Ken's Blog

I’d honed my urban riding skills commuting into central London, had ridden into five capital cities on this expedition, often in the dark. Strike a balance between caution and confidence and you’re normally fine. But then there’s the final thirty or forty miles into Istanbul. Different. Almost beyond reason. Three or four lanes, motorway intersections, torrential rain, barely a hard shoulder. With hindsight, perhaps Sunday hadn’t been the best day. Traffic was heavy but not congested, passing perilously close at forty or fifty miles an hour, sometimes more. I wondered if rush hour would have been safer.

I stopped at the top of one of the many long descents, peering over my rain soaked glasses. A few hundred metres down a slip road off onto the motorway. To avoid that and continue on into Istanbul I’d need to cross two lanes of fast moving traffic. Nothing for it but to hope rear lights, a bright jacket, and some clear hand signals would get me across safely. This was verging on the insane, but no real alternative. I’d already decided to exit Istanbul by ferry.

Then Asia in sight. Perhaps no more than seven kilometres away. But not tonight. Something hidden amongst the surface water tore a small gash in my supposedly almost indestructible tyres, ripping the inner tube, collapsing it in an instant. Managed to get off the carriage way and assess the damage. Panniers off and bike up ended. Inner tube replaced, my hands going numb with the cold. But not to ride on. Too great a risk of a further blow out, the inner tube just visible through the gash in the tyre.

Nothing for it but to stop at the first place I found. I’d a few things in the field kit, buried deep in the panniers, that could keep the tyre running for a little while. But I’d need to replace it as soon as possible, couldn’t risk another blow out on these roads. Fortunately, I’d been told of a good cycle shop in Istanbul, and hoped I’d be able to purchase a new tyre. But that was a job for tomorrow. Reflecting a little later on the day’s fairly epic events, the blow out had at least made me think how I’d cope with one in far more remote regions. Had a few ideas to refine the field kit. So not all bad. And at least I’d not got run over.

You could almost taste it. Carried in on the strong offshore wind. Salt. Then a tantalizing glint of weak winter sun. The Sea of Marmara. Bunting adorning a nearby petrol station flapped noisily like loose halyards. At last. I continued along the D-100, the route I’d followed across much of Turkey towards Istanbul. By now a busy dual carriage way, a generous hard shoulder making it bearable. Winding along the urban coastal belt, pastel coloured apartment blocks, inter-spaced with modern industrial units. Steady uphills, long sweeping descents.

I stopped for the night in Buyukcekmece. Probably. Difficult to say exactly amidst the coast sprawl. But certainly close enough to give me a short run into the city centre the next day. Forty, perhaps fifty, kilometres. Ample time to find somewhere cheap and secure to stay. In the meantime I’d found a small but respectable looking place for the night. Owner a jovial chap. They’d been a little bartering over the price, especially as I’d have to wait a couple of hours for a room. But that was ok. Plenty of warm cay to drink as I sat watching young couples come and go.

Later, over dinner in the little cafe opposite, a few students for company, I mulled over the final leg into Istanbul. A decent city map would have been useful, but that was the sort of thing you usually found when you’d already made it in. Instead, I’d have to rely on a map that showed the entire country on a single sheet. And keep a sharp lookout for road signs that said senir merkezi – city centre. I’d hunt out the only landmark I knew of, the Blue Mosque. Thought there’d be plenty of hostels close by. City with a population of about eight million. Seemed like a sound plan.