iznik

It’s been a tough few days, with a constant headwind trying to batter me into submission. And a few more hills than expected.

But I’ve made it to where I want to be; just 60 km (38 miles) from the narrow strait between Asia and Europe. I should get to the Asian side of the crossing just after lunchtime tomorrow (Sunday), from where a ferry should whisk me effortlessly across the (roughly) three mile gap between two continents.

Leaving Iznik was hard, though.

Partly because of that interesting mix of history and culture that I discussed last time (the Ayasofya mosque, above, sums it up pretty well; an ancient church converted into a mosque, just like its much bigger and more impressive namesake in Istanbul).

Partly because it was a really nice, chilled-out little place with loads of lakeside cafes. And partly because, from Iznik, the only way out is upwards.

At least I got a last view of Iznik as I left. The vast majority of Turkish towns I’ve been to have been flat, meaning there’s rarely a vantage point on the road to see the whole place at once. And, despite a little shower as I hit the top of the hill, the short(ish) run to Bursa was unproblematic.

The only big issue in Bursa (which is regarded as the birthplace of the Ottoman Empire, by the way) was the traffic, which got a bit manic in the city centre. It’s the biggest Turkish city I’ve ridden in, so I suppose this is excusable to an extent. Although it made me very glad that I decided against riding through Istanbul, which is many times bigger (and therefore the traffic’s likely to be many times worse).

Another reason that I was happy not to be riding into Istanbul on Thursday was that there was (yet) another bomb attack there that afternoon. In the eastern suburbs, which may have put me nearby if I’d headed that way.

Then again, there was also a suicide bombing in Bursa only a fortnight before I got there (27th April), which I thought it was probably better not to mention until I was through, in case people worried.

It seems to be a grim, almost daily occurrence in Turkey at the moment. And the frequency may go some way to explaining why neither attack appears to have made it anywhere near the news at home (along with obsessive Euro referendum navel-gazing, I’d guess).

In any case, unless you’re unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time (and that could happen just as easily at home), you’d never even know they’d happened. Bursa city centre was a scene of total, big city normality. I’m sure Istanbul’s the same.

It’s a real shame that things like that seem to be putting tourists off coming to Turkey. I’ve had a great time here so far, but I’ve lost count of the amount of people in the tourist trade bemoaning the lack of business this year.

I was much more worried about the bike’s health, to be honest. It had developed a distinct wobble at the back end. And wobbles at the back end can’t be good news.

As usual, it took a while to work out that it wasn’t something mechanical (and therefore expensive, and maybe problematic). It was just the rear tyre finally giving up the ghost.

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I’d decided not to rotate the tyres this time, just to see how long they actually last. The front will be fine all the way home, I think. Maybe even for ever; it still looks almost new.

But the rear, having carried most of the weight, and delivered all the traction for 11,500 fully-loaded kilometres (including the UK Tour) had finally had enough. As you can probably tell from the badly-focussed picture above; the replacement tyre (identical to the old one) is on the left, obviously.

Still, 11,500 kms is pretty good. Especially as it still showed no signs of actually falling apart. One puncture in all that time (way back in Myanmar). Dirt roads, potholes, mud, rocks and glass dealt with with aplomb. It’s just a shame that it didn’t quite last until Europe. But, in the end, the wobbling was driving me nuts, and making the whole bike shimmy, so it had to go.

It’s possible that I just spent slightly too long mourning the loss of a tyre.

For the rest of the bike and me, Europe awaits. Although I’ve been roughly following the south coast of the Sea of Marmara for the last few days, I only got to see it for the first time today (above).

Tomorrow should take me pretty much along the coast, until it narrows into the Dardanelles (that strait between the two continents I mentioned before). The ferry will take me to the town of Gelibolu.

Which, as well as being my entry into Europe, also gives its name to the peninsular on which it sits. In English, its name is Gallipoli. Site of one of the most appalling wastes of life in the First World War.

And that should certainly put today’s relatively tiny risks of terrorism into perspective…

Borderlands are always interesting places.

Mountains plunging into the sea provide stunning landscapes. Places where cultures bump into each other produce fascinating history (even where they also – all too often – provoke conflict). It’s at the edges where things are most compelling.

I’ve been in border country since the last post, although I’ve only really appreciated it today.

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Bolu (above) was the last proper city in the hills. Since then, it’s been small towns and smaller climbs (and some immensely fun downhills), as I’ve crossed from the mountainous interior of Turkey back towards the Sea of Marmara.

And the sea (together with the Aegean, immediately to its south, and the city of Istanbul at its northern end) has been a cultural crossroads since people started writing history.

So the borderland between the hills and the coastal areas is also the edge of a fuzzy cultural boundary. Although I’m not in Europe yet, things are changing already. Up in Bolu, things still felt very Asiatic, with the fairly mono-cultural cityscape of mosques, minarets and square buildings dominating. Within a couple of hundred kilometres, things are much more cosmopolitan.

But the noticeable changes had already begun at Bolu. Just a few kilometres east of town, my road had been joined in its valley by a motorway.

That’s not just a road with a designation beginning with ‘M’, as was the case in the former Soviet countries. It’s a proper, European-style motorway (the main drag between Ankara and Istanbul). The sort of road where bikes are not allowed. It’s the first road I’ve seen for months that I can’t ride.

I know that this will be the new normal from here on (and that it’s my normal normal in any case). But I’ve got so used to rolling along whichever road I want that it feels like a big change. So does the fact that the chocolate bars in petrol stations have suddenly become the same as at home, where further east, they are all Turkish versions.

I think my perspective might have got a little skewed somewhere along the way…

There are still plenty of reminders that I’m not home just yet. It’s pretty certain that a flatbed van in Europe wouldn’t be allowed on the road with a ton of apples tied loosely on the back with string.

But that appears to be what caused me a twenty minute delay this morning:

Thankfully, things got slightly more organised after the big guy in the red shirt started waving his arms and shouting.

This afternoon (Tuesday), the cultural variety and complexity of this area became clearer. I dropped down to lake Iznik. I’d been trying to get to a town on the edge of the lake, which is marked up on Google Maps as ‘Nicaea’. And I’d been getting increasingly concerned that I’d not seen it signposted. I was just following signs for ‘Iznik’, and hoping that Nicaea would become obvious.

It turns out that Iznik and Nicaea are the same place. Google uses the Greek name for some unfathomable reason. Although that was the town’s name when it was established (by a Greek mythological character, apparently), it’s been Iznik for ever as far as the locals are concerned, and Google should probably have caught up by now.

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But it’s not just the names of the town that show how many cultures have had a say in this region over the full course of recorded history. The city walls, which I casually parked the bike against on the way into town, were originally built by the Ancient Greeks. The local tourist guide notes, sadly, that ‘only Roman and Byzantine construction remains’. And that’s still not counting the role of this area of Turkey in the birth of the Ottoman Empire.

There’s an intimidating amount of history in this part of the world, on the edge of so may empires.

I’m going to have a day off tomorrow (Wednesday) to have a proper look around Iznik, and digest some of this stuff. It’s only about half a mile across, but has ancient churches, mosques, Roman arches, and so on. It even has a mosque called the Ayasofya, which used to be a church. Just like Istanbul. But much, much quieter.

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I’m happy I can get all the layers of history around here, as I’ve decided not to head to the metropolis on the Bosphorus. I could probably have got to the outskirts today, and entered European Turkey tomorrow. But I’ve been to Istanbul before, and I’m not quite done with the Asian continent just yet. And I’ve heard a lot of nightmarish stories about the Istanbul traffic.

Instead, once I’ve had my rest, I’ll head along the south of the Sea of Marmara. It’ll take an extra few days to get to Europe, but I should see some more interesting places, and enjoy the coastline.

There’s one other, slightly fuzzy edge which merits a quick mention (in my book, at least). And that’s the edge of space. This is usually considered to be the Karman Line, and is 100km (62 miles) above the surface of the Earth.

Why is the Karman Line of any interest? Because, yesterday, while grinding up yet another incline, I reached 100,000 metres (or 100 km) of vertical gain on the round-the-world trip. I’ve climbed to the edge of space on a bicycle with bags hanging off it.

No wonder my legs need a break…

The Unknown Around The Corner

Tim's Global Bicycle Trundles

Last Night in Asia

On the Edges

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