidden.  Exercise was going to be limited to walking back to my room.  I was now frustrated, hungry and grumpy; my first deep funk of the trip and a sign of fatigue on many fronts. 

To bring me round with the speed of a smelling salt, at this evening’s briefing we heard JB’s news.  His bike has sprung a nasty oil leak from the final drive, 20 miles from the hotel today.  He only had that part serviced just before the trip, as a safeguard, so he's got rotten luck and is effectively out of action until we get to Dushanbe, i.e. where spare parts are being sent.  That’s 11 days away.  11 days riding shotgun in the support vehicle with Alan, instead of threading his way across the ‘Stan lands.  He’s going to miss out on some tremendous riding and will be properly pissed off tonight.  We felt awful for the guy.

In light of his bad fortune, if nothing else, I think I’m not in such a bad position and should STFU, as my favourite columnist might have put it.

Iran - a land of contrasts

Male only it seems.  Quite bazaar.

Our route notes for Iran are blank, except for the name of the next town and hotel.  The state doesn’t like any other information being kept / planned.  So on the ‘day off’ yesterday Mark and Al had scoped out in person some of today’s route, which we all really appreciated.  We look forward to any break in the travelling, so for them to head out in the van and plot us a route takes dedication.  

Any book, so long as it's religious.

We followed that route this morning, without any drama: out of Tabriz, through the fierce morning rush-hour traffic, and on towards Ardebil about 150 miles away.

Gotta love the pocket calculator

It gave us all a chance to reflect on what we'd enjoyed the day before - a fantastic indoor market full of interesting shops and characters.  Photos to paint a thousand words.  All of the people we met or interacted with were genuinely warm and friendly - even when we weren't buying anything.  They seemed pleased to have visitors, rather than seeing as tourists to be ripped off, or foreigners to be ignored or insulted.  (I've taken foreign friends to Camden market in London and wish I could say we had the same welcome there.)

Carpets for sale

One set of old chaps were in very good humour.  After speaking with them for a while and sharing a cup of strong, sweet tea I started to say my farewell.  I asked for a photo and they were very pleased - eager to pose.  To my amusement, as soon as I pointed the camera they froze in a grim line... nothing like the way they'd been behaving.  I suspect this is less to do with awkwardness in front of the camera, or any 'sinfulness', and more to do with whether any officials may get to see the photo.

Could have been straight out of TV soap EastEnders.

These guys were a hoot, right until I said 'Smile!'

It was a short day.  Compared to what we’ve been enjoying the roads were a bit dull – only a few bends to enliven what was also rather featureless landscape.   There’s only so much Mark and Al could do with this, but it was better than motorway and at least the need for assertive overtakes kept us pretty switched on.

Tiffany doesn't let her billowing chadar slow her down.

Fortunately Rory was showing both restraint and foresight as we descended though a few well-surfaced corners on the dual carriageway.  He’d already spotted the police car and registered that it might be hanging around to watch us committing some kind of offence.  After a while the officers grew bored and sped off into the distance…  where they parked and waited.

We were flagged down, but only so that the officers could look at the bikes and ask some general travelling questions.  No offence had been committed, so none was taken either, and we were able to proceed.  A ticket avoided.

Through Bilverdi, Yengejeh and Sarnag, over a solid bridge and on to Sarab.  The towns we pass through are fairly humdrum affairs, the colourful Arabic calligraphy - decorating any long walls - one of the few characteristic features to my untrained eye.  In the mosques and madrassahs the black script would be verses of the Koran or prayers to Allah, say, but on the compound walls it looks like particularly stylish graffiti tags of the kind you see from a railway carriage in the UK.

Very different to popping down the shops where I live.  Seems a bit 'joyless' to me.

We kept a tight formation as the four of us – Rory, Oliver, Cyman and I – took our turn at entering the labyrinthine city centre of Ardebil.  A U-turn, in fact, across 4 lanes of squealing, honking yellow taxis; whilst pedestrians take the opportunity to run out from the roadside like lemmings.  Road markings that are merely advisory, it seems, and baton waving traffic cops try to keep the confluence of so many arterial roads moving, happy to help us fight our way through the maelstrom. 

All in all we made a good fist of it, and there were amusing stories later of folks who had missed the hotel at the first attempt, and taken 20 minutes or more before circling back around for yet another pass.  Our Hotel Sabalan doesn’t present very loudly.

With an afternoon to play with we aim to grab a quick bite to eat – the four of us happy to share a pair of kebabs; half each, if you see what I mean.  The waiter didn’t, and despite 10 minutes of careful communication we were presented with a feast: two 15 inch kebabs each, with a piled plate of pilau, yogurt, salad and flat bread.  What’s a fella to do?

I finished off the last morsels, and knew that such disregard for a modest intake of carbs would send the sandman my way.  I needed a lie down immediately. 

The Sheikh Safi Mausoleum

The Sheikh Safi Mausoleum was opposite the hotel, and it did cross my mind that there could be a crypt or sunny spot there for 40 winks.  Annoyingly, it was filled with a milling throng of 10-year old school girls, who rushed around in a manner that raised the dust, if not the dead.  Almost identical in their sky blue hijabs and white headscarves, I felt like David Attenborough trying to walk through a flock of seagulls.  We stepped carefully and clicked dutifully around the blue-tiled site, which to be fair was worth a look.  With no nook for a nap it wasn’t long before we’d found an ice cream instead, and headed back to the hotel for some R&R.   A cold beer is out of the question here, and Sudoku doesn’t really cut it.

The Sheikh Safi Mausoleum - beautiful mozaiks

Flirting, with danger

He knew we weren't there to buy, but he put on a show anyway - great character

Iran has already proven very friendly.  We receive free tea quite often when we stop, and everyone is politely interested in who we are, where we are from, where we’re going… and how much a BMW bike costs, of course.  When I needed to check that someone had picked up my passport, a mobile phone was readily offered.  (Our own phones are blocked in Iran, certainly for any calls to or with UK persons.)  When we are unsure of a direction, often someone will walk with us quite some distance to point us the way. 

It seems an honest place too, and I’ve not had the sense of mistrust that has arisen in some locations I’ve been to in the past.  The Grand Bazaar is peaceful and enticing.  A rumour that Iran has become hostile to foreigners is greatly exaggerated, at least from what we’ve found so far.

However, all is not well.  The sight of women covered – to varying degrees – in their black hijab is very strange.  Not just in the cities, but out working the farm or sat on tractors.  I lack the cultural sensitivity and learning to debate the religious rule that mandates modest attire for females in public.  However, this link gives good information:http://www.worldpress.org/Mideast/2334.cfm

On one hand I bristle at the obvious unfairness of it:  the men appear to dress as they wish.  Few women work ‘out front’ in shops or restaurants.  Women are out of sight, figuratively and literally.  This extract from the above story is chilling:

Male dominated?

With Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's ascension to Iran's presidency, there has been a marked change in the country's stance on a number of issues. One such issue concerns a new domestic crackdown on women who do not follow the strict Islamic dress code. Teams of patrols are seen on the streets of Tehran, and in some other large cities, busting young girls — in some cases boys — and taking them into detention. Offenders are sometimes even struck with police batons.

According to authorities, the crackdown's objective is to put pressure on the women and girls who "pay no attention to the Islamic social values by the way they dress." Offenders are mainly young women and girls who wear shorter, tight-fitting coats, capri pants, smaller scarves, and light-colored dresses. Such items burst onto the clothing scene during former president Mohammad Khatami's reformist administration, when women had other choices beside the traditional long, dark-colored, loose-fitting gowns which had been previously compulsory.

Being close to the border with Turkey, perhaps things are more liberal here than, say, Tehran?  Rorya, a girl in her early 20’s, strikes up conversation in the internet café.  She’s studying to be a translator and wants to practice her English.  After living in both Tehran and Tabriz, she says the latter is actually more conservative. 

Her questions are charming, blunt and direct – how old am I, what do I earn, why am I not married, etc… - but in return she answers plainly enough.  She has yet to travel outside of Iran, and her parents are unlikely to permit this before she has married.  In that last part she will have some say, but hopes to meet her future beau at university – an Iranian man, of course.

She wants reassurance that Iranian women are beautiful… and now she’s flirting a bit.  I reassure her (needlessly, as she is very pretty) that Persian women are rightly famed for their good looks, but demur that I’ve been too polite to check out the local girls generally.  I’m British, after all, and she giggles.

She – and the guy next to her – is a young, attractive Iranian and I sense there’s a bit of a thrill to be talking openly with a Westerner like this.  Internet cafes are safe zones from the older folks, as you can imagine.  They chuckle happily and pretend to get on with their essays.

In Tabriz signs of rebellion are gentle. A small curl of hair under the headscarf, or a slightly more hugging cut to those dark materials.  Other muted colours are worn, perhaps, and sometimes paired with jeans.  The ladies on our trip are keen to exploit this, although Tiffany maintains her Grade A get up that would satisfy the strictest Mullah.

But to me it seems so odd, and I rashly assume the women wearing this outfit must resent it.  Which, of course, is such a Western perspective. Perhaps women find it a relief not to live in a society that attaches such value to women’s appearances – no vicious paparazzi pictures here, no pressure to go plastic or to dress up or dress down to suit the demands of media driven society.

But the (mostly) unseen threat hangs heavy in the air, and for every contemporary young lady, complete with coquettish eyes and a brazen stare, there are three black shadows, head down and heavily veiled, ghosting up the street.  It is the most visible example of the Islamic regime, but not the only one – internet controls are bemuse us by turn, as we find the BBC or Facebook off limits.  At least, officially…

At the end of our day in Tabriz I’m left to ponder the direction that Iranian society will take.  Will the religious right keep as tight a grip on things for much longer?  Or, especially in light of the Spring rebellions in Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, will the younger generation infuse a welcome lightness into their society?   We have a few more days in Iran and I look forward to finding out a little more.

Proud, friendly and great food...  the traveller is treated so well in Iran.

MOVIE BLOG: Off-road, off-map

Fair to say, I couldn't fix something even as simple as this...

Upon reflection, pretty much everyone in the group agrees this morning that riding 175 miles ‘in formation’ will be dull, dangerous and decidedly not what we had in mind.  Most of us – including the guides – are itching to get out into the Iran countryside to explore the raw mountain scenery and new surrounds.

I clock Oliver, Rory and Cyman looking very smug – they’ve worked out a good route on the map, with off-road tracks and twisty roads.  Without so much as a glance over my shoulder, I’m suited and booted in record time, and rolling down to the main road with them – this should be a great morning.

But that glance over my shoulder might have been wise.  Fortunately, Mark has my measure, and was at reception afterwards to pick up my forgotten passport…  It took 75 miles before the unease made me realise my mistake: with practice I’m aiming to get it down to nearer 75 yards.  I have a long and distinguished history of forgetting to pick up my passport as I leave for holiday.  Out here it’s even more serious, and I was relieved to not have an extra 150 miles to ride today in a sensitive country.

Tiffany took this one of Mark

The four of us head out of town and take the first side road we come to.  Although ultimately we turn around and try the next side road, this is not before 30 minutes of off-road fun, chugging through small mud villages and out onto the mountain scrub lands.  The views are beautiful this early in the morning, and once the bike dust settles we spy again Mount Ararat – clear, and still impressive from this angle too.

Simon and Oliver look on as they get photo-bombed by new friends.

After asking directions a couple of times, from farmers and shepherds, we hit a side road that leads in the right direction.  Neither maps nor GPS are reliable in scale or accuracy here, so this is quite an achievement.  We're soon scything up through the smooth bends, climbing to over 2000m, once more.  There are poppies aplenty and a few herdsmen out and about, aside from ourselves it's very peaceful – the quiet broken only by these strange Western riders ripping through on their beastly machines. 

Oliver and I are taking video of this road show.  I’ve been able to string it together into a piece, but with internet speeds so slow for uploading you’ll have to wait a while.  It’s worth it.  (*Available for viewing on the SmugMug site.)

Movie: Iran - Part 1

Marguerite relaxes in costume as we regroup.

Our day concludes as the group reforms just outside Tabriz.  We have to ride into the city in convoy, following our guide’s car through the crazy ring roads and one-ways to the hotel.  A few near-death experiences follow, as a group of 12 bikes proves provocative to the other drivers.  

Cars cut in unannounced, or tailgate dangerously trying to get a look at the foreign bikes or just generally impatient and fed up with us.  We’re all on edge and horns, mirrors and brakes are all needed.  This is pretty unpleasant, but do you argue with a fast-moving lorry or wild-eyed taxi on bald tires? 

We’re at Tabriz, and tomorrow we’ve got a day off to explore.  Yay!

My breakfast arrives...

Crossing into Iran

Mount Ararat, as seen from Turkey

Woken at 5am by a dawn chorus of raucous mountaineers.  They're either just off or just back, on their own trip of a lifetime, perhaps.  In their own bubble they don't care who they wake.  I suspect we've behaved similarly at times, but hey - a little peace here please!

Leaving familiar lettering too...

Meh.  We give up trying to sleep, rise and enjoy breakfast on the restaurant balcony.  Sliced tomato, lots of cheese, some yogurt, jam, and ‘French’ bread.  It’s continental, but I miss my muesli and toast.  A guy needs touch stones of familiarity when everyday is filled with newness.  Still, this fine fare is better than what’s to come, I’m sure.  

We’ve been admiring the view of Mount Ararat – this morning it’s very clear and we can see the whole mountain with only a little cloud.  A picture postcard view and we all feel buoyed up.  JB makes sure he takes a 'TV advert' photo shot for his collection of poses.

The air is crisp as we ride out towards the border, and in tight formation we must have made a good scene for Tiffany.  [Place holder – video to come when upload speed adequate.]  Now that we don’t have the freedom to stop on a whim I DO want take a sidetrack off the main road, and ride up across the plain a few hundred meters.  It looks reasonably flat and dry, and I’d like to pull in at one of the scraggly settlements and share a cup of chai (Turkish tea).  It looks like the grass is greener over there, if you see what I mean.

The circus comes to town...

We reach our first 'real' border... and watch as the fixers do the hard work.  Although we have to queue a little bit and wait around for a lot, we basically let our new guide take all 15 passports and registration documents for processing en masse.  It's faintly familiar to me - I crossed into Morocco a few years ago - and I try to pay attention and learn.  But in truth there's not much for us to see or do.

Tim and I try to find our Aa'se from Elb-Ow.

We pass the time chatting, looking at maps or travel books or catnapping.  Finally, with ink-blue fingers from the identification requirements, we are though the final barrier.  It took about 7 hours all told, and to our surprise we’re all feeling a little bit beat.  Perhaps there was more nervous excitement than we let on.  For the Americans in our group, it must have been a huge relief: fail to get this visa and they'd each have to double back, then boat it from Azerbaijan across the Caspian!  This was one of the 'known unknowns' that our tour operator has been juggling.  It has become the hot topic for conversation, and the water passage was very much the worse option.  The ‘smelly boat’ has a reputation.

The ride into Iran is uneventful – we’re in formation again and following our guide’s car all the way.  We stop at the hotel in the shadow of an impressive cliff face, and look forward to a more exciting day’s riding tomorrow.  Iran, eh?  Few of us have been here at all, and for those who have it wasn't recently.

What to expect?  Iran has a mixed reputation, from what I can make out.   A friend, who is Iranian, has spoken of the generosity and kindness of his countrymen.  Yet, strict religious laws have immediately necessitated quite a few adjustments for the female members of our group – headscarves and dresses from now on - even in full biking gear!  The mix seems incongruous and I’m curious to get beyond these obvious first impressions. 

Oliver and Tiff go for a dip.   This was from a couple of days later, but you get the idea...

The dress code is part of the ‘experience’, and we’re interested to see whether modern-day Iran is otherwise more relaxed.  But that aside, it must be unpleasantly hot, itchy and fiddly and I really don’t envy them this part of the journey.  Tiffany has donned the full chador, a black head-to-toe effort, and gets full marks for effort. 

Marguerite loves her new look.

No real photos today, I’m afraid, as obviously at the border an open camera is just asking for trouble. 



I’m also sorry the internet is taking so long to upload my blogs; and as we're all trying to upload our respective material it does cause some muttering.   For my part, I'm a culprit what with all my video footage and blog photos.  I’ve been working hard to reduce the ‘size’ of photos, use Facebook instead, etc…  so as to improve this, but the speed of connection is fading the further east we go.  I'm starting to feel as though the power dims in a town as soon as I log on...

Got papers, got bikes, got that curiosity thing again

Wild, Wild Horses

Turkey has given us some superb sights to enjoy, but we're leaving these hills behind now.

Today is a short day, only 120 miles.   After the excitement of yesterday’s riding, I sense we are all content to roll off another stage without too much exertion:  we sit quietly in our off-set lines and trundle across the desolate high plains.

Around one ‘field’ a wild-eyed horse gallops, nostrils flaring and traces trailing.  A group of stick waving villagers, and dogs, look on with either alarm or amusement.  The panic stricken animal suggests the former, and it’s an unsettling sight.  A mile further on and a foal careers down a steep bank, skitters straight across the highway, and skids to a halt next it’s mother(?).  We duly add wild horses to the growing list of road hazards.

Much of the road is above 2,000m and I begin to regret not wearing my heated jacket.  I tell myself to toughen up as I glance at the families huddled around stoves or already out with the cattle - the biting wind is as cold as Tiffany’s daily rebuff of Geordie Al’s cheeky morning advances.

In response to a raucous dinner conversation last night, we pull over for a few photo opportunities...  But none of us can capture the scale of this barren landscape.  It stretches for mile upon mile, whole herds reduced to specks and mountain relief barely discernible in the view finder.  No matter, we’re exhilarated by the stark scenery and enjoy how it contrasts with views we’ve seen in past weeks.

Miniature cairns, 2ft high, make stone markers for the fields or pastures, a dotted line to stand out from the snow, perhaps.  Frozen grey stones make up occasional sheep crofts and at one point low walls ran over the hills reminding me of the Lake District in England. 

However, for most of the route we see precious little shelter for man, woman or beast.  It’s strange to think of the folk who live here - do they spend their whole lives here?  Does national service demand, or urban appeal draw them away?  We have seen more fertile (and warmer) regions only a few hundred miles away.  Yet nothing about the village children we see trotting along the litter-strewn edges of the highway suggests a future any different from that played out by their elders.  Maybe that’s a good thing, and I’m the one who is missing out by leading a lifestyle akin to a modern-day nomad?

Have we taken enough time to pause, & smell the flowers?

I run though such lines of thought as we ride though - ignorant and unable to even Google for more information.  It’s a feature of this travel that all manner of questions and topics register their interest like flicking switchboard lights...  but by day’s end the questions are mostly forgotten or buried by more pressing demands.

A better answer would be to travel more slowly, seek learning from the people we meet, and experience first hand some more of these different lives.  But no, that’s not what we’ve signed up for on this leg.  It’s a compromise, and as such not exactly as I would wish.

We’re heading instead for Igdir and then Dogybyazit (mispronounced Doggy Biscuit), frontier towns that sit either side of snow capped Mount Ararat - the marker for the border with Iran.

Texture...  that's what we've missed

Before reaching the hotel, we divert briefly to Isak Pasha Palace only 5km from town.  Build around 1784, the imposing structure sits 1700m up in the mountains (verified by the otherwise uncommunicative GPS lady today), and is in turn overlooked by an even older citadel (maybe 3,500 years earlier).  Both have commanding views of the plains and transit town below.

I’m loathe to hang around the crowds, not least because my guts are gurgling ominously, but I do make a rapid ascent up to the rocky outlook to peer down on the world.  I’m missing my Hong Kong hiking and would love to kit up and get up in the surrounding hills.  I’m missing exercise of any sort really, and I’m growing more worried about how I can maintain my conditioning for the rest of this trip - we’ll be needing it in a few weeks.

Trial by tunnel

In the wider scheme of things, not all the 'tourist attractions' are equally impressive.  But the walk was welcome.

With the promise of an afternoon’s excursion to ‘Ani’, the ancient remains of a Silk Road border city, the group is up and away by 7.45am.  Well, everyone but me...

For once, however, it is nothing to do with my speed of packing.  We have been threatened with a water crossing today.  Everyone wants to be taking the video, not starring in it, especially after Max’s dramatic wipeout last year - preserved for posterity on YouTube, should you wish.  For some reason I’m quite happy to be the stooge who’s through last, so I’m in no hurry to rush off.

In fact, events are a little topsy turvy.  The water crossing has been negated by a patch of new road - sorry about that.  On the other hand, we encountered far more than we’d been expecting.  I’ve stolen video from others’ and will load as soon as the internet speed is up to it.

Turkey Part 2 Movie

The route from our cabins in Ispir to Kars - a functional town that bit closer to the border - follows the river that was outside our door.  As the swollen river squeezes between narrowing gorge walls it gets faster, frothing white water lashing the sides and beating against the rocks.  It’s quite a scene, but we’re keeping our eyes on the road running parallel. 

Turkey looks to be undergoing a major road enhancement effort nation wide at present.  And this road, to Yusufeli, will soon be underwater as they are putting a hydro dam at the end.  In the process of blasting the gorge and creating a high level access road, the existing low-level road has become chewed up and pitted by the construction vehicles.                                                                                

It takes us 2 hours to travel only 40 odd miles.  We get a gentle introduction to off-road riding, standing tall on our bikes for better balance and ‘feel’.  I’m on my own and, bar a couple of interesting wrong turns, find my way to the end of the section where the group has re-formed:  rock driiling has closed the road temporarily so everyone is waiting and having a rest.

To our mirth, the unease at the water crossing had been trumped completely by one particular section of road works.  Boxed in between gravel lorries, we had followed the route into a two-way tunnel - heavy lorries also coming towards us out of the unlit gloom.  The drainage features were not installed yet, so the 100m tunnel was covered wall to wall with a puddle of muddy water, the gloopy consistency of melted milk chocolate.  Add in some ruts, potholes, a mushy gravel bottom, and a few corrugations and you’ve got a testing little off-road section.

No accidents, perhaps because we were all in shock.  A medal went to Tim who, without time to remove his sunglasses, had found himself navigating all of the above in near pitch darkness.  God knows how he pulled that off.

Light traffic today in the tunnel

For the rest of the day’s ride we gradually emerged from the mountain gorge and headed towards more barren, higher land.  On the way we passed plenty of cow-herders, but in the grand scale of the landscape they seemed to make no impression on the tussocky grasslands. 

I stopped to put on rain gear in anticipation of a heavy storm (we eventually rode around and behind it), and chatted a bit to one such herder, who'd walked over eagerly.  Our Turkish ‘hosts’ are always very intrigued to have their photo taken - I’d have liked a polaroid camera, but even showing them the digital image afterwards elicits a big grin.

We all make the detour to Ani, where Mark watches our bikes.  The old ruins are not much to look at really - walls restored such that it’s hard to tell what’s original - but one of the old churches is pretty impressive.  Most captivating, though, is the natural physical divide that acts as a land border with Armenia:  greens a golf course would be proud of face off against the other, with a deep river chasm between them.  It must have made an effective defense way back when.

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.