Amidst all the cheers, the hand waving and tears...

...we sailed down the Bosphorous after boarding a boat at Sariyer after our last 50km pedal and arrived in Ortokay. Busy busy road coming out of Tayakadin, onto a quiet hilly road littered with household rubbish, building detritus and roadkill, under Roman aqueducts, up another hill or two through leafy cool trees, and then down, down, down. First a glimpse of water, a change in the air then onto the paved dock waterside. We were jubilant. Beer and chips all round as we basked in the sun and snapped our very last photos of each other. Into the hotel, out for a bite to eat, back for a nap prior to our celebratory dinner and slide show attended by forty-five happy tired folks, dressed in the best seven weeks camping and stuff bags can muster. But our farewells had already been made as we hugged and congratulated each other on the wharf.

The last three riding days have been full of challenge. The knowledge that the end was nearing and the need to be focused and vigilant was still all important, never left me as I counted off the kms, thanking my lucky stars that this or that vehicle did not run me down. To give the Turkish drivers their due, most were extremely courteous and certainly encouraging, if loud horn tooting and vigorous waving are any indication, but it only takes one, as it always does, to change something forever. Fortunately we all arrived without further incident, and were also pleased to hear updates about our colleagues who were injured, especially Neil who is still in hospital in Germany but expected to return to the US next week.

So here I am at the end of my rest day reports. Eight of us are continuing onto Beijing along the Silk Route. I am full of admiration. As for my next adventure, well now, I've heard there are some fantastic rides in North America...

The last stats...
July18: Kirklarelli to Saray, 76 kms, almost four hours
July 19: Saray to Tayakadin, 90 kms, hot and hill after hill after hill all day long, about five and a quarter hours and then a bush camp! Whose crazy idea was this as we sat in a grassy place with no showers or toilets, waiting for the 'end'.
July 20: Tayakadin to Sariyer, 52 kms, about three hours

Don't cry for me Bulgaria

We crossed the border yesterday into Turkey enjoying the coolish conditions after a fierce nocturnal thunderstorm, this time so violent that it actually woke me from my sleep of the dead. This was a relief after the day before when it was 40 and breathless as we climbed hill after hill, along a quiet country road far from the mad mad traffic of highway 9. Our oasis on an otherwise struggle of a day was the accordion player who entertained us in Zevedc: tangos, waltzes, Edith Piaf songs and the Marseillaise. He leant forward for us to drop money into his pocket, as he played on and his strains followed us down the road and out of the village.

Another car accident, caused by careless and reckless behaviour, where riders from our group were first on the scene, assisted the injured and directed traffic. Seems the locals don't care much for helping out others in trouble on the road. Bulgarian roads are generally two lane, of variable surface quality, no shoulder, and packed with vehicles travelling at 130kmh. I've had my fill of Eastern European roads and will never ride a bike along them again. The Bulgarian system of traffic control is unique: cardboard cutout police cars beneath billboards exhorting drivers to obey the rules and drive safely.

The various occupations suffered by Romania and Bulgaria are going to be felt for decades still, before either country achieves the vibrancy of the Turkish villages through which we have ridden. Here there are well-fed children with smiles on their faces and shops brimming with goods, unlike the ghost villages we have ridden through in the two former countries which in the main are populated by the hard workers and old folks whose youthful relatives have fled to the cities to find a fortune.

Crossing the border brought stark differences: the terrain is dry and rocky, similar to that of the country around Rockbank, but with high rolling hills; the villagers are out and about going about their business; the dogs are mangier and skinnier than in Bulgaria although some seemed to be owned; the people I have spoken to know about Australia and smile broadly, doubtless because they have relatives who have migrated.

Last night we were feted by the Kirklarelli mayor, who hosted a bus tour, tea in a rich man's house, followed by a delicious meal in a restaurant. A picture from a tour two year's ago is in the tourist information booklet about Kirklarelli, and last year the mayor, on his bicycle, accompanied the group to the outskirts of town. We felt special indeed.

So I have washed my last lot of biking clothes and suspended them from a rope in my room. I have cleaned my bike and oiled it for the last time before packing it into a box. I am wondering how did I get within 202 km of Istanbul on a bike. I am looking forward to our next three days of riding.

Some more stats....
July 14: Varna to Aheloi, 107 kms, about six and a half hours, along the dreaded highway 9 for almost all of the 107 kms
July 15: Aheloi to Malko Tarnovo, 107 kms, about five and a half hours, but I had to resort to the bus for the last 10kms on account of feeling ill and it being more than 40 degrees
July 16: Malko Tarnovo to Kirklarelli, 51 kms and three hours

Bulgaria beckons

Our lovely Danube was below us again as we crossed the bridge from Romania into Bulgaria, only this time there were no naked frolickers on its banks or its waters, which instead were sullied by a huge drain emitting something black and unsavoury. The bridge was once grand, now just long, high and in poor repair. I was heartened to see that the light fittings on the Bulgarian side were intact unlike their Romanian counterparts, so had high hopes of a country that takes pride in its appearance. These were soon dashed as we dodged the potholes and rubble, took in the ugly ugly jerry built apartment blocks, a legacy of the Communist years, and noted with interest the 'girls' waiting patiently for customers on the side of the road.

However, on penetrating the ring of apartment blocks to reach the centre of our first Bulgarian town, Russe, we discovered a gigantic traffic-free open square, shaded by lush trees under which fattish dogs, neither snarling nor skanky, lay sprawled to escape the midday sun. Most responded positively to a pat and a friendly word and I noted that some wore eartags indicating an ownership and civic schedule not encountered in Romania.

We took refreshments and slowly got on our bikes again to make our camp for the night situated on a lake with a scenic ride in past overflowing ripe apricot trees, but no toilets to speak of and certainly no showers, so we were all a bit jaded by the time dinner was served. But the show must go on, so the second talent quest took place with recitations of poetry, ballads, songs and a demonstration of Garis' array of interesting and useful gadgets without which no bike rider should leave home. The words to the song Stewart and I sang can be located here to enliven your very next Karaoke evening. http://www.paristoistanbul.com/orientexpress/blog/

Bulgarian farmers use a lot of machinery and practice broad-acre farming. The fields of sunflowers stretch out over rolling hills, meeting oats, barley and wheat, some of which is being threshed as we ride along. There are few farmhouses and none of the tiny farming villages we saw in Romania all with their own haystacks, chooks, geese, a goat, a cow and a horse. Labour seems to be organised and certainly not as manual, as hay is baled in either square bales or the familiar super-size round bales and carted in on tractors and trailers.

I love the way we are greeted as we ride along. Everyone looks up, smiles, waves, and blesses us. Drivers toot and wave, children escort us through towns on their bikes and point out the best ice-cream shops, and even organise for them to be opened especially for us. It's not unusual to receive small change in the form of a chewy or boiled lolly.

Varna is a seaside resort where people come to spend and play. There are footballers' wives everywhere, some with small designer children in tow. Planes fly in from all over Europe depositing package tourists, and the beach is a small horseshoe bay where it is necessary to rent space to lay on a chair on the grubby sand. The water is warm, there are bars and carnival attractions and fireworks at night.

Smoking. Everywhere people smoke, indoors and out. It is suffocating most of us, unaccustomed as we are to sharing our spaces, especially dining spaces, with chain smokers.

A note on Bucharest:
This town is a Western mecca with shopping malls, cars galore and busy gruff people going about the business of making a living. The peasant women with their head scarves and wooden-handled farm implements gave way within 30kms of the city to all manner of designer-clad sylphs, strutting around on stilettos with mannered pouts and 'natural' hair to match. But God knows where they do their laundry as three hours and three taxi rides later, we were not able to locate a 'spalatorie' for clothes, although we were directed to both car washes and dry cleaners. Three of us took off in a taxi with a boot load of washing you see, as an efficient and systematic approach to doing the washing, but were forced to retreat to our hotel, mission unaccomplished. It was a good way to conduct a sight-seeing tour though and a whole lot cheaper than anything much else in expensive Bucharest.

Statistics, damned lies and other facts...
July 10: Bucharest to Russe, 104 kms, five and three quarter hours
July 11: Russe to Sumen, the most physically challenging day yet, although one of the most scenic, 136 kms, climbed 1,450 metres, hot, hills, hills, and hills, eight hours and nine minutes
July 12: Sumen to Varna, about 105 kms and five and three quarter hours in heat, headwinds and hills

Let sleeping dogs lie

So there I was rounding a corner after our 40km climb, just about to begin the downhill. Road surface good, scenery fabulous, temperature ambient. I spied four big dogs basking in the morning sun to my side of the road (remember, we ride on the right on this trip). Anxious to see if my electronic dog taser was effective, I aimed it at the pack and pressed the button. Within milliseconds all four were on their feet, emitting throaty barks, most probably displaying large teeth although I was too terrified to look, as they pulsed towards me at 40kms an hour. The reason I knew this was because my speedo showed 45kph as I sped ahead, shouting "Go home!" as loudly and as gutturally as I could muster. Three dropped off, but the wolfish looking one was still hot on my heels. Another kick of adrenaline, I reached 50kph, maybe more, and the dog gave up. I continued, heart racing, downhill to the lunch stop, which could not have come at a better time.

After giving this some thought, I have now adopted another method of dealing with the dogs. Whenever practicable, I ride slowly by as if I am a Romanian. I am pleased to report that this method is showing superior results, having only been chased by a single dog since. We see about 10 dogs every kilometre and at least one of these is dead. Seeing squashed pups on the highway, along with the odd kitten, is not pretty. There is a huge number of birds also killed on the roads, probably because the Romanian driver's best friend is the accelerator, closely followed by the horn.

We had our worst day's riding recently. It began innocently enough but soon turned into living hell. Many of us narrowly escaped injury as we were thundered upon kilometre after endless kilometre by huge BFTs, cars, vans, trailers, buses and all manner of transport whose drivers seemed frustrated by incipient roadworks. This lasted for 60kms and then was replaced for the remaining 50kms with a road that had a broken and potholed surface. And at the end of it all was a truckers' stop where we camped in the lobby of a once gracious hotel. I was lucky, being one of the so-called "chronologically challenged", so got to share a room upstairs with Monique, where at least the all-night barking dogs and trucks growling past was ameliorated by a comfortable enough bed.

As a result, our trip to Bucharest yesterday was anticipated with fear, but in 39 degrees, clear sunshine and a divided highway for the last 20kms, we felt positively buoyant. Many people found disused electrical conduit in the dump beside our hotel and rigged it onto their bikes with bright pink streamer ribbons, as a visible warning to drivers. This made for a colourful parade when we met up with our personal policeman on a BMW motorbike who escorted us into the city and on to the hotel. We ran red lights, rode two abreast and had the lunch truck following close behind. People laughed and clapped us through. All we needed was a brass band to complete the parade.

Just 40 kms from this extremely urban, western and apparently wealthy city there are people driving home-made wooden carts loaded with potatoes to sell on cross-roads; old women bent double, herding geese and raking hay; men hand-scything grass and belting dents out of metal tines; women hand watering market gardens; covered gypsy carts loaded with wild herbs and belongings; children with scant clothing and poor teeth; beggars, the poor, the maimed and the disabled eking out a living on the streets. The shops in Bucharest are ritzy and so are the people as they schmooze around, displaying an insouciance for those not similarly kitted out, me among them, I am pleased to say. I think a country where the people prefer to kick pups rather than hit them on the head at birth, stalk around in stupid designer shoes on disheveled footpaths and allow small children to grow up malnourished must do a lot of work to become a truly humane society.

Some have been asking about how I am faring, so here's the corpus report.
* Wrists - have been severely shaken with the road surfaces, some intermittent pins and needles as a result
* Feet- one sole a bit swollen, one ankle has been troublesome but both have mostly self-healed
* Skin - odd rashes, probably as a result of poor-quality laundry detergent; infected spider bites on my stomach that are irritated with sweat and riding nicks
* Bum - some early soreness, but generally okay. It gets a bit numb on the long climbs and after about 80kms riding
* Shoulders - a bit of tingling on the left side so am looking forward to being ironed out by the Turkish masseurs
* Weight - I doubt I have lost a single gram, so go figure! Some say it is because we have not eaten enough protein and vegetables, and instead have far too much starch on the menu. Whatever, 3000kms later I did expect to be sylph-like.

There are about 40 people in the group which is a great number. There are about 18 Canadians, the rest of us being from South Africa, Australia, America, New Zealand, England, Switzerland and France. There are five 'Young Ones' aged in their late twenties or early thirties and the rest of us are in the 50 to 72 zone, I believe. Among our number is a dentist, a gynaecologist, several engineers, a social researcher, a librarian, a geologist, about three IT industry professionals, a horticulturalist, a pigment chemist/consultant, a medical goods salesman, a dental hygienist, a couple of accountants, a notary, a banker and a teacher. There is about two men for every woman, and yes, there are a couple of romances!

More technicals:
July 5: Baile Herculane to Targu Jiu, 105 kms, 40 km climb through the most spectacular valleys with snow on the mountains, five and three quarter hours
July 6: Targu Jiu to Ramnicu Valcea, 55 kms of 'pitch and bitch' on the worst road yet, through lovely countryside and poor as dirt villages, 126kms in total, about seven and three quater hours
July 7: Ramnicu Valcea to Dragodana, 108 kms, five hours and fifty minutes, the worst worst day as we looked only at the road and our tyres and tried not to fall into the path of traffic beside, behind and in front of us
July 8: Dragodana to Bucharest, 80km, 39 degrees, about three hours and fifty minutes

Haystacks and horses

Seven chestnut horses, hobbled by their front hooves, walked slowly up the road as we cycled past them. I wondered why these farmers, who sow, harvest, cut, transport hay and other produce on bullock or horse-driven drays, would risk these magnificent animals on Romanian roads where anything goes. We also rode past gaggles and gaggles of geese, sheep, chooks, goats, the odd pig, many dogs, lethargic in the 35 degree heat, but the hay makers continued to fascinate me. After forking the mown grass, someone, usually an older woman, picks though it to separate out any weeds then it is stacked on a dray and carted to a home paddock where intricate hand-stacked mounds grow, as the grass is draped over a variety of usually triangular wooden supports. This is medieval farming at its best. Everything is manual and requires much labour to perform.

Some have asked why I am doing this trip. One reason is that I can see daily life in detail as I cycle past at about 20 kms an hour. We go on the roads less travelled and into villages where I would never venture if I was in Europe as a visitor. Often there is no public transport and to drive would be madness.

Baile Herculane where we are at the moment is a spa town built along a fast-flowing stream. The Romans bathed here and I can recommend the waters, which I took this morning. One side of this narrow valley is edged with mountainous limestone rising to craggy needles, pine trees clutching the crevices. I am half expecting a tribe of Sioux to emerge on one of the peaks, so similar is the landscape to those cowboy and indian movies I saw as a kid. There are many Victorian hotels, dilapidated and empty, just waiting for the right entrepreneur to restore them to their former glory.

The roads we ride on vary from well-paved busy highways to mediocre paved secondary roads to almost non-existent roads, often not much better than a stony riverbed. Traffic is sudden, fast and unpredictable. Men take both hands off the wheel as they go by and thrust their fists into the air in an international sign of encouragement.

Yesterday our sweep, Randy, was told that the four of us had taken a wrong turn by some supposedly well-meaning local. We think it was the father or relative of a wiry gypsy boy who followed us for three or four kms, on his rusty squeaky bike, begging us for money. As we did not take a wrong turn, we can only think that Randy was being lured up a deserted lane for the purposes of robbery. A random act of unkindness, the like of which we have not encountered before. In fact, we have so many examples of kindly regard, that it makes us smile from ear to ear.

We are spending more and more nights in hotels as the state of camping grounds deteriorates. I never thought I would miss my tent, but it is cosy snuggled up with forty others under canvas as we breathe and talk and snore in our sleep. I am sharing with Monique from Quebec or Karen from Nova Scotia, both fine room-mates.

There are six staff who are with us: Randy and Duncan, who organise the day's itinerary and route and ride sweep, Olivier, our mechanic extraordinaire, who also rides sweep on occasion, Amandine, a nurse, Jon our cook and Theresa who is lunch lady, photographer and general all-rounder. Each evening we have a rider meeting where the notes we are given are explicated more fully. Also, at this time, we award the lame duck, a somewhat dishevelled rubber duck liberated from the Moevenpick Hotel in Ulm. I am the present Ober Duck Fuhrerin, awarded becasue of a really dumb question I asked on the eve of Canada day. I have many stories of equal if not better stupidity, so am looking forward to presenting it tonight to a worthy recipient.

More stats...
July 2: Timisoara to Resista, 100 kms, hot, four and a quarter hours
July 3: Resista to Baile Herculane, 126 kms, hot, head wind, hilly, seven and three quarter hours, but the mulberries sure tasted good from the tree on the side of the road!

Summertime when the cycling is easy...

Yes, we're here in 35 - 38 degree temperatures, enjoying a rest day in beautiful Timisoara, just south of the Romanian border which we crossed yesterday. It was a bit of a gruelling day - 120+ kms, heavy traffic for the last 60 or 70 kms and a head wind. Still, a good excuse to stop and eat icecream. Another couple of folks have fallen off, fortunately not suffering serious injuries, so I am keeping my fingers crossed.

The difference between Hungary and Romania is evident in the housing, the farm practices, the friendliness of the people, the roads and the drivers. Many houses are dated and bear the names of the original owners in relief plaster just below the eaves on the front. Most farm labour seems to be manual or else employs primitive machinery and old tractors, or, more commonly, horses and carts. It does seem to be a family affair, extending from the youngest to the oldest members of the community.

People are very helpful and friendly - today I got lost on the way to the laundromat, yes, it's that time again, and after enquiring with an elderly gent he summoned a younger man who led me through the streets to the laundry door. Another of our group dropped a considerable wad of money and a chap followed him and returned it. And George, a fellow cyclist who is a dentist in real life, was escorted to a dental surgery by a helpful pharmacist where he was able to obtain a small portion of filling material, which he and his able dental assistant, Monique, whose father was a dentist, used to plug the small hole in my recently chipped tooth, all with tweezers, a dessertspoon and a nail file as tools and the isopropyl alcohol that John Ross uses to clean his bike. I was able to provide the gloves and the tissues.

In Kecskemet we held a talent concert in our camping spot which was most amusing. Another is planned for the 10 July. There were nine or ten acts - songs, skits, comedy and more. It does feel a bit like a school at times, and this was one of the better aspects of camp life. However, unlike boarding school, we are allowed to drink beer.

We're about to start climbing again, with some considerable daily distances, no more bike paths, rutted roads, traffic and high temperatures. The wild dogs are much feared by us so we are armed with capsicum spray, water pistols, electronic dog scarers and waddies of various thickness and length. The wild dogs are a result of the Ceausescu era when people were forced to leave their dogs and move into the awful apartment blocks and state-run farm communes. As a result there are some 30,000 street dogs in Bucharest alone, so maybe more out in the countryside. Brigitte Bardot has financed a sterilisation program but it would seem that this is only a small step towards solving the problem. We have seen, and smelt, dead dogs along the roadside, as well as ferrets, foxes and a huge number of birds. This could be because Romanians seem to drive with total faith in higher beings.

Some more stats... and you can check out our route on the Google map - link on top left side of blog...
June 28: Budapest to Kecskemet, 105 kms, about four and three quarter hours
June 29: Kecskemet to Szeged, 106 Kms, four and a quarter hours
June 30: Szeged to Timisoara, 121 kms, six and a quarter hours