Leaving Istanbul

Leaving Istanbul 
And my dear dear mother

I was lucky enough to spend a great week riding through Bulgaria with my lovely mother who, credit to her rode like a champ, complained not once and proved again and again how capable she is. Before I move on i want to again state how fortunate I feel to have such an inspiring, fun and capable Mum who over time has also become one of my best friends. i can’t wait to tour with her again soon!

In Istanbul I stayed with Savaş, a Turkik born chap with a tanned, weathered and constantly smoke obscured face “nobody smokes like the turks”. He put me up for a few days, took me out and invited me to his school where he single handedly set up a fully outfitted cycling school avec army of bikes and larger army of enthused kids “the cyclists of today are the drivers of the future”.

The crowded two bed apartment on the 5th tenement floor gave me a great morning view of a city I should have given more of a chance, but it was early in the trip, i was feeling anxious to get on and the wilds were calling.
Savaş urged me not to ride the conservative and strongly islamic north coast bordering the Black Sea as i originally planned “ride the south, you can open your tent, you can driiink you can make fun, the north is not fun, the people are small minded”
I decided to break a lifetimes habit of pig headedness and headed out west following his advice, I would head For Anzac Cove, the site of the Gallipoli battles and the nest of the Turkish freedom movement, and then along the South coast.
It was like trying to break from Fort Knox with a chisel made from lard and a rope made of spaghetti, traffic was flying six lanes wide in either direction and as poorly contructed as my plans for escape. it took me two days to make the escape to rural Tekirdag and onto out onto the Gallipoli peninsula

Then in the small town of Kumbag Mahallesi I met my first cyclist of the trip, a local PE teacher who agreed to sit, talk and drink tea. The first of his gifts, a small “lonely cyclists buff” became a gift for a later friend I made.

An hour later he drove out with his daughter high onto the cliffs above the strait of Marmaris to give me more food and to make sure i was safe, he also pointed me to a safe, flat area by the sea where I could camp for the night.

After this encounter my conversations were almost entirely in broken English or Turkish, with the exception of Cumali. In this tiny backwater hamlet I found the sole occupant, the owner of the tea shop to speak German. Here i rested with the only other occupants before pushing south.

In Buyuk Anafarta i was again invited to join these calm, softly spoken local gents for tea, the chap on the right with the glasses spoke in the most fluentt English and i explained my interest in the Turkish revolution and my respect at the strength of Turkish spirit whilst they smiled quietly at my obvious enthusiasm.

Then it was down the hill to the Aegean sea where I made camp, washed and dried clothes (and my own skin) and watched the sun go down over the Grecian Horizon.

The next day I rode hard for the ferry to Cannakale keen to get back to the mainland and off the peninsula. The red flag of Turkey Reigned over me and in the distance, a constant reminder of the blood spilled in its birth.

I was dying to get back to the mainland. I was feeling crooked going south and not east. My path was becoming convoluted and although I was having a good time, it was all wrong, this wasn’t, hadn’t ever been my plan and it was cracking my resolve. Too soon in the trip I was making changes, breaking my stride and only later would i learn how important a long, steady stride is when solo and heading out on a big journey.

I caught the First boat of the day across the straight and struck out straight for Bursa, climbing through great sweeping green hills under burgeoning skies of great lofty clouds. all about me life was full and hot in the steps of spring but I felt oppressed, directionless and homesick.

I Climbed desperately out of the Bursa valley to the only water source i could find, Nüzhetiye Göleti, a small resevoir in the mountains bordered by forest and with no houses to bear.

Here i hid away for an afternoon and a morning, watching local lads playing gangster and staying up all night fighting with wild dogs. Numerous times i would wake to barking, leave my tent and run wild under the stars through the damp dewy grass in my undercrackers, chasing the furred beasts with sticks, stones and vile insults untill the feeble spring light of morning broke and peace was restored.

In the Morning i descended to Lake Iznik where I slept on the shores as i watched people out working, avoiding eating in the ramadan period and generally slept.

When I found a cheap hotel I checked in and for the first time I phoned home. I spoke with family and some of my closest friends and slowly the spring was once again wound and again i felt the vigour return.

The next day the spring in my step was only the more vibrant for meeting Keith, a Kiwi chap who has since given up chasing me across the continent and flown to Canada and bear country. He was happy then and I hope he is just as happy now. At a time when i needed a real friend Keith was there and i’m truly grateful for the simple joy at travelling we shared that day as we raced across the hot, dry and hilly 100km stretch between lake Iznik and Sakarya.

Still at a bit of loss for what to do and where to go I headed blindly North, keen to hit the Black Sea hoping to find there my original route and with it my bearings. There was a whisper on Warm Showers that there was a host in Akçakoca who was keen to meet. I was tempted but had this pressure to push on. It was only through another turn against my pig headed mindset that I stopped, and it was through this quiet miracle that i stopped in the small town and I met a good friend who would change my trip.

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