Two Wheels and a Man in Pain: Istanbul - Greece

It was roughly 8.30am on a February morning in London when I finally decided to join The Big Bike Trip.

I woke up that day at the usual 7.30am with a slight hangover, put my suit on, had a strong handrolled cigarette with a stronger coffee by the kitchen window, and got on the tube to work.

Perhaps it was being packed like sardines in rush hour traffic with my fellow grim faced 9-5’ers on a musty underground carriage, or perhaps it was the prospect of heading to another day in a working life that sees weeks and months blurred into a hazing grey, where one moment is indistinguishable from the next – either way, I came to the realisation that I’m starting my days already wanting for them to be over, and wishing for life to fast forward is no way to live.

Arriving at Istanbul with my bike rather light on the packing side to meet my heroes

The first walk through the streets of Istanbul

The uncelebrated and real catch my eye with every turn. Fascination in the ordinary

That afternoon I handed in notice, and a little more than a month later I flew to Istanbul to join the boys for the European leg that would see us ride from Turkey to London.

I was woefully underprepared for such an undertaking. Indeed, I had committed little thought to exercise for the two or three years preceding the trip – beyond late night walks from bars to kebab joints, that is. In fact, I could only boast of frequent engagements with family sized portions in takeaway meals, and was deeply committed intensive boozing and smoking regime which left me incapable of negotiating short flights of stairs without pausing for breath and outbreaks in sweat.

So I arrived at the airport gates, severely overweight, spectacularly unfit, and happily ignorant of the pain which stood ahead.

Two nights after landing in Turkey, my bike was stolen. On the morning of April 10th I opened the door of our apartment where we were being hosted to Arthur and Freddie asking whether I had moved my bike overnight. My initial thought was that the boys were playing some sick joke, but it quickly transpired – to our increasing collective nausea that my bike was gone.

My sweet bike, oh my sweet steel wheels which had been flown and carried from New Zealand, London, via Zagreb to Istanbul (and which had not seen a single meter of actual riding in its brief stay in my possession) had been spirited away.

Panic in the living room ensued, frustrated shouts, fists clenched in anger, head in hands and elbows on knees.

Nevertheless, a plan was quickly formed – Arthur tasked with alerting the authorities to the theft, Sean stayed to guard the remaining bikes, while Freddie and I went to find a replacement bike.

Bosphorus River cruise. The wealth and beautiful architecture was clear to see

In my world there is nothing to fear. As you can see here I smoke a 'dart'

The bustling streets of Istanbul

My new house

After several scurried phone calls, we found a potential replacement in a shop on the Asian side of Turkey. As typical in these moments of desperation, the cycle shop which was tipped to have a viable bike in store wasn’t answering their phone, but in blind hope we jumped in a taxi anyway.

Miraculously, the shop not only had the right model of touring bike – it was in the right colour, and the right frame size.

The intercontinental bike shopping adventure was followed by the administrative maze of Turkish policing, in search of a report so I could claim insurance. Language barriers meant we were repeatedly referred to the ‘tourist police’ who had no authority in filing claims and were little more than glorified translators. Yet, after much pleading, several hours in a police station ringfenced by anti-riot barriers, and the help of our host as a translator, we procured the elusive police report and was ready to begin the odyssey once more.

Thus was the prelude to my cycle tour, fraught with treachery and unexpected turns – before I had ridden even a single meter.

Of course, agony awaited.

Here I stand, Lady Gypsy (as I've fondly named my bike) by my side, awaiting my fate

They say life begins at the edge of your comfort zone. Here I am peering over the edge, clawing at the cliff, and slipping my way down

On my inaugural ride day we took a ferry out of Istanbul and cycled some 60km to our first campsite. When Freddie told me about the first lakeside camp spot I pictured grass by idyllic waters, instead we pushed through mud tracks into some long grass with a distinct swampish smell about. Mosquitos and a plethora of miscellaneous bug life flanked us as the night descended.

Men fished the lake while we set up camp

Pain beyond belief. Here you see my general lack of fitness and vitamin D, both of which have since been rectified

Washing the grime away

Day two and about 85kms in posing for my first ride shot

Fields of gold

The Turkish roads were full of undulating terrain, each climb more taxing than the last. Every extra helping of food, every cigarette, every day of lazy lie ins and glass of rum made themselves known to my tender body, screaming for me to stop, begging me to turn around and fly back to a cushioned seat in a cushioned life.

Yet, through the struggle I also learned euphoria. At the end of a tough ride when the pain finally ends and you cross the top of a particularly rough climb through to wide views of green plains and the sea.

My hero pushing me up the hill

Less fear in this face after a few days but the exhaustion was beginning to settle in

Freddie is the cook. There's nothing more I hate than the vegetarian diet. Papi wants meat

Flowers, often fickle. They come and go. But the weeds... they always come back

Quickly the little things I took for granted back in London became treasured luxuries. On the second day we stopped by a gas station and were given permission to stay in a small garden out back. The warm shower in a truck stop bathroom reeking of urine was pure aquatic delight.

It took three days to get to Çanakkale, where we were hosted by a local, Emrah. On our rest day we visited Gallipoli, where the Anzacs and Turkish fought and died almost a century ago. Eerie how on the deathbed of thousands now tread laughing tourists, and on this island once enshrouded in cannon fire and gun smoke now ring quiet chirping birds and grass rustling in a breeze.

The peloton snaking its way up another climb. Take note of the generous shoulder and beautifully wide and empty Turkish roads (ps. I'm a snake)

Always feeling good. Pain doesn't exist in this bod

The Anzac memorial at Anzac Cove. A particularly touching inscription was made on a statue outside embracing the dead as brothers

It was a particularly beautiful, quiet, and sombre moment

In 1915 soldiers fought their way up these hills towards Chunuk Bair, the highpoint of the peninsula that gave a tantalising view to the Dardanelles Strait. The Anzacs fought bravely but ultimately the Turks ousted them from this position and the campaign to take Constantinople (Istanbul) was lost

Lone Pine cemetery

The memorial at Chunuk Bair

Our host, Emrah, and us on the day of departure

From Çanakkale we rode on to Çeşme – from where we were to ferry over to Greece - and early on I was party to the first crash. We were changing formation so the rider up front and take a breather, but Sean’s wheel collided with the leader’s in the process and he went down in a heap, his bike smacking the curb and sent him flying to the pavement. I was immediately behind Sean and rammed straight into his fallen bike and flew off myself – luckily away from the side of traffic.

I pushed hard on this hill. So hard. I yelled 'Marlboro Reds!' at the top of my strained lungs as motivation

Pain like I never knew existed

It's no secret I'm the quickest down hill. A lighter bike, bigger wheels, more aerodynamic, and a few extra pies on board

Note Freddie's small bags are at the back - his rear wheel was cracked in no less than 10 places so this was a weight shift to reduce the strain on that cracked wheel

I built the fire pit

God help me with this food. I can't stand it any longer. At least it comes in good portions

Our camp around the olive tree. Behind the shot is the sea, beautifully calm and mercifully cleansing

Adrenaline hid my pain but Sean was much worse, with several deep gashes on his arms, knees, and hands.

Nonetheless, Sean remained in good spirits, and we carried on.

Man down but happy

The skin was deeply gashed. It was washed, sterilised, and then steri-stripped. It's never nice pulling bits of road from skin

Dreamy campsites, dreamy man

Every day I get more brown, more lean, and happier

The Turkish roads were for the most part dusty and carved through an arid land, so through the rides the scent of the road would change from the dust to flowers to cow dung and the stink of rotting road kill.

But the Turkish people were also some of the most welcoming I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. One afternoon cycling through the motorway we were waved down by a man next to a strawberry stand who was himself a cyclist, and insisted we stay at his summer house for the evening.

He drove slowly up in his car ahead and lead us into a town called Dikili, through cobbled streets and coastal views he gave us a quick tour of his home and left to conduct some business on his own – trusting us, strangers who he had met only an hour before, to roam his halls of our own devices.

Our lovely host. He even bought us strawberries and made us sample plenty of his homebrew beer

Had I known Freddie was doing that I wouldn't be smiling so

A gravel road short cut to the main road

Pain is the only complaint here

Aside from the gallery of generosity, the leg from Çanakkale to Çeşme also marked the beginning of an odyssey in mental struggle.

Cycle touring, I quickly learned, is a game of pain and resilience, a test of mind and just how much punishment it can take.

Some days I wake up already fatigued, and exhaustion sets in from the very first pedal. Legs and lungs in varying degrees of agony, never comfortable, in perennial torture. Arse progressively more sore, every movement a fresh wave of pain. Back and neck edging towards spasm, thighs occasionally threatening seizure. The mind trying to conquer itself, the voices telling you to stop and go home, the screaming monologue asking why you’re doing this, begging for rest. From depression comes anger, rage at the rider up front (Arthur) for setting too high a pace, at the wind for existing, at nature for making hills, at yourself for coming here in the first place.

Then you convince yourself it’s all going to be okay. In time this will end. One inch after another. One push after another. At the end there’ll be rest, and food, and cigarettes, and elation.

The port town of Foca. Here we learned the boats weren't running which meant adding 50kms and riding through Izmir

Another campsite was just off this road

Another lovely Turkish host feat. puppy

There were enough puppies for all of us

And so it repeats in a cycle of hopeless agony and resistance, between perseverance and bleak resignation like the wheels spinning underneath you. Willpower draining away like the grey concrete blur rushing when you look down.

But the pain, for all its struggle, also offers a lesson in the self. By pushing until you are at your limits, you see the outer edges of who you are, where you start to fall apart. And you realise that limits are less defined points of existence and more markers for space into which you can expand. Under such strain, what makes you up becomes more clear. That’s not to say this is the sole or even a comprehensive means to self discovery, for within the boundaries there is much to explore. But through this violence you learn to build something greater.