Transcontinental race. Day 8. Croatia. I opened my eyes. I was standing in the middle of the road holding my bike, not moving, trying to keep my balance. It was well past midnight and I was stuck on this dark hilly road for I don't know how long, surrounded by thick woods, cold and desperately trying to find any spot for the tent.
Well, I actually gave up on this after my encounter with local police - couple of hours ago in an act of desperation I decided to camp just on the edge of the road among thick and tall weeds and bushes. As I was about to unroll my wet tent a car pulled up and two black figures with flashlights jumped out and started to close in on me. I braced myself for imminent physical violence and, perhaps, robbery. But they showed me their badges and demanded my documents. After verifying my identity and establishing that I am not some kind of woods maniac they allowed me to proceed with my bedding arrangements but, "by the way, there are wild animals here" - they told me.
"What animals?"
"Bears and maybe wolves."
This was just one small and final confirmation that I was not going to get any sleep. And I was on the road again.
Soon the excitement was over, however, and I found myself again in the bizarre corridors of strange moving shapes forming on the edges between the beam of my light and the darkness or when I was passing some houses with lit windows or lampposts. Hallucinations. Riding at night is hard on the eyes, they become fixed on a small spot of light in front of you, and it induces some kind of hypnosis. Combined with sleep deprivation for several nights it becomes a real torture. I tried to remember how much sleep I managed in this first week of riding. On day 3, I was in Strasbourg, I camped in a field and for the first time slept for no more than 5 hours. Then, next day, somewhere in Austria, just before the high mountains began, it was 4 hours of mostly lying and not much sleeping in the tent under the rain. Then, next day, I reached the foot of Stelvio Pass and stayed in hotel - so it was a good night's sleep. Day after, after riding through rainstorm over Gavia Pass, I found another hotel. But the next day, before I reached Croatia, it was another night of riding without sleep. Not much, but I can handle this, I just have to rein in my mind, who was trying to convince me that I have to sleep.
But, anyway, now I needed to find a way to cope with this until first light will rescue me or find a comfortable place to sleep. Sleeping in tent was out of the question, so I needed a distraction to fight this paralyzing night hypnosis. So I devised this method: as soon as I started to fall asleep I would get off my bike and start walking until I stop and begin to drift off, then I would jump on the bike and try to sprint as hard as I can for as long as I can, then, before drifting off, switch to walking again.
In reality, it didn't get me too far because my legs were empty and I couldn't sprint for too long, and as soon as I slowed my eyes started to close. And the walking part usually ended with me stopping and losing myself for indefinite time. Then I saw the sign - "Hotel. 11 km." Last chance to save what was left from the night. But no, no way I could make this at my current pace. 11 km seemed like crossing an endless universe. I wanted badly to escape this nightmare, stop the suffering. So I could find nothing better than to slouch against some post beside the road and dose off briefly. Surprisingly, when I opened my eyes after several minutes of sleep I felt refreshed and ready to go. In a minute I was off and going fast. Then it hit me - I was riding without glasses, my prescription glasses. Shit! Quick u-turn and I am racing back, I found my glasses lying in the grass. I reached hotel in no time. It was 4 in the morning, Saturday. Hotel Frankopan.
At the hotel I was greeted by a babbling Round Man. He hurried up to me and pushed me through the doors inside. His mouth didn't close for a second. And I was seeing why. Hotel was literally shaking and bursting from raving all-night party. Smoke. Laughter. Music. It was such a common sight in all the Croatian villages that I passed this night - locals celebrating end of week and indulging in unrestrained heavy drinking, loud singing and playing their mandolins. Even Belgians with their drinking and eating habits are the epitome of modesty when compared to wild Croatians.
And so I was offered a good room for 200 kuna (about 25 euros), a breakfast and a "garage" for my bike, which was just an open playground by the hotel entrance with several toy-cars "parked" there. I really hoped to see it tomorrow morning, there was nothing to lock it to, but I had no choice and the Round Man was so convincing.
After I had first read about the race I didn't think about competing in it. Interesting, but certainly not for me. I couldn't imagine how I was going to get to London with the bike and then return from Istanbul. How to get over the Channel from England to France. Then I thought about the race itself without all the complicating logistics. That smelled of an adventure. I kept thinking, and finally it gripped me so much that I couldn't sleep. The decision had to be made. So I pulled myself from the bed in the middle of the night and reached for my laptop.
Well, I actually gave up on this after my encounter with local police - couple of hours ago in an act of desperation I decided to camp just on the edge of the road among thick and tall weeds and bushes. As I was about to unroll my wet tent a car pulled up and two black figures with flashlights jumped out and started to close in on me. I braced myself for imminent physical violence and, perhaps, robbery. But they showed me their badges and demanded my documents. After verifying my identity and establishing that I am not some kind of woods maniac they allowed me to proceed with my bedding arrangements but, "by the way, there are wild animals here" - they told me.
"What animals?"
"Bears and maybe wolves."
This was just one small and final confirmation that I was not going to get any sleep. And I was on the road again.
Soon the excitement was over, however, and I found myself again in the bizarre corridors of strange moving shapes forming on the edges between the beam of my light and the darkness or when I was passing some houses with lit windows or lampposts. Hallucinations. Riding at night is hard on the eyes, they become fixed on a small spot of light in front of you, and it induces some kind of hypnosis. Combined with sleep deprivation for several nights it becomes a real torture. I tried to remember how much sleep I managed in this first week of riding. On day 3, I was in Strasbourg, I camped in a field and for the first time slept for no more than 5 hours. Then, next day, somewhere in Austria, just before the high mountains began, it was 4 hours of mostly lying and not much sleeping in the tent under the rain. Then, next day, I reached the foot of Stelvio Pass and stayed in hotel - so it was a good night's sleep. Day after, after riding through rainstorm over Gavia Pass, I found another hotel. But the next day, before I reached Croatia, it was another night of riding without sleep. Not much, but I can handle this, I just have to rein in my mind, who was trying to convince me that I have to sleep.
But, anyway, now I needed to find a way to cope with this until first light will rescue me or find a comfortable place to sleep. Sleeping in tent was out of the question, so I needed a distraction to fight this paralyzing night hypnosis. So I devised this method: as soon as I started to fall asleep I would get off my bike and start walking until I stop and begin to drift off, then I would jump on the bike and try to sprint as hard as I can for as long as I can, then, before drifting off, switch to walking again.
In reality, it didn't get me too far because my legs were empty and I couldn't sprint for too long, and as soon as I slowed my eyes started to close. And the walking part usually ended with me stopping and losing myself for indefinite time. Then I saw the sign - "Hotel. 11 km." Last chance to save what was left from the night. But no, no way I could make this at my current pace. 11 km seemed like crossing an endless universe. I wanted badly to escape this nightmare, stop the suffering. So I could find nothing better than to slouch against some post beside the road and dose off briefly. Surprisingly, when I opened my eyes after several minutes of sleep I felt refreshed and ready to go. In a minute I was off and going fast. Then it hit me - I was riding without glasses, my prescription glasses. Shit! Quick u-turn and I am racing back, I found my glasses lying in the grass. I reached hotel in no time. It was 4 in the morning, Saturday. Hotel Frankopan.
At the hotel I was greeted by a babbling Round Man. He hurried up to me and pushed me through the doors inside. His mouth didn't close for a second. And I was seeing why. Hotel was literally shaking and bursting from raving all-night party. Smoke. Laughter. Music. It was such a common sight in all the Croatian villages that I passed this night - locals celebrating end of week and indulging in unrestrained heavy drinking, loud singing and playing their mandolins. Even Belgians with their drinking and eating habits are the epitome of modesty when compared to wild Croatians.
And so I was offered a good room for 200 kuna (about 25 euros), a breakfast and a "garage" for my bike, which was just an open playground by the hotel entrance with several toy-cars "parked" there. I really hoped to see it tomorrow morning, there was nothing to lock it to, but I had no choice and the Round Man was so convincing.
Day 1 and 2
After I had first read about the race I didn't think about competing in it. Interesting, but certainly not for me. I couldn't imagine how I was going to get to London with the bike and then return from Istanbul. How to get over the Channel from England to France. Then I thought about the race itself without all the complicating logistics. That smelled of an adventure. I kept thinking, and finally it gripped me so much that I couldn't sleep. The decision had to be made. So I pulled myself from the bed in the middle of the night and reached for my laptop.
Several months later and I was standing at the start line on the Westminster Bridge in London. The clock struck eight and the peloton of 30 riders slowly rolled away.
My first waypoint was Dover, I had booked in advance my ferry transportation across the Channel - the departure was at 2 PM, so that gave me plenty of time to get there - almost 6 hours, and I didn't want to ride on the highway. I loaded into my GPS a route that I found on some bike forum that follows mostly carriage roads and narrow pathways. That gave me an opportunity to avoid all the cars and noise and discover the true rural life of England. I estimated the distance to be 127 km, only 10 km longer than a highway route. In the end, it took me a little over 6 hours and 144 km with 1600 m of climbing to reach Dover, numerous wrong turns and backtracking and some anxiety about missing my ferry. But the road indeed was completely car-free and next time I won't hesitate to take it again. I did miss my ferry which had put me further 2 hours back behind the main field. And when I finally arrived to Calais it was almost 6 PM. But it is a long race which was not going to be decided by two hours and I was confident I wasn't out of contention yet. My plan was to ride without sleep for 48 hours, and I knew that I can do this because my preparation included 600+ km 30+ hours continuous rides during which I was able to cover 500 km in the first 24 hours. I had no idea what was going to happen after these first 48 hours of riding, but at least I hoped to make an impact on the race during these first 2 days, which then would leave me with just 2000 km to deal with. And I really didn't care how long it would take to reach the finish, even if I had to miss my plane. I was here to ride, everything else was secondary. But for some reason or other I was riding slowly. I arrived at the first checkpoint - Muur van Geraardsbergen - at 6 AM next day, way behind the other participants, I took a short break from riding and just walked all the way up the cobbled climb. At the top I met Mike who ticked off my race card. Other riders were resuming their journey after a night's rest and all of them quickly passed me. All of them were traveling considerably lighter, on light road bikes and minimal baggage. My steel Niner bike with carbon fork and 40-mm road tires is fast and comfortable and I will never change it for something else, but I blame my backpack for my slow speed. It was absolutely impossible to ride on the aerobars, and I soon realized that even if it was completely empty it still was a huge inconvenience, with anything inside the pressure on my back increased exponentially. In the following days my woes continued to mount. Firstly, on day two my rear tire blew. I was going fast on some Belgian highway and suddenly - bang! - I hit a rock and the tire was gone with a half-inch hole through the tire and the tube. I reached into my frame bag for the spare tube and ... The spare tube was gone too. Probably I lost it in England when I was stopping a good many times to drink juice from the box that I kept in this bag, and the tube just dropped out unnoticed. I patched the tire and tube and sat down waiting for glue to harden. I didn't want to take any chances, so I had to wait for 1.5 hours before fully inflating the tire and continuing my ride. I thought I'd better keep moving, so I walked for the next 7 km. When I resumed my riding the tire seemed solid. Next day another surprise awaited me. For no apparent reason the chain started to skip on the cassette. I usually ride on a 15-teeth cog and now the chain was skipping and remained more or less stable only on a 17-teeth ring. I thought that this was because of derailleur misalignment and tried to tinker with it, an hour passed and I still could not fix it. The chain was new, I replaced it before going into this race in order to avoid any problems. Only when I was in Italy and stopped in a bike shop to replace brake pads the true cause of faulty chain was revealed. It was a stiff link. Even then I didn't think of replacing it, and, although, it kept skipping all the way to Istanbul, I cajoled it into action by pouring a generous helpings of oil several times a day.
Second night of riding saw me crossing the border into Luxembourg. Actually, there was no border, just a road sign with a single word - Luxembourg. Surprisingly, I wasn't sleepy at all, the air was cool and crisp, the road wide and smooth, no cars, no farms, no Belgian flatland agricultural stink. I was in the mountains at last, and I liked it. My only regret was that I didn't see much. During the hot day I had a couple of wrestling bouts with sleep, but as the temperature dropped and music carried me away I was flying. I felt like I could go forever, my body and bike fused into one bionic organism. That was my high, next day I started to sink lower and lower.
I was approaching Luxembourg City, my night roller coaster coming to an end. Empty streets and blue lights of illuminated buildings flowed past. Now I needed to move quickly to take an advantage of empty and fast highway, I always enjoy it, at night you can have the whole road to yourself, it's a freedom. Well, maybe not in Central Europe, but at the time I didn't know this and was riding right in the middle of my lane ignoring occasional cars, but they didn't mind my presence. I just needed to ride the last 2 km before turning off, when I was stopped by French police, I crossed into France somewhere along the way. To my relief they spoke English, but my attempts to convince them that this was the best possible way to Istanbul didn't touch them. So for 50 euros I got a personal escort until the next exit. I tried to time-trial away from them, but they stuck to my tail like piece of muck. Finally, I turned onto some dark road and they fell off.
When the dawn broke, it found me traveling across landscape of rolling hills and patches of chilly mist. The sun was rising promising a hot day, but now, bundled up in everything I had with me, I was shivering. I still hadn't slept since I started this race, and now was having another fight with sleep demons. I was riding through some small village and noticed a bus stop with a bench. I knew that if I can get just 20-30 minutes of sleep it would be enough, so I stretched on this bench and closed my eyes. It was too cold. 10 minutes of lying and I thought I'd better keep moving. But even this short rest was helpful, at least my eyes had rested and didn't feel heavy now.
Soon the heat hit me, and I was taking any opportunity to hide in the shade, so I stopped a lot - at bakeries, shops, under the trees when I saw picnic tables, eating and drinking. I needed to survive the heat until at least 5 PM, when the sun drops a little and loses some of its ferocity. While waiting out the heat I tried to sleep under the trees and on the benches, but sleep didn't come. Later that day, when the heat finally subsided, the chain started to jump from ring to ring and I was passed by another Transcontinental rider. That chain problem put a damper on my whole trip, because I really wasn't able to ride in my usual gear; for the second hour now I was struggling with the chain, unable to cover the last 30 km to Strasbourg. Finally, I gave up and continued to ride simply ignoring it.
It was evening when I arrived to Strasbourg, hot air didn't move on the streets and was infused with smoke. I must move quickly through this. I stopped at gas station for resupply and soon left town looking for camping spot. I found a field just outside town. With the dark falling quickly, I prepared my favorite camping meal - chili macaroni with beef, and, after waiting a little for the traffic to die, went to bed. My first night of sleep.
Day 4 saw me riding into Germany with the intention to reach Stelvio pass in the next 24 hours. With an early start at 5 AM I truly believed in this possibility. Alas, I became lost on the shores of Lake Constance. It's a beautiful area with a beach stretching for 50 km, grape yards and numerous villages and towns packed so close together that they form a single infinite street with some interesting historic sections. I arrived there by way of some busy highway, highways are always busy in Germany, and there are always ways around them. The one that I followed was classified as Bundesstrasse (federal highway) and those are best avoided. I should have turned onto parallel Landesstrasse (state road, marked with L), but heat, noise and my tiredness sent me into state of stupor and repressed aggression towards anything in my way that I became totally oblivious to the traffic around me. I just wanted to finish this ride and ignored the looks that I was getting from the passing cars and occasional german profanities flying my way from the windows of slowed down trucks. Finally, I found myself on the streets of some town and could no longer ignore the surroundings. It was a resort zone and a cycling paradise. Everyone was riding in style, every bike was equipped with dynamo lights, front and rear, kickstand and different variations of Butterfly handlebars, paths and bike shops everywhere - it was a German Cycling Riviera. I turned on a bike path and started to ride along the shoreline. It didn't take long before I could no longer resist the call of the water. Swimming was refreshing. A good basket of strawberries restored my energy and I was ready to go. But first I turned into bike shop and bought a new tube and, after some hesitation, a tire. Since my old rear tire was still going well I decided not to change it now, but that meant carrying an extra weight in my backpack, yet time seemed more important.
Leaving town I chose to continue to ride on bike paths and soon I was going in circles. When I checked my GPS, to my dismay, I found that I was going in a opposite direction. To correct this I picked a straight route back to highway, riding in grapeyards. Soon the trail disappeared under the grass and next half hour I was walking along long lines of grapevines on a steep slope and, finally, scrambling through someone's backyard, reached the pavement. Suddenly it was dark, I looked around and saw a huge black cloud the size of the lake crawling at me. It was time to race hard, really hard. Rainstorm caught me in about 20 minutes, by that time I found a cover under the awning of some store. I waited out its first bursts and then continued under light drizzle.
It was almost midnight when I stopped. In front of me was a wide and empty highway and a prohibitive sign with a fat red line crossing a bicycle. Autobahn. The bane of long-distance cyclist. I stopped, not sure what to do. What is a minor offense in France can be a crime in Germany. (I was in Austria now, but I think it's no different from Germany.) If you are driving a car, you are not allowed to stop on autobahn even if you run out fuel. Stopping on autobahns can get you in jail. Riding a bicycle is a capital offense no less than a mass murder.
There was no traffic, but this road didn't have any shoulder. Autobahn network consists of new and older roads joined together, sometimes it starts with two or three lanes in each direction with a shoulder as an emergency lane and then turning into narrow two-lane road without shoulder. I checked my GPS, and it appeared that I had no other choice than to go on, or at least start riding until the next exit where I can find local roads taking me to my destination. And I was tired, I had to go. So I kept riding, and then I felt that I could not go anymore. It wasn't that I was sleepy or had tired legs, my weakness was somewhere deeper in the heart. Today I had covered 300 km in 16 hours and now just wanted to lie down. So I took the next exit and as soon as I saw a patch of grass with several houses nearby I pitched a tent.
The night was miserable. It was raining and I was tossing and turning all time. With first light I broke camp and stubbornly continued on the same road. I was convinced it was the shortest way and, besides, there was no traffic. I didn't make it too far - a car pulled next to me and the window rolled down.
"You can not ride on this road!" - the driver yelled at me.
I didn't want to argue with him, so I turned back and returned to the road where I was camping. And it was a good decision, this local road actually ran along the highway through small towns which offered some distraction and there were bakeries and shops which were already open, so I stopped for breakfast with milk and freshly baked pastries. Twice.
The change of scenery was abrupt, now I was riding in a valley surrounded from left and right by rugged vertical walls and in front of me loomed distant peaks, sharp and black. The road was gradually climbing up and my yesterday's weakness returned. I moved slowly. It started raining, I rode through several long tunnels and arrived at the foot of my first serious climb. Switchbacks followed, then the road flattened out and I was on the top of Arlberg pass. Elevation 1800 m. A quick snack there with hotdogs and a fast descent brought me into the valley on the other side of the ridge. The sun came out, life was good again, my weakness was gone and I stopped in restaurant and ordered big pizza and tea. My next waypoint was Landeck, and from there Stelvio pass was a short distance away.
Several hours later and I reached Italy, blundering only once on a wrong highway. Again, I was stopped by police, I played dumb, telling them I was riding on a different road but then stopped for water at a gas station and that I thought that I was on the same road. It worked. And they even showed me how to get back on my road which is perfect for cycling with almost no traffic.
In Italy winds were gusting between blunt and bald peaks of western South Tyrol. In the background to the south stood an enormous mountain covered in snow, it was such an alien landscape for me - forbidding mountain and uninterrupted expanse of heavy and low clouds. A flock of cyclists passed me. I was riding along the shores of some lake, its bright bluish green water in sharp contrast with grim sky. Here my rear wheel slowly deflated again, was it that my patch on the hole finally disintegrated or a new puncture, I don't know. But I was waiting for this moment and was glad that it happened now and not on the descent from Stelvio pass. First, it allowed me to get rid of heavy bulk in my backpack, and now I had a bombproof tyre. Yes, it is said to be heavier and slower and more difficult to mount but you get maximum puncture protection - Schwalbe Marathon - practically undestroyable. I didn't notice any difference, though. Old tyre and tube were thrown away.
I arrived at the foot of Stelvio pass around 8 in the evening, having ridden only 150 km. The weather was warm and calm and probably the best decision would have been to continue with the ride. I didn't feel tired, but that meant that I would reach the top well after sunset and I wanted to save some memories and spent a little time on the roof of Italian Alps. Conveniently, a hotel was just in front of me - cyclists and bicycles are welcome - Hotel Prad. I arrived just in time for dinner and was treated with three course meal: salads, breads, a big plate of pasta and slices of meat with sauce. I haven't eaten so much since our dinner in London's Bella Italia, which was almost 10 days ago. I was really glad that I decided to stop here. Dinner was followed with a big pot of tea with all chocolate bars from my reserves up in my room and 7 hours of sleep.
At 6 AM I left hotel and began the climb under the light and warm drizzle. An hour later drizzle turned into light rain. I was still under the cover of trees on the lower slopes and unsuspecting of what was awating me at the top. As soon as I was above treeline heavy rain and high winds hit me. I don't know how much time I spent in this blizzard, the whole 24 km climb took 2 hours 36 minutes. But I remember that after endless struggle through this waterfall I came across a white mark on the road - 5 km to the top. 5 km was an unthinkably long distance under these conditions. It was very cold and a few times I had to stop and walk for several meters because I could not push the bike through the wind. I was wearing only a jersey and a thin long-sleeve undershirt, my efforts generated a lot of heat, but I knew that in an hour I would be completely frozen, hopefully, by that time I would reach the top and find a shelter. 4 km to go. I focused all my efforts on reaching the next mark, trying not to look up. Time was dragging forever. 3 km. Arrow mark on my GPS was toying with me, telling that the top was within 500 meters. I looked up, the hut at the top was still miles away, separated by endless switchbacks. Hands completely numb with cold and I could no longer shift gears but, I think, I had ran through all of them already. 2 km. Sure, that won't last forever, if I just keep turning these pedals. 1 km. It looked like I was moving. 500 meters, 200 meters. One or two minutes to go. And, finally, I can see Mike (our race director) jumping and waving with both hands.
There was an open bar and I went straight to a change room. By riding unwittingly "half-dressed" I saved all my warm and "waterproof" clothing from the rain. For the next two hours I was hiding inside, and having asked for a breakfast was invited to feast at the hotel buffet table. The weather cleared at last and I descended into Bormio on the other side. On the way down I became concerned that my brake pads were thinning too fast, there was too much travel in brake levers, while just two days ago they were pretty tight. At the bottom I found a bike shop and, amazingly, they had exactly the type of brake pads that I needed. I didn't really need to replace them now, but I felt safer with new brake pads, old ones were burned halfway. And here the tight link in the chain was discovered, but I was not concerned about that. I told them that I was going to Istanbul and wanted to avoid traffic, if possible, and was advised to take a westerly route over Gavia Pass, which is easy, then Passo Tonale, which is even more easier, and then aim for Trento, and from there follow a good cycling route. I liked that. Traffic in Italy was crazy and the roads narrow, I would go anywhere just to escape it. I set off in a light drizzle under clouded sky.
Climb to Gavia Pass (elevation 2600 m) was long, wet and warm and there was no wind, it is not as exposed as Stelvio. That is, not until I reached the top, which wasn't exactly a turning point when you stop pedaling and let your bike do all the work. It was a plateau, a narrow between surrounding peaks, a point of converging of all air currents moving along the continent and coming together on this pass, fighting for the position to go first which, naturally, results in hurricane winds and much inconvenience for other travelers going in opposite direction, like cyclists. Today winds had brought rain clouds for company. I was here at a wrong time. What was missing on Stelvio descent was complemented on Gavia. Now my initiation into the world of extreme high-altitude cycling was complete. The descent was shaking, with every gust of wind I went into convulsions, what was odd and never happened to me before was that my head started to shake with the rest of my body and then with me shaking, the bike started to shake too. So the whole experience was like I was riding on a washboard, only that the road surface was even. At first, as soon as the gust died my shaking would stop, but after some time convulsions would return at a regular intervals regardless of the wind, and the only way to stop it was to dismount from the bike and start pumping the fists into the air with all my strength. And in spite of all my waterproof clothing I had on me, I, of course, was wet to the bones. As I was going down the temperature was rising and the shakes ceased. I stopped at the intersection. There were two ways: keep riding into the unknown over the next pass - Passo del Tonale - or turn into the town, find hotel and have a hot shower. I didn't think too much, I knew what I wanted. An hour later another short day of riding had ended - just 100 km and all the hopes of finishing this race in 10 days are gone.
Next day was uneventful. Tonale Pass at 1800 m - just a warm-up - followed by a fast, almost straight descent, I barely touched the brakes. Basically, I was riding downhill for the next 6 or 7 hours, it was too bad I could not use higher gears because of the skipping chain. And I had a good tail wind. I tried to avoid highways as much as possible, but because I didn't have a set route I inevitably veered away and at one point found myself at the dead end of an apple garden and the only way out was to backtrack and then turn onto the autostrada and ride 30 km to Trento including 4 km in the tunnel. Thankfully, there was almost no traffic, and my sight didn't enrage the drivers. I didn't want to stop for the night and by the morning next day I reached Trieste. Riding at night was becoming increasingly difficult, it was a constant struggle with sleep and I didn't want to go into the tent. During the ride the tent was slowly turning into the most hated thing. I think, it always was, I just never admitted it to myself. I had a two-person tent with me, because I could not imagine sleeping in a one-person tent, probably the same experience as lying in a coffin. Next time I am going to take just a sleeping bag and sleep with my head outside. I survived this night, but then in the morning just could not go anymore. I tried to sleep in a plastic chair on the terrace of one roadside cafe - after one hour of sitting I felt fresher and hit the road again. Next stop - some Italian cafe - they had croissants but no tea and ridiculously small cups, after lengthy negotiations the owner filled my pot with hot water and I had my tea. An hour later I was in Trieste and I hit a supermarket. I certainly wanted to get rid of my backpack, but it was really useful in some situations. At 28 liters of volume it is big enough to hold several bags of food, so after each of my raids on supermarkets I retreated to some quiet place where all this food was eaten. Usually such breakfast consisted from bread, croissants, cheese, cookies, sandwiches, if I could find them, two small bottles of fruit yogurt and one big bottle of plain yogurt or milk. I like this food and it can be found in all countries where I travelled - except Bulgaria. In Bulgaria they don't sell normal yogurt and milk in most places. Instead they have something made from sour milk with a lot of salt - almost impossible to drink.
I was leaving Italy behind and entering Slovenia. The road from the Italian border to Croatia was packed with cars, bumper to bumper, all the length between the two borders - a line almost 40 km long. The opposite lane was empty and I used it to ride past all the cars - most of the time the cars didn't move. So crossing Slovenia by car was almost an equivalent of flying across Atlantic to Europe.
The region of Croatia I was riding through is called Gorski Kotar (mountain district), aka Croatian Switzerland. Most of its territory is covered by forests and the riding was all up and down. By now I considered myself a seasoned alpine climber and quickly classified the terrain as easy short hills. I was wrong. Yes, it started easy, just rolling hills and one steep but short climb to the village and then a twisty, but not too long, descent, and I was in the valley. I crossed highway and came to the bottom of one seemingly small hill. I started the climb, expecting it to end after the next turn. I rounded the first bend, the road was still climbing, another bend, still no top in sight, and another one, and then another dozen and a few more, and then the temperature started to drop as I was gaining elevation and I thought that this, probably, was the wrong road because it was leading not around the mountain but directly to the top, to some "touristic" lookout with great views. The road was wide and deserted like everything else around me, then out of nowhere two motobikes ripped past me like two jet fighters going all out and doing probably close to 150 km/h, and it was a steep climb! They disappeared in an instant, their thunder slowly died as they launched themselves into space. The climb took me more than an hour and I estimated it to be over 10 km long. At the end of the day I did 5300 m of climbing, more than on any other day during my whole trip. The night was approaching, I felt hungry and stopped at a small rest area on the road overlooking Grad Delnice (town of Delnice) - the main and the largest town of this region. In 10 minutes my hot meal was ready - chili macaroni with beef, I always have an appetite for this. It was 9 PM. Next 7 hours I was cruising up and down, falling asleep on the descents and waking up when going up the hills, sleepwalking and hallucinating. Around every bright speck from distant lampposts a blurry images of something strange formed and gradually shapeshifted into walking men. I was wondering what all these people were doing here at night marching along the road, and then white line in the middle of the road rose and I was moving through a dark hole. At 4 AM I came to a hotel and got two hours of sleep and a breakfast in the morning: bread, jam, butter and tea. And the new day was upon me.
There was nothing else to see in Croatia, not on my route, anyway. I just wanted to close this chapter and cross into Bosnia. And so at 5 PM I was in Bosnia and riding on what appeared to be a single highway across the country. I didn't have local money and I couldn't find any exchange offices, I drank up all the juice and was left with just one bottle of water. My last meal was 6 hours ago, and the prospect of having another one was bleak. The first impression of the country was that it is a desolate and inhospitable territory lying in ruins and every man for himself. No problem for me, the day was over and it was cool, I won't need a lot of water, and I am going to ride conservatively and cover at least 200 km by the morning and then another 100 km and will be out of the country. And, of course, I was wrong on all accounts. Yes, roadsides and ditches on major roads were all littered up with rotting garbage and the air was bad, but local people are friendly and Bosnia has the best resupply infrastructure on the roads, it's impossible to run out of water or food, whether it is day or night, hotels are plentiful and modern. Euros and croatian kunas are accepted at the small gas stations and motels, at least this was the case while I was not far from Croatian border, and you can also pay with credit card in most places. And, finally, there are a lot of bakeries in every town. You just need to stay away from busy roads. And the country is safe, it feels safe. Yet, I couldn't shake off the impression that Bosnia is one big industrial zone filled with smoke. But it could be the result of my poor choice of route and extremely hot weather. This night I spent in motel. In the morning I felt a little down with sore throat and puffy bags under the eyes, my belly fat completely gone revealing all the veins that I never suspected existed there. I had never been so skinny.
And it was in Bosnia that my eating regime started to change. I didn't miss a single gas station, supermarket or bakery along the way, every one to two hours I stopped and ate something, my favorite was ice-cream with a bottle of cold water. In between I was drinking juice, every two to four hours a liter of milk with fresh pastries. I remember, I bought a bag of pies and a box of milk and sat at the table outside the bakery, and I could not finish it. Simply, I was full to my capacity.
This trend continued through Serbia, Bulgaria and Turkey. These countries are so rich in easy around-the-clock food, unlike central Europe or Italy where everything is closed at night and at daytime you are limited to mostly restaurants and rare cafes. Starting from Bosnia my trip turned for the better and gastronomic support played an important part.
By the end of day two in Bosnia I was approaching Serbian border and in front of me was another mountain range. I was following my GPS route and didn't expect any difficulties. The road was climbing up, it was one of major, but quiet in these parts, highways. I then turned onto some local road which gradually became narrower and narrower and finally turned into a dirt road. It was dark and somewhere in the distance loudspeakers of the mosque started their mournful singing. It was a weird sound, I felt like I just crossed a space-time hole and would never find a way out.
According to my GPS I needed to turn off this road and then continue for around 10 km to the next major road. I turned into the wood and found myself on a steep and narrow singletrack that disappear after 100 meters. GPS was telling me to go straight, but in front of me was a dense wall of branches. Later, I looked at the route and didn't see any road at all - the line was going through nothing for 10 or 15 km. This is how Google Maps works when you ask it to find the shortest route. There was certainly a way but I didn't want to explore it at night. Fortunately, the dirt road didn't stop there and another 20 km of riding brought me back to the good paved road. It was an unsettling place to be at night - the road climbed over short but steep hills, barbed wire fences lined the road, and dark abandoned houses stood with missing windows. It could have been a territory of one of the concentration camps during the Bosnian war. I didn't want to stay there longer. After about 5 km of riding through this I descended down and found a hotel not far from the Serbian border. It was 1 AM.
Day 3
I was approaching Luxembourg City, my night roller coaster coming to an end. Empty streets and blue lights of illuminated buildings flowed past. Now I needed to move quickly to take an advantage of empty and fast highway, I always enjoy it, at night you can have the whole road to yourself, it's a freedom. Well, maybe not in Central Europe, but at the time I didn't know this and was riding right in the middle of my lane ignoring occasional cars, but they didn't mind my presence. I just needed to ride the last 2 km before turning off, when I was stopped by French police, I crossed into France somewhere along the way. To my relief they spoke English, but my attempts to convince them that this was the best possible way to Istanbul didn't touch them. So for 50 euros I got a personal escort until the next exit. I tried to time-trial away from them, but they stuck to my tail like piece of muck. Finally, I turned onto some dark road and they fell off.
When the dawn broke, it found me traveling across landscape of rolling hills and patches of chilly mist. The sun was rising promising a hot day, but now, bundled up in everything I had with me, I was shivering. I still hadn't slept since I started this race, and now was having another fight with sleep demons. I was riding through some small village and noticed a bus stop with a bench. I knew that if I can get just 20-30 minutes of sleep it would be enough, so I stretched on this bench and closed my eyes. It was too cold. 10 minutes of lying and I thought I'd better keep moving. But even this short rest was helpful, at least my eyes had rested and didn't feel heavy now.
Soon the heat hit me, and I was taking any opportunity to hide in the shade, so I stopped a lot - at bakeries, shops, under the trees when I saw picnic tables, eating and drinking. I needed to survive the heat until at least 5 PM, when the sun drops a little and loses some of its ferocity. While waiting out the heat I tried to sleep under the trees and on the benches, but sleep didn't come. Later that day, when the heat finally subsided, the chain started to jump from ring to ring and I was passed by another Transcontinental rider. That chain problem put a damper on my whole trip, because I really wasn't able to ride in my usual gear; for the second hour now I was struggling with the chain, unable to cover the last 30 km to Strasbourg. Finally, I gave up and continued to ride simply ignoring it.
It was evening when I arrived to Strasbourg, hot air didn't move on the streets and was infused with smoke. I must move quickly through this. I stopped at gas station for resupply and soon left town looking for camping spot. I found a field just outside town. With the dark falling quickly, I prepared my favorite camping meal - chili macaroni with beef, and, after waiting a little for the traffic to die, went to bed. My first night of sleep.
Day 4
Day 4 saw me riding into Germany with the intention to reach Stelvio pass in the next 24 hours. With an early start at 5 AM I truly believed in this possibility. Alas, I became lost on the shores of Lake Constance. It's a beautiful area with a beach stretching for 50 km, grape yards and numerous villages and towns packed so close together that they form a single infinite street with some interesting historic sections. I arrived there by way of some busy highway, highways are always busy in Germany, and there are always ways around them. The one that I followed was classified as Bundesstrasse (federal highway) and those are best avoided. I should have turned onto parallel Landesstrasse (state road, marked with L), but heat, noise and my tiredness sent me into state of stupor and repressed aggression towards anything in my way that I became totally oblivious to the traffic around me. I just wanted to finish this ride and ignored the looks that I was getting from the passing cars and occasional german profanities flying my way from the windows of slowed down trucks. Finally, I found myself on the streets of some town and could no longer ignore the surroundings. It was a resort zone and a cycling paradise. Everyone was riding in style, every bike was equipped with dynamo lights, front and rear, kickstand and different variations of Butterfly handlebars, paths and bike shops everywhere - it was a German Cycling Riviera. I turned on a bike path and started to ride along the shoreline. It didn't take long before I could no longer resist the call of the water. Swimming was refreshing. A good basket of strawberries restored my energy and I was ready to go. But first I turned into bike shop and bought a new tube and, after some hesitation, a tire. Since my old rear tire was still going well I decided not to change it now, but that meant carrying an extra weight in my backpack, yet time seemed more important.
Leaving town I chose to continue to ride on bike paths and soon I was going in circles. When I checked my GPS, to my dismay, I found that I was going in a opposite direction. To correct this I picked a straight route back to highway, riding in grapeyards. Soon the trail disappeared under the grass and next half hour I was walking along long lines of grapevines on a steep slope and, finally, scrambling through someone's backyard, reached the pavement. Suddenly it was dark, I looked around and saw a huge black cloud the size of the lake crawling at me. It was time to race hard, really hard. Rainstorm caught me in about 20 minutes, by that time I found a cover under the awning of some store. I waited out its first bursts and then continued under light drizzle.
It was almost midnight when I stopped. In front of me was a wide and empty highway and a prohibitive sign with a fat red line crossing a bicycle. Autobahn. The bane of long-distance cyclist. I stopped, not sure what to do. What is a minor offense in France can be a crime in Germany. (I was in Austria now, but I think it's no different from Germany.) If you are driving a car, you are not allowed to stop on autobahn even if you run out fuel. Stopping on autobahns can get you in jail. Riding a bicycle is a capital offense no less than a mass murder.
There was no traffic, but this road didn't have any shoulder. Autobahn network consists of new and older roads joined together, sometimes it starts with two or three lanes in each direction with a shoulder as an emergency lane and then turning into narrow two-lane road without shoulder. I checked my GPS, and it appeared that I had no other choice than to go on, or at least start riding until the next exit where I can find local roads taking me to my destination. And I was tired, I had to go. So I kept riding, and then I felt that I could not go anymore. It wasn't that I was sleepy or had tired legs, my weakness was somewhere deeper in the heart. Today I had covered 300 km in 16 hours and now just wanted to lie down. So I took the next exit and as soon as I saw a patch of grass with several houses nearby I pitched a tent.
Day 5
The night was miserable. It was raining and I was tossing and turning all time. With first light I broke camp and stubbornly continued on the same road. I was convinced it was the shortest way and, besides, there was no traffic. I didn't make it too far - a car pulled next to me and the window rolled down.
"You can not ride on this road!" - the driver yelled at me.
I didn't want to argue with him, so I turned back and returned to the road where I was camping. And it was a good decision, this local road actually ran along the highway through small towns which offered some distraction and there were bakeries and shops which were already open, so I stopped for breakfast with milk and freshly baked pastries. Twice.
The change of scenery was abrupt, now I was riding in a valley surrounded from left and right by rugged vertical walls and in front of me loomed distant peaks, sharp and black. The road was gradually climbing up and my yesterday's weakness returned. I moved slowly. It started raining, I rode through several long tunnels and arrived at the foot of my first serious climb. Switchbacks followed, then the road flattened out and I was on the top of Arlberg pass. Elevation 1800 m. A quick snack there with hotdogs and a fast descent brought me into the valley on the other side of the ridge. The sun came out, life was good again, my weakness was gone and I stopped in restaurant and ordered big pizza and tea. My next waypoint was Landeck, and from there Stelvio pass was a short distance away.
Several hours later and I reached Italy, blundering only once on a wrong highway. Again, I was stopped by police, I played dumb, telling them I was riding on a different road but then stopped for water at a gas station and that I thought that I was on the same road. It worked. And they even showed me how to get back on my road which is perfect for cycling with almost no traffic.
In Italy winds were gusting between blunt and bald peaks of western South Tyrol. In the background to the south stood an enormous mountain covered in snow, it was such an alien landscape for me - forbidding mountain and uninterrupted expanse of heavy and low clouds. A flock of cyclists passed me. I was riding along the shores of some lake, its bright bluish green water in sharp contrast with grim sky. Here my rear wheel slowly deflated again, was it that my patch on the hole finally disintegrated or a new puncture, I don't know. But I was waiting for this moment and was glad that it happened now and not on the descent from Stelvio pass. First, it allowed me to get rid of heavy bulk in my backpack, and now I had a bombproof tyre. Yes, it is said to be heavier and slower and more difficult to mount but you get maximum puncture protection - Schwalbe Marathon - practically undestroyable. I didn't notice any difference, though. Old tyre and tube were thrown away.
I arrived at the foot of Stelvio pass around 8 in the evening, having ridden only 150 km. The weather was warm and calm and probably the best decision would have been to continue with the ride. I didn't feel tired, but that meant that I would reach the top well after sunset and I wanted to save some memories and spent a little time on the roof of Italian Alps. Conveniently, a hotel was just in front of me - cyclists and bicycles are welcome - Hotel Prad. I arrived just in time for dinner and was treated with three course meal: salads, breads, a big plate of pasta and slices of meat with sauce. I haven't eaten so much since our dinner in London's Bella Italia, which was almost 10 days ago. I was really glad that I decided to stop here. Dinner was followed with a big pot of tea with all chocolate bars from my reserves up in my room and 7 hours of sleep.
Day 6
At 6 AM I left hotel and began the climb under the light and warm drizzle. An hour later drizzle turned into light rain. I was still under the cover of trees on the lower slopes and unsuspecting of what was awating me at the top. As soon as I was above treeline heavy rain and high winds hit me. I don't know how much time I spent in this blizzard, the whole 24 km climb took 2 hours 36 minutes. But I remember that after endless struggle through this waterfall I came across a white mark on the road - 5 km to the top. 5 km was an unthinkably long distance under these conditions. It was very cold and a few times I had to stop and walk for several meters because I could not push the bike through the wind. I was wearing only a jersey and a thin long-sleeve undershirt, my efforts generated a lot of heat, but I knew that in an hour I would be completely frozen, hopefully, by that time I would reach the top and find a shelter. 4 km to go. I focused all my efforts on reaching the next mark, trying not to look up. Time was dragging forever. 3 km. Arrow mark on my GPS was toying with me, telling that the top was within 500 meters. I looked up, the hut at the top was still miles away, separated by endless switchbacks. Hands completely numb with cold and I could no longer shift gears but, I think, I had ran through all of them already. 2 km. Sure, that won't last forever, if I just keep turning these pedals. 1 km. It looked like I was moving. 500 meters, 200 meters. One or two minutes to go. And, finally, I can see Mike (our race director) jumping and waving with both hands.
There was an open bar and I went straight to a change room. By riding unwittingly "half-dressed" I saved all my warm and "waterproof" clothing from the rain. For the next two hours I was hiding inside, and having asked for a breakfast was invited to feast at the hotel buffet table. The weather cleared at last and I descended into Bormio on the other side. On the way down I became concerned that my brake pads were thinning too fast, there was too much travel in brake levers, while just two days ago they were pretty tight. At the bottom I found a bike shop and, amazingly, they had exactly the type of brake pads that I needed. I didn't really need to replace them now, but I felt safer with new brake pads, old ones were burned halfway. And here the tight link in the chain was discovered, but I was not concerned about that. I told them that I was going to Istanbul and wanted to avoid traffic, if possible, and was advised to take a westerly route over Gavia Pass, which is easy, then Passo Tonale, which is even more easier, and then aim for Trento, and from there follow a good cycling route. I liked that. Traffic in Italy was crazy and the roads narrow, I would go anywhere just to escape it. I set off in a light drizzle under clouded sky.
Climb to Gavia Pass (elevation 2600 m) was long, wet and warm and there was no wind, it is not as exposed as Stelvio. That is, not until I reached the top, which wasn't exactly a turning point when you stop pedaling and let your bike do all the work. It was a plateau, a narrow between surrounding peaks, a point of converging of all air currents moving along the continent and coming together on this pass, fighting for the position to go first which, naturally, results in hurricane winds and much inconvenience for other travelers going in opposite direction, like cyclists. Today winds had brought rain clouds for company. I was here at a wrong time. What was missing on Stelvio descent was complemented on Gavia. Now my initiation into the world of extreme high-altitude cycling was complete. The descent was shaking, with every gust of wind I went into convulsions, what was odd and never happened to me before was that my head started to shake with the rest of my body and then with me shaking, the bike started to shake too. So the whole experience was like I was riding on a washboard, only that the road surface was even. At first, as soon as the gust died my shaking would stop, but after some time convulsions would return at a regular intervals regardless of the wind, and the only way to stop it was to dismount from the bike and start pumping the fists into the air with all my strength. And in spite of all my waterproof clothing I had on me, I, of course, was wet to the bones. As I was going down the temperature was rising and the shakes ceased. I stopped at the intersection. There were two ways: keep riding into the unknown over the next pass - Passo del Tonale - or turn into the town, find hotel and have a hot shower. I didn't think too much, I knew what I wanted. An hour later another short day of riding had ended - just 100 km and all the hopes of finishing this race in 10 days are gone.
Day 7 and 8
Next day was uneventful. Tonale Pass at 1800 m - just a warm-up - followed by a fast, almost straight descent, I barely touched the brakes. Basically, I was riding downhill for the next 6 or 7 hours, it was too bad I could not use higher gears because of the skipping chain. And I had a good tail wind. I tried to avoid highways as much as possible, but because I didn't have a set route I inevitably veered away and at one point found myself at the dead end of an apple garden and the only way out was to backtrack and then turn onto the autostrada and ride 30 km to Trento including 4 km in the tunnel. Thankfully, there was almost no traffic, and my sight didn't enrage the drivers. I didn't want to stop for the night and by the morning next day I reached Trieste. Riding at night was becoming increasingly difficult, it was a constant struggle with sleep and I didn't want to go into the tent. During the ride the tent was slowly turning into the most hated thing. I think, it always was, I just never admitted it to myself. I had a two-person tent with me, because I could not imagine sleeping in a one-person tent, probably the same experience as lying in a coffin. Next time I am going to take just a sleeping bag and sleep with my head outside. I survived this night, but then in the morning just could not go anymore. I tried to sleep in a plastic chair on the terrace of one roadside cafe - after one hour of sitting I felt fresher and hit the road again. Next stop - some Italian cafe - they had croissants but no tea and ridiculously small cups, after lengthy negotiations the owner filled my pot with hot water and I had my tea. An hour later I was in Trieste and I hit a supermarket. I certainly wanted to get rid of my backpack, but it was really useful in some situations. At 28 liters of volume it is big enough to hold several bags of food, so after each of my raids on supermarkets I retreated to some quiet place where all this food was eaten. Usually such breakfast consisted from bread, croissants, cheese, cookies, sandwiches, if I could find them, two small bottles of fruit yogurt and one big bottle of plain yogurt or milk. I like this food and it can be found in all countries where I travelled - except Bulgaria. In Bulgaria they don't sell normal yogurt and milk in most places. Instead they have something made from sour milk with a lot of salt - almost impossible to drink.
I was leaving Italy behind and entering Slovenia. The road from the Italian border to Croatia was packed with cars, bumper to bumper, all the length between the two borders - a line almost 40 km long. The opposite lane was empty and I used it to ride past all the cars - most of the time the cars didn't move. So crossing Slovenia by car was almost an equivalent of flying across Atlantic to Europe.
The region of Croatia I was riding through is called Gorski Kotar (mountain district), aka Croatian Switzerland. Most of its territory is covered by forests and the riding was all up and down. By now I considered myself a seasoned alpine climber and quickly classified the terrain as easy short hills. I was wrong. Yes, it started easy, just rolling hills and one steep but short climb to the village and then a twisty, but not too long, descent, and I was in the valley. I crossed highway and came to the bottom of one seemingly small hill. I started the climb, expecting it to end after the next turn. I rounded the first bend, the road was still climbing, another bend, still no top in sight, and another one, and then another dozen and a few more, and then the temperature started to drop as I was gaining elevation and I thought that this, probably, was the wrong road because it was leading not around the mountain but directly to the top, to some "touristic" lookout with great views. The road was wide and deserted like everything else around me, then out of nowhere two motobikes ripped past me like two jet fighters going all out and doing probably close to 150 km/h, and it was a steep climb! They disappeared in an instant, their thunder slowly died as they launched themselves into space. The climb took me more than an hour and I estimated it to be over 10 km long. At the end of the day I did 5300 m of climbing, more than on any other day during my whole trip. The night was approaching, I felt hungry and stopped at a small rest area on the road overlooking Grad Delnice (town of Delnice) - the main and the largest town of this region. In 10 minutes my hot meal was ready - chili macaroni with beef, I always have an appetite for this. It was 9 PM. Next 7 hours I was cruising up and down, falling asleep on the descents and waking up when going up the hills, sleepwalking and hallucinating. Around every bright speck from distant lampposts a blurry images of something strange formed and gradually shapeshifted into walking men. I was wondering what all these people were doing here at night marching along the road, and then white line in the middle of the road rose and I was moving through a dark hole. At 4 AM I came to a hotel and got two hours of sleep and a breakfast in the morning: bread, jam, butter and tea. And the new day was upon me.
Day 9 and 10
There was nothing else to see in Croatia, not on my route, anyway. I just wanted to close this chapter and cross into Bosnia. And so at 5 PM I was in Bosnia and riding on what appeared to be a single highway across the country. I didn't have local money and I couldn't find any exchange offices, I drank up all the juice and was left with just one bottle of water. My last meal was 6 hours ago, and the prospect of having another one was bleak. The first impression of the country was that it is a desolate and inhospitable territory lying in ruins and every man for himself. No problem for me, the day was over and it was cool, I won't need a lot of water, and I am going to ride conservatively and cover at least 200 km by the morning and then another 100 km and will be out of the country. And, of course, I was wrong on all accounts. Yes, roadsides and ditches on major roads were all littered up with rotting garbage and the air was bad, but local people are friendly and Bosnia has the best resupply infrastructure on the roads, it's impossible to run out of water or food, whether it is day or night, hotels are plentiful and modern. Euros and croatian kunas are accepted at the small gas stations and motels, at least this was the case while I was not far from Croatian border, and you can also pay with credit card in most places. And, finally, there are a lot of bakeries in every town. You just need to stay away from busy roads. And the country is safe, it feels safe. Yet, I couldn't shake off the impression that Bosnia is one big industrial zone filled with smoke. But it could be the result of my poor choice of route and extremely hot weather. This night I spent in motel. In the morning I felt a little down with sore throat and puffy bags under the eyes, my belly fat completely gone revealing all the veins that I never suspected existed there. I had never been so skinny.
And it was in Bosnia that my eating regime started to change. I didn't miss a single gas station, supermarket or bakery along the way, every one to two hours I stopped and ate something, my favorite was ice-cream with a bottle of cold water. In between I was drinking juice, every two to four hours a liter of milk with fresh pastries. I remember, I bought a bag of pies and a box of milk and sat at the table outside the bakery, and I could not finish it. Simply, I was full to my capacity.
This trend continued through Serbia, Bulgaria and Turkey. These countries are so rich in easy around-the-clock food, unlike central Europe or Italy where everything is closed at night and at daytime you are limited to mostly restaurants and rare cafes. Starting from Bosnia my trip turned for the better and gastronomic support played an important part.
By the end of day two in Bosnia I was approaching Serbian border and in front of me was another mountain range. I was following my GPS route and didn't expect any difficulties. The road was climbing up, it was one of major, but quiet in these parts, highways. I then turned onto some local road which gradually became narrower and narrower and finally turned into a dirt road. It was dark and somewhere in the distance loudspeakers of the mosque started their mournful singing. It was a weird sound, I felt like I just crossed a space-time hole and would never find a way out.
According to my GPS I needed to turn off this road and then continue for around 10 km to the next major road. I turned into the wood and found myself on a steep and narrow singletrack that disappear after 100 meters. GPS was telling me to go straight, but in front of me was a dense wall of branches. Later, I looked at the route and didn't see any road at all - the line was going through nothing for 10 or 15 km. This is how Google Maps works when you ask it to find the shortest route. There was certainly a way but I didn't want to explore it at night. Fortunately, the dirt road didn't stop there and another 20 km of riding brought me back to the good paved road. It was an unsettling place to be at night - the road climbed over short but steep hills, barbed wire fences lined the road, and dark abandoned houses stood with missing windows. It could have been a territory of one of the concentration camps during the Bosnian war. I didn't want to stay there longer. After about 5 km of riding through this I descended down and found a hotel not far from the Serbian border. It was 1 AM.
Day 11 and 12
I crossed Serbia in two days. Immediately after crossing the border I exchanged 40 Euros into Serbian dinars. It's a lot of money in Serbia. I followed the road along Drina river, that creates a natural border between Serbia and Bosnia. Both sides of the river were covered with mountains, and on my side tall cliffs were overhanging the road creating a cool shadow. It was such a relief after exposed Bosnian steppe. And there was almost no traffic. Another difference is that Serbian road network is more extensive than in Bosnia and resembles a network of small interconnected capillaries; in Bosnia there is a single straight road that crosses a country in the direction of my travel. Serbian landscape is hilly, the roads are twisty and the air is clean. In other words, Serbia is the most interesting country to cross by bicycle. Add to this abundance of bakeries, high quality juices, I ranked Serbian juices second only to Turkish, and some similarly sounding words shared by Serbian and Russian languages - when I was buying something I always spoke in Russian and they appeared to know what I was talking about. I could not say that I understood Serbian, but it sounded very familiar.
In about two hours of riding the sun rose high enough and I lost my shadow protection. The heat was amplified by narrow gorges through which the road was going and there was no wind. I stopped at every store to buy a bottle of water and an ice-cream - at least once an hour. If I didn't leave my bike in the shadow, when I stopped, iPhone, attached to the handlebar, would overheat immediately and stop working displaying a temperature warning. It would come back to life after I resume riding and the air flow would cool it.
I crossed many hills in Serbia and by the evening I was on a flat E-80 highway leading to Bulgaria. The heat was off by that time, and at night this road was not busy, so I could make a good time. I tried to avoid highways on a hot days and only used them at nights. When the night fell, I thought that maybe I can get some sleep, I found a park in one of the towns along the road and decided to camp without tent. I inflated mattress and wrapped a National Geographic fleece blanket around me, backpack as a pillow. It was much better than lying inside the tent. Finally, I found a sleeping solution! This peace didn't last long, however. The day's heavy eating had some unpleasant consequences when the food finally completes its lifecycle. And it was very urgent, and the park wasn't the most convenient place. My sleep was ruined. I jumped and raced for the next gas station, the door was closed but someone was inside and he let me in. My immediate problem was resolved but I could not go back to sleep - good sleeping places are hard to find. So another night and a full day of riding and I arrived at the Bulgarian border. Some 50 km before I got there, I stopped at the service area with a mini-market and a store clerk asked me if I was going to Istanbul. "Yes, I am". He told me that three days ago a group of other Transcontinental riders passed here. It looked like all of us were coming together onto the same road in the last 2 days of the race, but I was far behind.
Day 13
In Bulgaria I stopped for the night in hotel Dragoman, which is 15 km from the border. In the room I laid out and repackaged all of my gear, so that my backpack was empty. Tomorrow I intended to go fast and finish this race in one last push to Istanbul, which was 650 km away. Chili macaroni was eaten and tea drank.
I set out for Istanbul at 6 AM. Just one last ride. I was not alone, I spotted two other cyclists in black, packing their bags at the roadside shop (Transcontinental Specialized Team - Recep Yesil and Erik Nohlin) and we exchanged greetings. In the first four hours I had covered more than 100 km and then stopped for breakfast. I was prepared to be baked and roasted in the next 7 hours, until 5 PM, which marks the point when the sun drops down a little and the shadows start to grow. I must add that I still was living in my own time zone which was fixed at London time, so all my references to time should be corrected by one and then two hours. I was living in a time warp and it was not a fiction.
I kept riding through the night and was lucky to have company of another Transcontinental rider - Colin from Scotland. Although I was resolved to ride that night, as soon as it was dark I was struggling with sleep again. This was my first night on the road since that night in Croatia when I was sleepwalking and hallucinating. I wouldn't be able to go through this again, and besides, there was some traffic on this road, so any irregular unconscious movements are best to be avoided - it was a main highway to Turkey, and not some backcountry road in Croatia. So I was glad that we rode together for some time, not sure for how long actually, because my time perception was rather vague. Conversation and frequent accelerations kept me awake. We parted ways at one of the gas stations, Colin was in a racing mood and pushing hard, I thought that the worst part of the night was behind and stopped for refreshments. Later, while riding in the morning twilight I started to fall asleep again and had to lie down in the grass for about half an hour. No sleep, but I knew it would help. Sun was up in the sky when I stopped at the Turkish border. A little over 250 km to the finish.
Day 14
With some delays to get visa, I finally was on the wide and perfect road on the Turkish side. But I was only half way through border control, there was another invisible line across the road that was guarded by watchful steppe dwellers. My intrusion was immediately detected by two huge monsters, that looked like a cross between the Hound of the Baskervilles and pygmy musk ox. The ugliest dogs I had ever seen, they certainly identified me as a pack donkey loaded with bags and not a human and attacked me. Speed was my only defense. I thought about all those creatures roaming deserted roads and plains all the way to Istanbul.
My route through Turkey followed D-020 highway that goes mainly to the north-east and enters Istanbul from the north. This is not a direct and the shortest way, but because of this, it's virtually traffic-free. And it passes through many towns and villages, which makes traveling more interesting. As soon as I turned onto D-020 I found myself against very stiff headwind, blowing from the highlands in front of me. For the next 50 km the road was dead straight and climbing up most of the time. My average speed on this stretch was 10 km/h, and on many occasions walking was faster than riding. After 5 hours of fighting the wind I rode into town of Kirklareli. I hoped for a short respite - the road out of town turned south-east and was going down. Instead I was caught in the crosswinds and now was pushed off the road. To balance out the force of the wind blowing into my left side I had to lean into the wind as if I was wind-serfing. But when the wind died down for a moment or changed direction the bike would suddenly dive to the left and I had to quickly pull it back to keep it straight. The same thing happened when a car passed me, blocking the wind, and, all of a sudden, I was falling into a car (or a truck). That was even worse than riding straight into headwind. Fortunately, the traffic was very light.
Now I was crawling along and the wind swept across this vast plain all the way from Black Sea. I started to walk uphill again. The sign on the road read - Istanbul, 175 km. While I was walking a fellow on a scooter stopped and asked me where I was going, and then offered his back seat. I thanked him, we shook hands and he wished me well. Certainly, I could cover this distance in the next 24 hours.
Two hours had passed and another 25 km done. It was getting darker and, surprisingly, the wind disappeared. Suddenly it was calm. Another night of riding and I will be in Istanbul in the morning, but most likely I won't survive this night without sleep. I descended into a small town of Vize, a "home of many historical monuments" and a small Trak Otel, where I spent the night.
Day 15
After good eat-as-much-as-you-can turkish breakfast with eggs and cheese I was ready to go. To my disappointment the wind was already raging in the streets and when I was leaving town I rode into a swirling cloud of dust and sand. But now I was going downhill. Of course, after 100 km of climbing yesterday, the road had to go down. So after many long descents and a few short climbs, the scenery around me changed and the rocky plains were replaced with green thick groves. The wind never retreated, but now it became entangled in the high tops of the trees and couldn't get at me.
Two hours later, when I came to a small rest stop with a bench and a table, I was unable to hold myself back from cookies that I had in my backpack and a sour cherry (visne) juice. This juice immediately became my favorite, it can only be found in Turkey, and out of several varieties Tropicana is the best. Turkish cookies come in endless forms and flavors. In just less than two days I went through 3 boxes of ulker cokoprens - round double biscuits with chocolate cream inside; several bags of Hanimeller cookies - assorted, shortbreads with sesame seeds; and a box of kurabiye. After Bulgaria with its sandwiches, being in Turkey was a dream come true.
And another thing that came to mind when I was 100 km from my goal was that I didn't want to end it. I didn't feel like I had just ridden over 3000 km, it was more like I went for a short 4 hour ride in the morning. Why wasn't this finish line somewhere in China?
Istanbul was quickly approaching. Many military training camps along the road, two policemen flagged me down and studied my passport.
The wooded area soon ended, and once again I started climbing into the hills and wind hit me with revenge. There was a big road construction going on, some sections weren't completed yet, and all the traffic was squeezed into two lanes with a line of road cones separating two opposite directions. And so for some time I found myself in a tight spot between a barrier and a line of speeding trucks who couldn't move over because of the road cones. It was very uncomfortable, I could have touched them as they passed me.
The last portion of the ride, just before Istanbul, is a park to the north of the city with Ataturk Arboretum atop the central hill. And then a long descent to the Bosphorus strait. I had reached the end of Europe. And here my navigation equipment failed. The dynamo cache battery wouldn't charge iPhone anymore, I had 10 km to go, and iPhone was at 12% already. At first, I blamed heat for this. When I was in Serbia I noticed that as heat increased during the day, iPhone charge dropped to 85 percent, then at night it would come back to 100 percent, and each day this would happen again. But when I got home I discovered that the problem was with the iPhone Wahoo case - its micro USB connector was broken and pushed inside.
So I raced to the finish as hard as I could, I had about 10 minutes left before iPhone dies, and when this happened I wanted to be as close as possible to the end. And I rode past the finish line. Well, actually there was no finish line. The race ended at Rumeli Hisari fortress, but I didn't know the exact location. I realized my mistake ten minutes later, and turned right, into the streets, then I became lost, and, as another hour passed, I managed to return to my previous location before the finish. I rode slowly this time and, finally, found it. My GPS didn't die, but it was hanging by a hair.
I spent very little time in Istanbul. After the night party I rode to the airport and several hours later was boarding my plane.
And here are all the photos http://flic.kr/s/aHsjHK57Ax
And here are all the photos http://flic.kr/s/aHsjHK57Ax
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