Lone Wolf

The Turks I meet along the way are willing to accept everything. That I’m cycling to the other side of the world. That I gave up my job in order to do that. Even that I’m still wearing cycling shorts now the temperature has dropped into the single digits. But why, they keep asking, why are you traveling alone? They just can’t seem to get their head around it. Joking that I don’t have any friends only makes it worse. ‘What is wrong with you?’ they all but say aloud.

But how to explain the joys of riding alone? It’s not something you can quantify or point at. Rather, it’s a state of mind, a mental equilibrium that is closely connected to the simplicity of cycling. Steady legwork not only carries you to distant climes, the same motion also seems to siphon off any unwanted thoughts, not unlike a pump draining a murky morass. When there is nothing but road, bike, horizon: that’s when the going gets good. Chitchatting with a travel companion or being forced to look at his sweaty back all day would simply drive a stick into this mechanism.

This isn’t to say that it doesn’t get a bit lonely at times. Eastern Anatolia isn’t exactly densely populated, and it often happens that a long day sees me pass through only a handful of hamlets. The other day, somewhere in between Kayseri and Malatya, all life seemed to have gone on strike. No villages, no vegetation, nothing. More than one hundred kilometres of sheer emptiness. Having just conquered the umpteenth barren hill, I suddenly heard an echoing cry. To my left I saw a middle-aged man waving frantically. It was clear he wanted me to follow him, so I got off my bike, crossed the road and scrambled up a mound. With a sweeping gesture he showed me a vast field, where a flock of sheep was peacefully nibbling away on what little grass there was left. Four imposing Kangal dogs were keeping a watchful eye. Proudly, the shepherd told me all about his work. I didn’t understand half of what he was saying, but then, nor did he and his friend when I told them about my trip. All of that seemed inconsequential, however. It was enough to just stand there for a while with these two men and watch the sun break through the clouds for the first time that day.

In Malatya I was welcomed by my host Ilyas, his wife Zehra and Diran, their four-month old boy. Staying at their place once again reminded me of the fact that without couchsurfing a journey like this would be virtually impossible. Solitude is great as long as I am pushing the pedals, but even lone wolves need some company every now and then. Couchsurfing was set up with exactly this in mind. It allows travelers to stay with locals and become part of their lives for a few days. A great way to unwind, plus you get to look beyond the main attractions and see a place for what it really is.

High on all the good company I took it a step further and signed up for a group trip to Nemrut Dağı, the monumental tomb of a long-forgotten king high up in the mountains south of Malatya. The ‘group’ turned out to be me plus two couples from France and Korea. Still, the five of us had great fun trying not to think of dying a horrible death as we raced to the summit in a ramshackle minibus. We got there just in time to see the sun set over the huge stone heads gazing out over the Tigris basin. After spending the night in a very basic hotel just below the summit we went back to see the sun come up from the eastern terrace. A truly communal spirit arose among the thirty or so spectators as the sky put on its multicoloured robe. It was a splendid spectacle, but somewhere I could hear a lone wolf howling at the moon.