This Road I Ride

by Juliana Buhring

  Still rattled by my narrow escape, I stop for a late lunch at a little restaurant next to a roadside service station. The owner and his son seem pleased when I shuffle through the door. As their only customer, they roll out the royal treatment. Naturally they are curious to know what I am doing out here, alone on a bike, so I tell them all about the world cycle. We understand each other perfectly, even though the whole conversation is conducted in charades, since they speak no more than five words of English and I know even less Turkish. I’m grateful for my years in Italy, where communication with the hands is part of everyday life.

  They want to know what I think of Turkey.

  Food, superb. People, wonderful. But as for the dogs! Let me tell you about the dogs! I gesticulate my latest misadventure, ending with the motorist scattering the pack with his car. Apparently this is one of the funniest things they’ve ever heard. They pound the table as they laugh.

  “It wasn’t funny at the time, trust me,” I say.

  They suggest that I must be very hungry after a chase like that.

  “Yes, very. What is good to eat?” I point at something on the menu.

  They give an approving thumbs-up and manage to find the English words “Good meat.”

  “What kind of meat is it?”

  They look perplexed, so it’s back to the old charades, along with some sound effects.

  “Moooo?” I suggest, making horns with my fingers.

  They shake their heads.

  I do the funky chicken, clucking moronically.

  More head-shaking.

  “Baaaa?”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  A few minutes later I’m enjoying a rich lamb stew, chunky bread, and lots of cheese.

  Language is overrated.

  NOVEMBER 14, 2012

  The terrain through the middle of Turkey is arid, with long, gradual climbs and descents. It can get a bit monotonous, but at least there are frequent service stations along the highways for breaks. Whenever I stop at a station, I find one of the staff waiting for me outside the toilets with a cup of scalding-hot Turkish tea. This keeps me well hydrated. Maybe too hydrated. I then have to stop at the next station to use their toilet. Once again tea is offered, I drink the tea . . . and on it goes.

  My tires are wearing thin. I last changed them just before the Nullarbor in Australia and have pedaled some 4,040 miles since. I’m unlikely to find a bike shop before Istanbul, so I’ve been riding on a prayer, hoping nothing too dramatic happens between now and then. Worn tires mean more punctures. I had one yesterday and this morning I awoke to another flat tire. I bought some spare tubes in Bangkok, but I have now used the last of them. I have lots of patches but still no glue, so it is with some dismay that I feel my rear tire deflate again after just thirty miles this morning. The good news is that there is a service station within sight of where I break down, so I carry Pegasus down the road and lean him against the wall of an abandoned restaurant next door. Three of the service station staff instantly surround me. They seem in dire need of the diversion I present. Sitting in an empty station on a highway in the middle of nowhere must get dull. Perhaps they can help?

  I flip Pegasus upside down so the seat and handlebars are resting on the ground, take off the tire, pull out the damaged tube, and show them the patches. Then I signal that I need some glue to stick them in place. One of the guys runs to the office and comes back with a tube of Super Glue. I shake my head and point to the rubber. An excited conversation follows among the three men. Eventually one of them indicates with both hands that I should wait there, as if I could go anywhere. He jumps into a rusty car sporting four mismatched wheels and speeds off up the road.

  I wait. Drink some tea. Eat some Turkish delight. Have some more tea. Wait. Three-quarters of an hour later, the car comes careering back down the road, braking at the last minute and swerving sharply to make the turn into the station. The guy jumps out with a big tub of some blue sticky substance. He is ecstatic. This will work! he informs me enthusiastically, head bobbing and both thumbs up.

  I’m willing to try anything at this point. The patch goes on, the glue dries, and it seems to be holding well. I inflate the tube. It’s still holding. I put the wheel back on the bike, thank the guys, pay the guys, and pedal away.

  Blue Turkish goo is the glue. Who knew?

  NOVEMBER 15, 2012

  Two more punctures today, and I still haven’t found a bike shop. The old tubes are now a mosaic of patches. The roads are very rough, which is hard on the bum and even harder on the tires. To make matters worse, my right pedal keeps popping off. Even when it stays in place, it makes a terrible clicking noise because the thread is worn, so I guess I’ll need to change the whole crank. One spoke on the rear wheel has broken, and the gears are jumping again. Pegasus is tired. He needs an overhaul and a vacation.

  NOVEMBER 16, 2012

  In the evening I roll into a little gem of a coastal town called Ayvacık and find a lovely wood-and-stone pensione right on the waterfront. The sky is aflame with vibrant slashes of gold and crimson as I sit on a bench to watch the sun set over the water. Half of the exhaustion I feel on the road is mental, I remind myself, so I let my mind rest and meditate. As long as the mind stays strong, the body will follow. At this point in the cycle, it’s all about keeping my head in a good place and staving off mental fatigue. I believe half the outcome of any challenge depends on state of mind. If I maintain a sense of humor about the difficult moments and always keep the end at the forefront of my thoughts, I know I will stand a better chance of emerging triumphant.

  One of my coping mechanisms for dealing with pain or the stress of a particularly difficult situation is simply to laugh, as I did when suffering with diarrhea in India and after the recent dog chase. Humor is one of the best ways of getting through pain without letting it truly hurt you. Pain is an inevitable part of life, but it marks some more than others. Some people wear their pain like a layer of makeup. You can read it in every line, look, and gesture, the undercurrent of sadness like a memory connected to a song, or the lingering scent of perfume on a pillowcase. What a beautiful face it is that is unmarked; a person who has been touched by pain, yet upon whom pain has left no impression.

  A genial old gentleman sits on the bench beside me. He reminds me of my uncle; with rosy cheeks and a white beard, he has aged with a natural smile etched on all his features. He looks perfectly content with himself and the world. From time to time, he strokes his moustache, smiling, his eyes far away. I wonder what memories are playing behind them. His face and eyes are so animated that I imagine he is engaged in conversation with an invisible person. I’m certain he knows a thing or two about happiness, about how to find moments of beauty and stay inside them.

  NOVEMBER 18, 2012

  Çanakkale is the closest city to the ancient site of Troy. The giant wooden horse from the Hollywood blockbuster stands on the beach, like a clapboard Titan guarding the coast. I’m staying the night with Tolga, a local photographer and historian with an encyclopedic knowledge of ancient history. A Turkish woman I knew from my days in Uganda contacted her friends throughout the country when she heard I would be cycling through here. Tolga is one of those friends. I like him instantly. He’s short, round, and balding, with dark, dreamy eyes and a playful smile. The walls of his little apartment are covered in maps, timelines, antediluvian symbols—and his five-year-old daughter’s crayon graffiti.

  Like most human encyclopedias, Tolga is so full of facts and data that once the conversation starts, his stream of information flows endlessly. He fetches beers and a bottle of raki, a popular Turkish drink similar to the Italian grappa, with the flavor of aniseed. We chat, or rather he talks and I listen, into the early hours of the morning. The conversation is too interesting to contemplate sleep.

  NOVEMBER 19, 2012

  While grateful for Tolga’s hospitality, I soon regret our late night. I should have gone to bed much earlier. Today I have been cycling protracted uphills, punctuated by
a few short downhills. My muscles are tired. I am tired. Progress is slow, but at least there are no punctures, rain, or angry dogs.

  NOVEMBER 21, 2012

  I thought the traffic in Naples was bad until I cycled through India. I believed then that it could not possibly get any worse. But it can always get worse. The traffic in Istanbul, the great historic portal that straddles Europe and Asia, defines a whole new level of vehicular insanity. It may be the most chaotic city I have passed through to date. I soon understand why nobody else is on a bike.

  Getting from the east of the city to the west means crossing the Bosporus, and there are only two bridges, both of which are highways. If you cycle on a highway in Istanbul and live to tell the tale, you may also come out of the experience having found religion. Even the staunchest atheist will pray for life and limb when trying to navigate between the snarling dogs and the frenetic traffic. It is a toss-up which is the more dangerous; both seem intent on putting the unsuspecting cyclist in the hospital.

  I reach the southwestern marina just as the sun is going down. Another Facebook friend has offered me a bed for the night, and his family have prepared a feast in my honor. The dishes keep flowing. I recognize a few, such as a moussaka, but most of the others are new to me. I eat and eat until I think I can eat no more. Then it is time for dessert: ice cream, tea, and Turkish delight. They seem determined to keep feeding me all night, until I insist I must get an early start in the morning and head off to bed.

  NOVEMBER 23, 2012

  Close to the Greek border, I suffer yet another flat tire. At least this time I have some spare tubes after finding a small bike shop during my perilous trip across Istanbul. The full overhaul and a new pair of tires will have to wait. The two Turkish border guards are charming, and the three of us take turns passing around our phones for selfies. They present me with a red rose and wave me out of their wonderful country with great fanfare.

  I have loved Turkey, the people, and the food. I will definitely return in the future.

  A LONG WAY HOME

  NOVEMBER 23, 2012

  The Greek border official behind the window seems extremely pleased to welcome me. I was born in the little town of Rafina on the periphery of Athens, and apparently this makes me an honorary countrywoman. He wants to know what I’m doing on a bike and where I’m heading. This kicks off a long conversation about the ride and an invitation to coffee, since he is about to go for his lunch break.

  It is the first decent espresso I have drunk in a very long time, and such a pleasure that I have two. Before long I am very glad I did. The Greek terrain is extremely mountainous, with long, gradual climbs that make pedaling both arduous and tedious. The uphills and descents are constant, one blending into another. Time passes and does not pass. I fade from my surroundings and withdraw into my head.

  Bored with the music on my playlists after four months with the same tunes, I now prefer to cycle in silence when I’m not listening to an audiobook. (The last book I listened to—Chuck Palahniuk’s Haunted—was so macabre and disturbing that the day went by in a flash.) People often ask what I think about on the bike each day. I can get lost in my own head for hours, but more often than not it is less a constant stream of subconscious thought than a complete cessation of any thoughts at all. The ride becomes a kind of meditation, a time of complete stillness.

  After another puncture on the road to Xanthi, my lever tool breaks as I try to change the tube. I end up walking six miles into the city, followed for the last stretch by a pack of barking dogs. A busty woman comes tearing out of a nearby farmhouse, shouting and wielding a thick stick, which she crashes down on the rump of one of the mutts. It lets out a lusty squeal and backs away. The others pause uncertainly. The woman continues yelling and waving her stick while I beat a grateful retreat.

  By the time I arrive in Xanthi, I’m so shattered that I don’t even bother eating. I just want to sleep. Fatigue is weighing down my limbs. My mind is tired, and my body feels like a rock. Getting up in the morning is becoming a laborious ritual that involves talking myself out of bed and onto the bike. Come on, lazy bum, you know the drill, I tell myself every day. It’ll be fine once you start pedaling. You won’t get home unless you cycle there. So get moving.

  If all goes well, I should be home within a month. A lot can happen in a month.

  NOVEMBER 24, 2012

  It took an hour to change the tube this morning, using the tip of a knife as a makeshift lever. I have no grip left in my hands—my thumb and forefinger can barely hold a fork to eat—so I needed a lever to get the tire off and back on the rim. I wonder whether I’m setting some kind of Guinness World Record for the most punctures suffered on one journey. Pegasus has already had twenty-six. At least there are some good tailwinds today, and I manage to cover the 140 miles into Thessaloniki without further interruption.

  Some kind of fair is going on in the city. All the hotels and hostels are full, so I spend a couple of hours trying to find a bed for the night. When you’re tired, spending valuable time looking for a place to stay instead of sleeping is enough to make you lose it and break into a tearful stomping fit. I am desperate. I am exhausted. As if that is not enough, I have also started my period.

  The red neon vacancy sign over a sex shop, illuminated by a pink light above the entrance, is all the invitation I need. I don’t care where I sleep, as long as it has a bed—and some peace and quiet. I need a long sleep tonight, but the loud moans and squeals from next door prevent that. Seriously, any woman that loud has to be faking it.

  NOVEMBER 25, 2012

  I wake up after a rough night to find the rear tire deflated once again. My mood instantly follows suit. Poor Pegasus is feeling the wear and tear of the road. He is in urgent need of that long-promised overhaul, so I find a large bike shop and ask the mechanic to fit new tires, chain, pedals, and cranks. With that done, we should be ready for the final twenty-six hundred miles to the finish line.

  The road west toward Ioannina winds over a long mountain pass—more than sixty miles uphill. The towns dotting the valley below gradually become tiny specks, then disappear altogether. The hours tick by in peaceful silence, punctuated only by the chirping of birds and crickets and the rhythm of my own breathing. Thick white clouds hang low over the mountains, and as I near the top of the climb, I can see them spread across the peaks below me like a soft blanket of snow. On the summit there is nothing but blue sky above and white clouds below. It is a strange sensation—like climbing into the sky and another world. I get a strong sense of déjà vu, like I have been here before.

  When I was a child, I had a number of recurring dreams. Most nights I dreamed of monsters chasing me. No matter how hard I tried to run, I couldn’t escape; my legs felt slow and heavy, as if I were running through mud. The monsters would close in, and I would sometimes awake just as I felt the hot breath of their massive jaws on my back. At other times they would catch me, and I would feel myself dying just as I woke up. Eventually I learned how to pull myself out of the dream and wake up just before they reached me. Waking hours, on the other hand, were filled with monsters I couldn’t escape.

  One recurring dream was different, and because of its nature and frequency, it has remained firmly planted in my memory. In the initial dream I was a small girl of five, walking with my father, my tiny hand enveloped by his large one. “I want to show you something,” he said, leading me down a series of dark alleyways in a poor slum in one of the developing countries where we lived, possibly the Philippines or Sri Lanka. Turning down one of the dusty streets, we came to a dead end where there was a long cement staircase, leading somewhere out of sight. We climbed the steps together, my hand still clasping his, my eyes never quite able to see where the stairs were leading. Then without me really understanding how, the stairs ended, and all at once we were inside another world—one that was more beautiful than anywhere I had ever seen. Flowers of every color stretched into infinity. The air was fresh and scented with their perfume. The sky was s
uch a deep shade of blue that it was almost purple. Everything was bathed in a golden light, though there was no visible sun. My senses tingled with smells, colors, and sensations I had never experienced before. I let go of my father’s hand and ran squealing through the lush fields in a state of total bliss. Completely happy, completely free. I forgot the world below where we lived. This was where I wanted to stay forever.

  In the subsequent dreams my father was absent, and I never managed to enter that magical world again. Alone, I would search for the mysterious stairway, racing desperately through streets that led nowhere, blocked by people, traffic, and obstacles. Sometimes I would be chased by an unnamed, unseen threat; at other times I was in a war zone, dodging bombs and bullets. Sweaty, hungry, and tired, I would never give up the search. I had to find those stairs and get back to that place, return to the hidden Shangri-La before the stairway disappeared from my dreams forever. Occasionally I would find the steps, but I never managed to climb to the top and see that beautiful place again.

  Now, without even looking for it, here I am! This is the place! That same feeling of total elation and happiness overwhelms me. I want to cry and laugh at the same time. After all those years searching for it, deep down I have always known the way back, but it was buried under suffering and sorrow and struggles. Today I have stumbled on it by accident, and now I understand. I don’t need a staircase to reach this place of complete bliss. I can find it anywhere, at any time.

  It reminds me of something Joseph Campbell wrote: “Find a place inside where there’s joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.”