Big lad on a bike: Ankara to Capadoccia

My route from Ankara eastwards follows a similar course to that of the ancient 'Silk Road'. From the modern cosmopolitan Capital city, the next 1,200km to Iran would be more and more remote and will be the furthest East I'd ever been. Truly a cycle into the unknown.

My day leaving Ankara began by finally picking up my Iranian visa. An arduous experience in all, which is probably familiar to most travellers venturing to the country. Mine came a week late, and for the princely sum of €180. Ouch... And they also now have my fingerprints, despite my best efforts to smudge them. I shouldn't complain as I met one Czech cyclist in the embassy who'd been waiting 6 weeks in Ankara to get his visa. The poor guy looked a shell of man, just shaking and nervous and like he hadn't seen soap in a while. I never saw him again so I'm guessing his long wait finally came to an end.

As a side note, I did really like Ankara. It may not be the most tourist friendly destination like Istanbul, but I think that's why it appealed to me. A real place with actual Turkish people, where you can live comfortably without someone trying to flog you some tat or ripping you off because you're a tourist. I'd met great people and was welcomed everywhere I went and when the time came, I was sad to leave. But time waits for no man and the clock was ticking to be in India by Christmas.

Back in the saddle, it was tough going. The days are short now but still very hot. The sun sets at around 16.30 so you want to get most of your miles in before then. The quality of the road surface isn't great either, little more than tar sprinkled with jagged stones - like a rustic pebble-dash akin to pedalling across a 1930s semi-detached. So this, coupled with rusty legs and a head wind made it difficult to get that far. So night 1 was road side. A small clearing about 50m down a side path amongst some trees. I should add that I have a harmonica now so I'm spending most evenings learning country songs in the attempt to be Jonny Cash.

The next day I stopped in Bala after around 40km for breakfast. Lamb kofte with rice and tea. Muesli and croissants are now a distant memory. Whilst there, I was approached by a man who, in perfect English, asked me where I was from and where I was heading. He too was a keen cyclist (very rare in Turkey) and said he'd like to help out as much as he could. He said he knew people along my route and he'd let them know I was coming. We exchanged details as usual and I thought nothing of it. Later that day I received a torrent of emails and Facebook friend requests from people with bikes in their profile pictures. Turns out he'd alerted half of Turkey, so I had all these folk offering up places to stay. Result! Just shows, you never know who you'll meet next...

On the evening of the third day, with weary legs I pulled into a BP garage to have a rest. Whilst perched on a step, a man came over to give me a cup of tea. He asked the usual questions and where I was sleeping. He insisted I stay here tonight. 'Here' being the petrol station. My room was pretty much a conservatory, which was being used to store old freezers, but at least it was warm. I thanked him profusely and that night I ate dinner with the men from the forecourt. Turkish petrol stations are the same as ours: de-icer, windscreen wiper blades and compilation CDs (no charcoal briquettes however) so after a browse I began to feel like I was in an episode of Alan Partridge so I headed to bed. I didn't particularly sleep well, as tiled floors aren't the most forgiving and the walls being glass, the room illuminated like a lighthouse every time a car pulled in to the forecourt. But there you are, my first night in a petrol station and as it would turn out, not my last.

The next day I was to meet one of my new Turkish friends. He'd heard about my trip through the guy I met in the shop and wanted me to come for breakfast. I had no idea where he lived however, so when he pulled up behind me beeping his car horn just outside of the town of Hacibektas, I was particularly confused. "Benjamin!"..."yes?..." "I am Serkan's friend, I saw you cycle past!". "Oooooh...Hi!". So after this bizarre first meeting he led me back to his "office". He was a vet so his office was in essentially a religious abattoir. He gave me a tour of the place, complete with full cow dissection, and served up lunch. Fresh from the slab...

I stayed with him that night. Volkan was his name and he spoke basic English but enough for us to chat and celebrate me passing 5,000km in style.

So a major landmark and 3 times further than I'd ever attempted before. From

here, I'm off to desserts of Capadoccia on my journey East. See you all soon

Ben