Saraghs- Mozduran - Mashad - Quchan - Shirvan - Bojnurd - Chamanbid - Azad Shan - Kordkuy - Sari - Surk Abad - Firuzkh - Damavand - Tehran
Why I Ran
Take a plan incubated over two years and enacted for eight months, largely through a part of the world where visa inflexibility, sparse highway pickings and prohibitive seasons force a long-view itinerary, and you might stumble over something skipped in highschool physics: inertia rides a bike.
By the time I arrived in Iran, 10 countries and a lot of talk along, the whole Asia-to-Europe overland thing had generated its own large and self-sustaining momentum—great enough (to me) that it was almost like any other fact of life, barely something to be considered, much less questioned.
But as the wheels turned, as I traded the faces I’d grown accustomed to in Central Asia for Persian hospitality, mosque-side camping and haunting yearbook-like portraits of martyrs of the Iraq-Iran war that lined traffic islands, the thought was starting to bubble up: Was this cycling still what I wanted? And if not, who was calling the shots—the momentum or me?
On one hand, this was the original plan, the rationale for 2012.
Riding. Camping. Working slowly through a country. I´d poured a lot--of time, money, effort, even identity--into the idea of cycling into Europe. Like the bike, ordered in pieces and assembled on Sunday mornings, the plan had been a way of escaping routine, and if it now held the grip of one that wasn´t necessarily a bad thing. It was still an adventure. I was still enjoying the day-to-day.
On the other hand, I wasn´t sure how much longer I would continue to enjoy it.
In Mashad, a Shia Disneyland two days into Iran, I booked flights home for the end of the year. Between these and passing through Central Asia later than intended, it was inescapable that cycling wouldn´t allow me to see as much of Europe as I´d hoped to see. I´d arrive later and see less, and just as I was looking at the first visa to be issued on the spot (Turkey´s) since Hong Kong.
Then there was Iran itself, a country of budget prices, polished English and incalcuable casual generosity whose vast distances were laced by VIP buses. The roads were the best since China, but it was more than the mad motorists (the worst of this trip, easily) who stopped cycling from looking like the smartest way to travel. Here was one country where cyclists might have to concede that the backpackers have it right.
Of course, that was a false distinction. I could change from cycling to backpacking if I wanted. If.
And so I arrived on the outskirts of Tehran, 1,000 km later. Behind me were two weeks of baking fields, Caspian-side haze, dozens of smaller towns and a two day climb out of sweltering hinterland. I was still uhming and ahing about whether I should choose the old groove or a new track. I was focused on the importance of being able to judge something from the inside. The image of me travelling sans bike made me a little nervous, a little excited. I knew that, more than holding to the original goals of the trip, if I did decide to continue riding to Istanbul, it would be largely because riding another 3,000 km was easier than change.
Tehran is a tilted capital coloured with a drab palette and filled with squat buildings. Open canals run rubbish alongside streets, buzzing two-stroke motorbikes spill onto the footpath past tiny shopfronts selling fresh bread, juice, kebabs, and everything sits in a cloud of exhaust and dust. Cable satellites point at other worlds while munificent portraits of Khomeini and Khamenei beam down over public squares. Women are covered to various degrees and shop in boutique stores, bare legs are never seen, and a young population will approach you to ask your opinion of their country as they denounce the mullahs. There are alochol dealers, a clear distinction between public and private personas, and police who are suspicious enough to detain you for walking into a construction site, but Persian enough to end the questioning with friendly travel advice. The scars of an attempted revolution and the prospect of war augment the usual dinner party chatter. It has a megacity´s denominator, the scale that suggests your decisions aren´t so big.
As they aren´t. Change, continuance, et cetera. At the end of the day, whatever I chose, it´s either just a bike ride, or not a bike ride.
I bucked inertia. I booked a few flights around Europe, sent camping gear home and bought a small backpack. I planned for the pieces of Iran I´d be able to see with the time I´d freed up and left my bike in storage at the hotel. After bussing around Iran I would return to Tehran, from there travel to Istanbul by bike or train, find somewhere to leave my bike, and travel with a lighter load.
Just another Australian with a backpack.
Take a plan incubated over two years and enacted for eight months, largely through a part of the world where visa inflexibility, sparse highway pickings and prohibitive seasons force a long-view itinerary, and you might stumble over something skipped in highschool physics: inertia rides a bike.
By the time I arrived in Iran, 10 countries and a lot of talk along, the whole Asia-to-Europe overland thing had generated its own large and self-sustaining momentum—great enough (to me) that it was almost like any other fact of life, barely something to be considered, much less questioned.
But as the wheels turned, as I traded the faces I’d grown accustomed to in Central Asia for Persian hospitality, mosque-side camping and haunting yearbook-like portraits of martyrs of the Iraq-Iran war that lined traffic islands, the thought was starting to bubble up: Was this cycling still what I wanted? And if not, who was calling the shots—the momentum or me?
On one hand, this was the original plan, the rationale for 2012.
Riding. Camping. Working slowly through a country. I´d poured a lot--of time, money, effort, even identity--into the idea of cycling into Europe. Like the bike, ordered in pieces and assembled on Sunday mornings, the plan had been a way of escaping routine, and if it now held the grip of one that wasn´t necessarily a bad thing. It was still an adventure. I was still enjoying the day-to-day.
On the other hand, I wasn´t sure how much longer I would continue to enjoy it.
In Mashad, a Shia Disneyland two days into Iran, I booked flights home for the end of the year. Between these and passing through Central Asia later than intended, it was inescapable that cycling wouldn´t allow me to see as much of Europe as I´d hoped to see. I´d arrive later and see less, and just as I was looking at the first visa to be issued on the spot (Turkey´s) since Hong Kong.
Then there was Iran itself, a country of budget prices, polished English and incalcuable casual generosity whose vast distances were laced by VIP buses. The roads were the best since China, but it was more than the mad motorists (the worst of this trip, easily) who stopped cycling from looking like the smartest way to travel. Here was one country where cyclists might have to concede that the backpackers have it right.
Of course, that was a false distinction. I could change from cycling to backpacking if I wanted. If.
And so I arrived on the outskirts of Tehran, 1,000 km later. Behind me were two weeks of baking fields, Caspian-side haze, dozens of smaller towns and a two day climb out of sweltering hinterland. I was still uhming and ahing about whether I should choose the old groove or a new track. I was focused on the importance of being able to judge something from the inside. The image of me travelling sans bike made me a little nervous, a little excited. I knew that, more than holding to the original goals of the trip, if I did decide to continue riding to Istanbul, it would be largely because riding another 3,000 km was easier than change.
Tehran is a tilted capital coloured with a drab palette and filled with squat buildings. Open canals run rubbish alongside streets, buzzing two-stroke motorbikes spill onto the footpath past tiny shopfronts selling fresh bread, juice, kebabs, and everything sits in a cloud of exhaust and dust. Cable satellites point at other worlds while munificent portraits of Khomeini and Khamenei beam down over public squares. Women are covered to various degrees and shop in boutique stores, bare legs are never seen, and a young population will approach you to ask your opinion of their country as they denounce the mullahs. There are alochol dealers, a clear distinction between public and private personas, and police who are suspicious enough to detain you for walking into a construction site, but Persian enough to end the questioning with friendly travel advice. The scars of an attempted revolution and the prospect of war augment the usual dinner party chatter. It has a megacity´s denominator, the scale that suggests your decisions aren´t so big.
As they aren´t. Change, continuance, et cetera. At the end of the day, whatever I chose, it´s either just a bike ride, or not a bike ride.
I bucked inertia. I booked a few flights around Europe, sent camping gear home and bought a small backpack. I planned for the pieces of Iran I´d be able to see with the time I´d freed up and left my bike in storage at the hotel. After bussing around Iran I would return to Tehran, from there travel to Istanbul by bike or train, find somewhere to leave my bike, and travel with a lighter load.
Just another Australian with a backpack.
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