With my consort and bairn

Strange things start to happen when cycling in sub-zero temperatures in mountains.

For a start, water-vapour from my breath condenses in my beard before freezing. Then, the nozzles of my water bottle freeze closed before the water inside goes almost solid. This is soon followed by the realisation that whenever I stop for even short periods of time (about a minute), it is necessary to stop in at least 2nd or 3rd gear; this is due to the gear cables freezing up and needing to be able to tension them to break the ice. Finally, and worst of all, one begins to rue downhill sections.

Downhill cycling is what drives cyclists. The ecstasy of effortless movement cannot be understated, especially when one has worked so hard to reach the pass and achieve it. But, over the last few days, a feeling not unlike dread has descended upon me whenever I reach the top of a section. Temperatures of minus 4 are bad enough, but when one is motionless on a bicycle and travelling through them at about 25km/hr, they get that much worse. I'd like to say that my fingers and toes go numb, but that suggests a feeling of nothingness, and that is certainly not the case. Going downhill, fingertips hurt. But the feeling from the cold is nothing compared to the pain one experiences when they finally thaw out at the bottom of the section; it is truly excruciating. I wanted to cry the first time it happened and had to stomp up and down, not only to get feeling into my feet, but also to try and create pain elsewhere in my body to take some of it away from my fingers!!! Then it's back on the bike to start up the next incline.

I learned after the first time that my fleece gloves where not enough by themselves and so wore both pairs of gloves from then on. But my cycling gloves lack cover where they are needed most at the fingertips, but it does make the pain slightly more bearable. After the first time, it was only individual fingers that froze and thawed rather than 6 at once as in the first time. Added to all this is an inevitable brain freeze.

The scenery, however, more than made up for the elements. The entire region was frozen solid (even though it was crystal clear blue sky with sun shining) and I hope the pictures do it some justice. The first day was a 96km uphill starter and I arrived into Sepidan cold, tired and hungry. I stopped at a garage to ask for directions to a guesthouse, only to be told there were none. I decided to continue into the town to check for myself. The information was indeed correct, but as I pondered my predicament in a cloud of gloom, a truck's horn shook me from my depression. It was the guy who I'd asked for directions about a kilometre before.

With a series of pointing at myself, himself and making the sign of a pitched roof with his two hands (he couldn't speak any english), he invited me to stay at his house; I gladly accepted and then cycled behind his truck as he (slowly) drove the 3km to his house. There, I was treated as an honoured guest; meeting the entire extended family and talking on the phone to those who couldn't actually be there in person.


It should be noted here that almost without exception, english could not be spoken by anyone. Hamid, the elder brother of Amin (who had invited me to the house), had learned English from a dictionary on a computer and it led to some interesting statments (and he was the best english speaker amongst them):

"I go take douche"
"Are you aweary?"
And my personal favourite - after about 10min of researching on the dictionary:
"You go ireland; you come back in years. You come back here; this house. You bring with consort and bairn."

I believe it to be my invitation to return with wife and kids in a few years time. I'm just glad I've lived in scotland and know what a bairn is, or I would simply have been confused...






This is washing powder






I don't want to ramble for too long about the hospitality of Iranian people, but suffice to say it's very, very good. I've had another person not speak a word of English travel across town with me to deliver me to a hotel here they did speak English. Or there was the taxi driver who (again speaking no English) picked me up, dropped me to the bus station, came inside to speak to the people with me, invite me back to his house, feed me fruit, give me tea, drive me back to my hostel, pick up my bags and drive back to the bus station while i cycled behind. I didn't offer him any money, I know it would have been refused!

The last episode happened yesterday. I arose at 05.30 that morning and was about to depart for the 130km leg up to a mountain town when i looked out and saw snow falling. The town I was heading for was at about 3000m. I think you can guess my reasons, but if not:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7178192.stm



The day I caught the bus











This was breakfast; it's known by the rather cryptic name of "sheep's head stew". Tastes a bit like fish.







And finally, what you've all been waiting for...