Final Chapters

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Bike death was upon us
A fort on the Tajik side of the Panj river, in the distance are the mountains of Afghanistan
Stopping for a drink in the Wakhan
Jonny: Made in Pamir
The lunar views of the Wakhan
Lunch in the valley, set up by guest houses en route
The Marco Polo horns defend this house
Langar, where we left the Wakhan valley and started to ascend on to the plateau
View from the tent camping outside Langar
Shepherds graze their sheep outside Langar, the last outpost of the Wakhan


Pete is set against the Afghan Hindu Kush mountains
Mountain roads


Up and down we rode as the river thinned, running against us from the plateau
Early morning camp
Afghanistan lay so close at times, the other side of this river in this picture, that it was tempting to cross and touch its shores. The icy water and the lack of desire to treat it as a country to cross off some ‘list’ kept us at bay
Reaching the palteau: The moonscape was upon us
Khargush pass
Khargush pass
As we crested the peak snow started to fall
Within minutes the sky cleared up


The walking man in the distance here was wearing a full suit
Self-timer gone wrong
Over Khargush pass we finally could smell the great benefit of being near civilisation, and with it…tarmac
We finally left the Wakhan valley and re-entered the Pamir highway with it’s luxurious tarmac


Drunk on comfort in Alichur
Alichur holds no prisoners
Yurts housing the shepherds who grazed their livestock on top of these mountains


Two boys collecting firewood on the outskirts of Murghab


Early light in Murghab


Leaving Murghab, shortly to find that my bike would suffer from a fatal injury: the free-hub was broken, which meant when turning the pedals the wheel would not turn
The Boss: After visiting the Chinese border in Tajikistan, I had to use a taxi-jeep to transport myself and broken bike in to Kyrgyzstan
Two kids push a third round in a wheelbarrow in Qarakul

As another mechanical problem renders your bike temporarily unusable, as the wheel needs truing or the pannier falls off and is left somewhere in your trail: short of breath, you must walk back hoping it hasn’t fallen in the river, listening to your own expletives echoed back to you from the valley walls. The road goes from potholed tarmac to a shingle beach; from corrugated gravel to deep sand, it grips your wheels as you try to clock a lethargic 2.5 km/hour. And with each level of diminishing road quality you reluctantly pray for the previous obstacle to progress instead of the current. We are pushing the bikes on the flat, witnessing the inability of the speedometer to register motion, this proof of our sluggish progress a far greater disturbance than any physical pain.

Broken spokes, ripped panniers, days of fifteen punctures, hub cracks and rim dents. We were cycling through the Pamir mountains of Tajikistan, the most remote part of our journey so far. As a group of five we had tenfold more mechanical failures than a combined 22 months cycling through Europe and Central Asia. The stretch from Langar to Khargush made Paris-Roubaix look like a trip to Disneyland. At points only cycling on the grass to the side of the road made for a faster pace than walking.

Anyway, rant fully expunged. The upshot was that finally bike-death had arrived, and my relic on two wheels had something terminal. The free hub was broken: if I pushed the pedals the wheel would not rotate. Some components were in need of an appreciative toss on to a rubbish heap. It did, however, work intermittently; enough to get me over  a 4344m pass and in to Alichur, the only sign of life in three days.

Alichur, a small collection of concrete blocks on the plateau, was seen as the great metropolis hub to our civilisation-starved eyes. Its dank and dim shop a bustling market selling foreign treasures (Snickers and CocaCola); its silent guest house a towering palace, offering warm tea and a fire.

My wheel had been working again for a further day, up until Murghab, the next and only big town in the Pamirs. As we left town it failed once more, and this time it seemed for good. I left my riding partners and returned to Murghab.

My aim had been Stockholm to China by bike. China was only 91km away from Murghab; a mere few pedal strokes away. My goal for the trip being the Chinese border I was unwilling to take a taxi any of the distance between start and finish and being so close I could walk that distance. After a brief attempt to borrow the mountain bike of a young local boy (hindered by my saying ‘500’ instead of ’50’ dollars in Russian), I set out on my own bike with a temporary fix hoping it wouldn’t break again, packed with enough food to walk the distance if needed. Murghab to the Chinese border and back, and I would have completed my goal.

The next two days were to be a mystery. No cycle tourists travelled this route as the border was only open to Tajiks or Chinese, and there were more than a few ill-conceived rumours that the road was of perfect quality. It was not. And what’s more the border post was closed for three days, so through traffic would be of no help. What followed was two days riding through the most remote landscape of my trip. An empty high altitude desert valley was going to lead me to the Chinese border with only a couple of scraps evidence of habitation: a lorry on its side and a lonesome yurt out in the valley floor, each of which I earmarked for potential wind-blocked camping spots on my return.

As I left Murghab the atmosphere changed. There was now nothing. Previously in the Pamirs there had been traffic every now and then to have some link to the town or village nearby, often stopping for some remarkably ordinary conversation. One jeep stopped us during a snowy descent, a white woman leaned out of the window, “Have you seen a metal panel?” she asked, and then drove on.

As I looked back a storm was following me: a wall of charcoal-grey, the wind picking up. But I was in luck, despite my disbelief I could see a building on the horizon. Entering these chai hanas (tea houses) in the distant desertlands you feel an instant affinity with whoever is running them. This brave humanoid living out here on the barren plateau has just saved you from riding through the storm or the discomfort of erecting your tent behind a big rock to see out the tempest that has been following you. I offer his son some raisins and order a pot of tea.

What joy erupts within me to see other people out here, where I have seen nothing for two hours. An absent map had become an absent landscape. Objects within this sphere can be seen 50km away as there is nothing until the eye meets the mountains on the landscape’s edge and being alone out here provoked those raw feelings so rarely felt in a densely populated modern world. For hours I pedalled on, expecting my bike to break, through the silence. I was saving my water for this three day expedition, the time it would take to walk the distance if my bike died and my lips were like crusting lava.

This emptiness was lunar, rocky and sparse, and I thought constantly about the food and water I had and whether it would last me three days. The bike held up though and I made good time. Just prior to the border was a large warehouse, prison-like in appearance and assumed to have nobody inside, so unused did it look. As I huddled down behind a verge and reheated some pasta I was shocked, and once again nourished, to see someone emerge from this building, the first human I had seen in little over four hours. A quick conversation told me he wanted me to sleep at their place, the prison. I gratefully accepted and was off again for the border to return before the next storm came in. I now had somewhere to sleep.

Another strange interaction awaited me at the Tajik side of the border, closed, which fenced a no man’s land between China and Tajikistan. Two soldiers waited outside a tiny border post brandishing their weapons behind the barbed fence. This fence stretched  over the sand to two opposing bleak horizons. As I approached the border on foot (further bike trouble) the soldiers came out through the fence. Quite frankly they could have only been thinking ‘who is this lunatic?’ out here in this mountainous desert as a storm approaches walking his bicycle to a border that isn’t open and even if it were wouldn’t allow a non-local to pass through it. Needless to say I felt it was worth getting a wave in pretty sharpish and a ‘Salaam Alaikum’ (peace be with you) out in to the cold air. But I had made it, Stockholm to China by bike.

I slept in the building mentioned and was greeted with the local tradition of salty tea with butter melting in it. The inside was homely and the road-workers living there spent hours poring over my map, looking up their home village and seeing how far away the capital city was, somewhere they had never been. The next morning a goat turned up in the sidecar of a motorbike and soon met its maker while a tractor was being repaired. This area of Tajikistan is home to mostly Kirghiz people and three of them set about repairing the tractor’s engine while the men I had stayed with saw to the goat. This was life at the landscape’s edge.

Free Fall


The Internet connection I’m using can not do justice to the sheer natural beauty we’ve seen this week, photo opportunities too plentiful to count. Every turn of the road reveals another sight worthy of a few moments pause and a couple of breaths of heart-stopping awe. We are on the banks of the Panj river, Afghanistan’s steep rocky cliffs peering down upon us.

Residential block on the outskirts of Dushanbe
Bugsy Malone
Life on the street
‘Swiss’ entrance to the mountains
Storm above our camp
Chai hana too good for some
Shared pot of tea
‘The Funeral March by Chopin is running through my ears’
Unwanted attention for Pierre


The confluence of two rivers leading in to the mountains


Sunrise at the confluence
Start of the first pass, time to embrace the ‘Northern Route’


Schoolboys ask ‘what the hell are you doing?’ again
Precipice drop
Dave doesn’t hesitate through the river crossing


Josh catches up after a couple of days delay in Dushanbe
We were now something of a peloton


Lunch stop
A cup of green tea on the ascent
When you have to camp on top of the pass due to a mistake in timing
Breakfast on the roof


The thumb-tearing descent




First glimpses of the Afghan side of the river Panj
Settlements on the Afghan shore
The Panj cuts through the Pamirs on the left, and the Hindu Kush
Frequent drops to the river


A rare spot of tarmac
View in to Afghanistan


Laying dynamite: tunnel-building on the other side of the river


The explosion
Pete and Josh making ground
Looking through the fortress gates of Afghanistan

We enter the Pamirs along the ‘Northern road’, infamous for it’s rocky track of a road and 3200m pass. If the government spent as much on the road as they do on billboards of their president they might have paved roads throughout the Pamirs. Alas, they did not and the road turned from tarmac to gravel to a bed of shingle stones. This at first seemed both frustrating and uncomfortable but in fact was a blessing in disguise, the challenge was laid out. Finally the Pamirs were here in full force and this mountain bike style terrain was both exciting and stimulating, thoughts of the straight and endless tarmac road of the desert left behind.

The most level part of the road happens to be that strip lining the precipice drop to the crashing waters below, your heart races as the smaller rocks your speeding tyres push aside tumble over the edge. “I have Chopin’s ‘Funeral March’ playing in my head” Jonny exclaims as he rounds another bend in the road.
Josh, my riding partner since Istanbul, had stayed in Dushanbe to collect his Indian visa and I was now riding with another good friend, Pete, who had flown out to meet us in Dushanbe. The three of us had gone on our first tour together and had kept that tradition since. We were joined by Dave and Jonny, cyclists we met in Dushanbe.
Riding in to the mountains gave way instantly to lush green alpine valleys reminiscent of Switzerland; nighttime storms passing over our flimsy metal shelter at the side of the road and the gradual emergence of the red rock corridor lining the river, gorges cut by waterfalls, the road yielding to the occasional mountain stream.
After a couple of tough days in pursuit Josh joined us in time to throw ourselves over the pass. Rocky terrain dented our perseverance as well as our tyres and we made a sharp unplanned camp at the top of the pass as the sun dipped below the jagged horizon of white peaks, darkness fell, the few dots of light an imperceptible distance below in the valley were the only specks of civilisation made known to us. The only utterance upon this empty roof of silence the feral howling of gales swivelling through the ridges and slopes of the surrounding hills.
The morning delivered a steep rockfall-strewn descent of this pass, a feeling of free fall, plummeting through the crevasses and gorges trying to slow, to resist the pull of fun in the name of self-preservation. Blisters form on the hands as you cling to the brakes and handlebars, pulling your body back from the cascading drop of a waterfall at the track’s edge. This pass finally lead to the Panj, a river we follow until we met a village in the evening light.
From one near-death experience to the next, the villagers were in commotion as we stopped for some biscuits and kept motioning that there will be an explosion on the Afghan side of the river, they were building a road. They motioned to us to move further up their road, I am told that a tree will be sufficient cover and wait there.
With all the villagers seeking refuge 100m up the road the explosions start, bigger clouds of dust propelled in to the air, louder booms echoing from the valley walls and greater masses of rocks erupting from the dynamite base until they are raining upon us. I jump under said tree and then run up the road with a panicked Pete and Josh who also stayed behind to take photos. All the village laugh through shocked Russian statements then continue on their way, brushing the fallen smashed rocks aside.
Boy shepherds wave on the Afghan side of the river, they are closer than my own riding partners, but sadly more than a river separates us, recent conflicts provoked Russian and other Stan countries to send troops to Tajikistan, we passed a tank with it’s gun aimed over the river.

The distant feeling for those we saw on that side of the river was palpable: this diverse and fascinating country, eternally a natural fortress to history’s great empires, only metres away and yet it’s wonders obscured by the reputation of the Taliban and closed borders along the river. People raced the dirt track on motorbikes and played football by the river, clearly vibrant, if less developed than it’s Tajik counterparts. Afghanistan’s castellated majesty clear,  the opposite shore of the river lined by sheer bouldered walls interspersed with villages made of stone-lined animal pens and stone huts, dwellings that merge with the great shards of rock behind them.

I’ve been on the road nearly five months, and the trip is starting to take it’s toll. The miles tick by. The constant transience of places and people; the feeling of a need to work (in the traditional sense); spending ten hours per day among the sounds of traffic on the roadside; the repetitive questions that are answered sometimes twenty times per day. But small things make up for it. Waking to the sound of the fierce rushing of the river you swam in the night before, falling asleep to the stars shining brightly above; the birds wake with you and sing in to the morning from their perches below the shelves of rock soaring above us, and no matter how many times you’re asked where you’re from those features don’t change.

Not the Proudest Moment of my Life

As we begin the final kilometres to peak the 2025m high climb the snow becomes terrible and the road worse still. The fog is heavy. Black and white are the only colours we can see in this foggy overworld. Ski chairlift structures emerge through the haze but no skiers are to be seen. An old yellow bus trundles past at a walking pace on the single-lane farm track. Now the iced over puddles crack as the wheels crash through the frosted mud and nearly push me and the bike over the edge of the pass and in to the white noise abyss.


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When we arrive at the top the snow is piled two metres high and it was time to tighten the brakes, don down jackets, gloves and sock-gloves and get started on the descent. But not before being stopped by some older men driving by. One wore a shotgun over his shoulder and asked if I wanted vodka, but since every move of my fingers felt like a frosted crack I voiced for the teetotal option. “No no!” He cried “You must”, he ran back to his car and carried what the fog only revealed to be a brown lump. As he drew closer this brown lump turned out to be a dead eagle and there I was posing for a photo with him.


It was remarkably light for such a powerful animal. This magnificent creature shot down by some vodka-fuelled Georgians driving over the wild pass. The sadness of this later struck me. Over the last few thousand kilometres I had ridden alongside many eagles soaring high above or below gliding through the valleys, and had thought of their stoical struggle through the winter. The eagle had become a bit of a symbol of beauty on the trip, and as such this foolish shutter-happy behaviour on the pass summit was not the proudest moment of my life.

We were in Georgia. Leaving Batumi we cycled through puddles collecting the incessant rain of three days and continued up the valley of a river in to the mountains of the autonomous region of Adjara. After the open dry plains of Turkey and winter of Europe Georgia felt like a tropical hinterland, it’s greens lush and the rivers gushing.

The pass we were now summiting was 2025m high and the last 30km had been off road: a muddy farm track on which it wasn’t the potholes to look out for but the sparse few flecks of level rocks to ride over. We hadn’t expected this surface, nor had we prepared a feast for the day, making the generous offering of some tar-black coffee from a Georgian on the ascent all the more nourishing.

image imageShortly after the black of the coffee arrived the white of snow. And hail down it did as we approached the top. Towns rapidly diminished as did the road surface and the temperature cooled to chill our fingers and toes once more. The situation seemed desperate: no food, I had no serious gloves but socks, it was well below freezing and there was no infrastructure up here. Our brake pads too were not well-equipped for the ragged corners of the off-road descent.

But the trickle of cars that passed us would stop for a chat in broken Russian and cheer us on. The sheer rarity of being on that pass in those conditions on a bicycle seemed to bring a smile to most faces. A group of young lads stopped and rooted for a group picture and facebook befriending, suddenly the backdrop of desolate mountain had changed: this scene of boyish humour and back-slapping didn’t seem possible only moments before. Eagles, shotguns, snow corridors, it was all happening on the peak of the pass. We continued on down and in to the first village we could find.

The snow was settling now and we needed shelter. We found it but at a hefty price. A derelict building next to a stream in the hub of the town, piles of rubble and dusty rotting bricks sat in the first room, taking on the novel usage as a public toilet. The warmest and most hidden room was at the back of the building. This room was termed the black hole: the mass of cobwebs hanging from the low ceiling, lack of natural light and a floor made of cow manure contributed to this image. And as we later set up the stove a bat flew out and hung upside down from the rafters, the Russian-termed ‘flying-mouse’ glaring at us and screeching to help it sense through the black hole. But it was better to have no sense data in there. The place was literally a shithole.


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We left sharp the next morning.

Georgia was refreshing: people appear blunt, smiling isn’t a popular past time. But they are simply friendly without the trimmings, hospitable beyond belief offering us cognac shots while we rode past small foothill villages. We stopped in one petrol station on a main road and the attendant was shaving, stopping mid-stroke to answer our request; often cars are brandless or the cubic Lada, relics of their soviet past; military vehicles standing out on the hillsides, debris of recent conflicts with Russia; cows ambled along these lanes, often galloping in surprise or staring as they blocked passage; there were no barriers on the cliff-face roads and ancient rocky bridges formed crossings over the rushing muddy water of the river below; the petrol stations consisted of a hut with a pump, the intercontinental giants of the oil world unmissable throughout our trip were curiously absent in the Georgian mountains.



We sped through to Tbilisi, the capital, a place of intrigue since entering this unique country. Georgia doesn’t fit with Europe geographically, separated by the monolithic nations of Russia and Turkey; it doesn’t align with Asia ethnically or religiously. It has a language and alphabet of it’s own: forming the basis of an independent family group, disconnected from the Turkic and Indo-European groups that include Turkish, Baltic, Slavic, Hindi, Germanic and Latin. The people have characteristically Georgian features: exhibiting facial structures of remarkable similarity. Even the spice selection for the excellent meals was incomparable: a milder version of Asian cuisine but rich, earthy and varied. 

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The Russian land mass was once detached from the Turkish. As the two tectonic plates they sit on collided the Caucasus mountains were formed in what is essentially a continuation of the Himalayas. These mountains now form a natural border for Russia, and a continuation of the once separate lands continues.

The Caucasus are home to a tight concentration of ethnically diverse peoples, the recent conflicts over these mountains stem from a range of factors but partly date back to a period in which Stalin displaced entire ethnic populations, the Chechens after a revolt in the 1940s for example. After 1956, under Khrushchev, they were eventually permitted to return to their homelands to find home and property occupied by others. The region is politically fragmented quite unlike anywhere else in the world, the mountains and extreme terrain playing their part in these conflicts too. We saw many military vehicles lining the road, now being utilised for more peaceful means.

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From Georgia we headed to Azerbaijan, a country yielding no expectations. We rode through fast in order to maximise our time to wade through the bureaucratic swamp that is Central Asian visa territory and give presentations to some schools in Baku, the capital. And this is where I write this now. In the living room of some teachers at one of the schools, two ex-Peace Corps volunteers with excellent stories from Senegal and Turkmenistan.

image A shop we passed in Azerbaijan sold inflatable footballs next to a cow mid-butchering, a blade being glided underneath the leathery skin. This for me sums up why bike touring is what it is. You see a country without filter, the shepherd who walks past your campsite as you wake, whistling to his two hundred sheep is just as important as the spectacle of a famous mosque in the heart of the capital. Your view takes it all in from entry to exit, unobscured by guide books or hotel recommendations. You sleep on the floor of a kind cafe owner you’ve just met or watch the butchered cow strung up next to children’s toys in the apricot glow of an early morning sunlit town square, and it all colours in your picture of a place. You see the natural borders and the subtleties of change emerge passing over a river or mountain range, sometimes yielding more change than the border of a nation. And one thought surfaces buoyantly above any other. There is no ‘us’ and ‘them’. Kind acts offered from mechanics, lorry drivers, lawyers, shop owners. People on the whole are decent folk, trying to get by wherever they are, extending kindness to some passing bike riders.

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The Tentacles of the Ancient Citadel

Days after Sofia have been tough. Since Sweden I had embellished fantasies of cycling through Bulgarian mountainscapes, sun-blemished snowy peaks glittering in clear spring days. As I had worried about frost bite and listened to snow clogging up my wheels I had had visions of sandy roads scorched by a Turkish sun. Surely this could only be what awaited me this far south. It was not to be.
The headwind rattled through my ears, the sound of a jet engine accompanying my Turkish border chase. Waking up to the sight of a collection of flags billowing towards the town you passed last night is a truly punishing sight. You can almost hear your willpower crack.
At least when you climb mountains you achieve something. As you climb you are depositing energy in a gravitational bank account, ready for later use. When the wind pulls you back you’re squandering those resources like a child in a sweet shop, trailing all your energy on the road behind. Imagine sitting down to write an email, pressing out 1,000 words, you check it over, you’re happy with it. As your finger hovers over the ‘send’ button the computer crashes. Now imagine that happens for 12 hours and you’ve got something akin to riding in to a headwind. Getting nowhere you just want to weep. But the harder part of your mind pushes on and instead sweat is the only body fluid you leave on the road.
At the Turkish border I had felt a little embittered as I tried to show my Turkish visa to not one but three guards, the response “no problem”. If only all border guards were this relaxed. It had rained every minute since leaving my tent in the morning and as I shivered waiting for customs to check my bags the border officials invited me in for a welcome cup of tea and a seat next to a heater. The long-rumoured Turkish hospitality was already making itself apparent.
My entrance in to Turkey was marked by a ride through the sunset-lit town of Edirne, calls to prayer echoed from one mosque to the next and the fort-like walls and tall apricot-coloured minarets of these mosques marked the gateway to the new religious setting of the East. The town bustled with life, kebab stall owners shouted out to anyone who passed and ‘kofte’ was lit in red from the windows of canteen-style outlets. Moustachioed men sat outside cafes drinking tea; trays of which were whisked in between the crowd in glasses shaped like roses. Europe felt behind me now.
I stayed with Trakya Bisiklet, a bike shop in Edirne. Another bike tourer had stayed the previous night and greeted me as I arrived. He had cycled from Hong Kong, where he originated, and had ridden through a mountainous Tibet and a politically unstable Pakistan where a government service had insisted on transporting him and the bike 500km through unstable territory to the Iranian border. When asked what his parents had thought of the venture he responded by saying they knew nothing of his trip and thought him safely in London despite the months he had spent on the road. Soup and Raki, a spirit much like Ouzo, were ushered to us emphatically by our hosts and three bowls of wild boar broth later I was struggling to force any more down and a rare moment of unconsumed alcohol had followed a drink of Raki, water was what I craved. The hosts were open and excited by our travels, explaining the Turkish tradition of hospitality: receiving thanks for which was honoured.
The landscape exhibited something totally unique on the trip, a vast agricultural ocean stretched in waves to the far horizon and the road carried on over each of these great tidal mounds, each peak held a burden: the vision of the road ahead. And with it an achingly crushing knowledge that the wind would not blow in any direction but against.
I had aimed to meet a good friend in Istanbul where we would continue on to China together. Josh is what military scholars might term ‘a tough bastard’ and would undoubtedly be an asset for the remainder of the trip. He had started from the UK at about the same time I had, struggling through much the same conditions, a real support knowing someone else had numb toes and aching bones throughout the last six weeks. And now I knew that someone else was pressing through this headwind like a cold whisk through frozen butter. image1 (2)
But alas, a delayed start and the interminable wind found me at dusk looking on to a dark dual carriageway, puddles reflecting the red tail lights of passing lorries. Almost exclusive heavy goods traffic and a wind capable of sporadic handlebar lifts led to a hesitant decision in favour of life preservation and the resolution to find somewhere to stay in the next town.
Some baked pitta had now appeared before me and I was sat at the table of a restaurant surrounded by five locals of varying ages and beard lengths asking questions of my journey. The manager of the place gently pulled a chair out next to the heater and arranged for small plates of tomato and yogurt to satellite my frazzled body.
The next morning I was up at 5 to meet Josh. More wind but this time it was negotiable as I would soon see the man himself and be polishing off the first of many olive and feta breakfasts, discussing the pains and joys of our respective trips. As I entered the lobby a familiar “‘ere ‘e is” echoed through it and so too did the sound of laughter and complete understanding as we exchanged story after story of shared experiences. A few pots of Nutella later and we were ready to leave. The macroscopic highs and lows of a solo trip were behind us, to be exchanged for a more palatable sense of companionship.
We rode the next 120km in to Istanbul, every minute detail sparking another discussion of life on the road. We finally arrived at the tip of the tentacles of the city at dusk. Istanbul is vast, 30km out you feel it’s energy and buzz. This intensity increases as you pedal in and the road system guides you on to the central reservation of a five-lane motorway, the descent on the undulating hills forcing you to weave in and out of the traffic like Lance Armstrong on every drug in the cabinet. Darkness now surrounded us but the bright lights of neon-branded shopping centres, gliding trams, towering skyscrapers and frenzied cars seemed to saturate the eyesight.
Istanbul, the capital of three empires; the bridge between East and West, both physically and metaphorically; the city of three thousand mosques and four hundred bars. On first reflection it had the societal vibrancy of an African city, the historical ruins of Athens or Rome, and the modernity of Hong Kong. All of this sprawling over two continents, a river that formed the gateway for the Russian naval fleet and an ancient road the bottleneck of trade in to Europe. And as the final few pedal strokes of Europe were pushed out, the raw culture of ‘The East’ seemed to thrust itself upon us with the urgency of a call to prayer.