Down the Black Sea coast the nature of the ride has changed markedly. The only route is the highway squeezed between Black Sea Coast and the Pontic mountains rearing immediately up from the coast. Towns are also squashed into the mountain slopes and isolated from the sea by the highway barriers. No chance here for Mediterranean style villages on the sea shore. The only access is steep steel stairways across the highway or dark overgrown underpasses. Options for camping have been limited, so cheap Otels have been the base for the last few days. Fortunately the summer season has all but ended so room rates are typically halved.

Having said that the highway is not too busy and verges are a full lane for cycling, every town has good cycleway around the seafront so cycling has been comfortable and safe. That is apart from the many tunnels where the noise level is intense. Fortunately many have service road by passes around the seaward side, so I have managed to avoid the longer tunnels. With almost constant tail wind and flat surfaces the rides have been a cruise, with interruptions only caused by great looking cafes.

Riding the coast is a little unnerving knowing that across on the northern shore the Ukraine war is raging. This coast is an escape for many Russian tourists on late summer vacations. I was heartened to meet a Russian immigrant from the Far East Kamchatka Peninsular (home of the Siberian tiger). He had left Russia in response to the war - despite being as far away the trouble as it is possible to get in Russia.  We met a couple of times on the road as he headed back to his new home in Batumi.

The coast has been fascinatingly busy. Fleets of trawlers line the horizon. A large number of fish farms also dot the coast.  Surprisingly many produce trout, I discovered that the sea has relatively low saline levels allowing trout to thrive. Seafront villages constantly line the route, houses perched high up the sides of the steep slopes. Narrow streets and colourful bazaars clammer for attention. Findik (hazelnuts) dry in great areas of every car park, a huge export market for Turkey.

Highway riding and hotel accomodation has limited interaction along the way. I have become a bicycle tourist, not enough Turkish for decent conversation so I am looking forward to my route ahead on smaller roads with a chance to choose a campsite in some beautiful spot and people more disconnected from their phones

Thousands of trucks line the route waiting to cross the Georgia border

Beautiful mosques are a feature of every town

Heading into Gorele

Classical modern architecture - complemented by the not-so-modern

Cycleways through every town

The Georgia bear was a little more tired than his Canadian counterpart

The jump from Samarkand to Tbilisi Georgia was forced by difficult/closed borders into Turkmenistan and Azerbaijan which was always on the plan. So after a day of stitching two small bike boxes together with cable ties and reams of packing tape I was ready to fly. Two days later the bike box and I arrived into Tbilisi airport safely together. I had pretty much finished reassembling the bike when I noticed the front wheel wouldn't turn a full rotation. The front brake disc rotor was horribly bent. Something had penetrated the bike box with such force it had burred the head of one of the rotor bolts. I muttered something about airline baggage handlers then got to work. Three hours gentle metal work gradually put the rotor back into the millimetre perfect shape required (after a trip to a nearby hardware store for vice grips and two steel rulers - perfect tools for straightening disc rotors).

On the road again quickly out of Tbilisi city traffic Georgia began to captivate me. Leafy tree lined roads, ancient stone and steel cottages with a river glimpsed through the trees. No long run corrugated iron here, this was 6mm heavy rusted steel plate.  The villages had rough rustic character, not pretty but continually interesting. 

I had revised my route to link up a series of camps I had found from various sources. First day followed the river Kura into Dzegri, a tiny village on the wine trail. Google maps lead me on the most convoluted back lane path to an unmarked steel gate. Underneath the gate I could see the noses of 4 Alsatian dogs, I timidly knocked on the gate, immediately drowned out by the Alsatian chorus. At that moment Dimitri, the owner and winemaker pulled up in his vehicle with son Michaele. “No the camp is not open yet, you need to ring in advance”.

Within moments the tone had softened to “Please come inside and rest I will ring a neighbour who may have a bed”. Then another quick shift as Dimitri looked at my load “Do you have a tent?”. Minutes later the tent was parked under the laden fruit trees in the little vineyard/orchard courtyard.  By the time my tent was up, Marina, Dimitri’s Russian wife had laid a small spread for afternoon tea, cheese, bread, grapes, jam, yoghurt, and a large red wine. Dimitri produces 20 wines under the brand of Bantle wine, very good wines. I tasted 6, including a beautiful sweet dessert wine and a cherry liqueur. I was quite happy.

The winery itself looked chaotic, with blue plastic barrels, huge glass bottles and various chemistry lab instruments. Dimitri lifted a lid on the floor to reveal huge urn like cavities containing 2000 litres of new harvest each. Despite my 6 glass tasting, I  could see a lot of passion and expertise at work.

Next morning I was up early and had just cleaned my billy after cooking my usual oats and nuts, when Marina arrived with breakfast. Fortunately I have no problems when food appears as the daily bike burn takes care of anything I can eat.

My ride through Georgia continued to follow the Kura River deeper and deeper into a narrow twisting gorge dotted with villages on the steep banks on either side. Small swing bridges connect the far side of the river at each village. I camped at Gori then Borjomi on the edge of the Borjomi Nature Reserve.

A stomach parasite took the edge off the next few days, including a gnarly climb to the top of the 2000 metre plus Goderdzi Pass. A group of lightly loaded Italian riders passed me on the climb, and started a series of leap-frog meetings on the road all the way to Batumi on the Black Sea coast. It lightened the days with a bit of international banter and fun.

The descent from Goderdzi Pass well and truely deserves its place on the list of the world’s most dangerous roads. It started innocently enough with new smooth seal in sweeping zig-zags. The seal ended, the road narrowed, in places to a truck width (as long as you didn’t mind a couple of wheels hanging over the edge). The edge plunged at least 1000 metres down a steep valley, chunks of the outer edge simply dropped into nothingness. Heavy water runoff frequently gushed down the centre of the road, churned into deep soupy mud. Roadworks and workers lined the entire route with trucks jammed into impossibly tight passing bays. Cranes lifted heavy concrete blocks over my head as I rode past. But the real danger was the people mover Mercedes’ vans, drivers with chronic impatience, thumbs glued to the horn overtaking inside outside, intimidating oncoming drivers with a burst of speed to clear a path. Sometimes there simply wasn’t a path so drivers would sit tooting and yelling until someone backed out. I was saved when two big articulated trucks heavily loaded with reinforcing steel simply couldn’t make it up a very steep hump. Traffic from both sides quickly came to a stop, and I was able to cruise quietly round the edges to enjoy a pure mountain bike descent.

As the valley widened below the pass, a real tourist buzz kept locals busy with rafting, high zip wires, food and coffee. A beautiful scenic area. Reaching Batumi at the shores of the Black Sea was a milestone of 100 days riding and over 8000 kilometres covered. It also coincided with another meeting with the Italian riders, who elevated the celebration for me. For them a week of cycling over, for me two countries to go.

I found the Georgian people a little more reserved and self contained, especially after Uzbekskistan. Tourists on bikes don’t raise an eyebrow or warrant a selfie. There is a strong anti-European (EU and NATO) political movement. Posters line every village wall (elections are in November). Anti-European also means a pro-Moscow move “for prosperity” says the poster rhetoric. Individually, as my experience in the winery showed, people are still essentially good generous and open.

Riding alongside the Kura River into wine country

Typical village lanes

A lot of these old Soviet trucks are still on the road

I love the elegant simplicity of Georgia script

Swing bridges connecting villages up the Kura River Gorge

Celebrating arrival at Batumi on the Black Sea coast with the Italian riders

Crossing the border into Uzbekistan hit me with a sense of definitely being in a different country. All my other border crossings have been through remote border outposts, no hint of the change in culture language or people other than brief interaction with  border officials. The Osh border is in the middle of the city and the Uzbek side hustles with an airport bazaar. My sense was a gentler feel, a familiarity which I attributed to the sudden change from crylic alphabet. I could read the letters if not the language.

The ride out towards Andijon was on busy highway, and most of my ride through Uzbekistan was limited by the narrow corridor between the Tajikistan and Kazakhstan borders. My initial attempt plotting a route towards Samarkand were foiled by two non-international Tajik border crossings.

My second day finished at the foot of the high pass heading into Tashkent. I didn't have the energy to tackle the pass so stopped at a local store for a drink and mull over options. The storekeeper kept me enterained with some fun interaction, gradually gathering a small crowd of local men. The small crowd gathering where ever I stopped, became a theme of Uzbekistan. A few days later I stopped to cook breakfast unknowingly outside a school. Until the two teachers eventually dispersed the crowd I was surrounded and bombarded with questions.

Back at the store I had noticed a environmental reserve down the road which looked like camping territory. I had just headed off when two park Rangers pulled alongside. Within minutes I was set up to camp in the park office, which was used for the night shift officer to sleep. By the time I had unpacked, the officer had arranged a shower with neighbour's across the road and fresh bread from another neighbour. My shower hosts were delightful people, with the daughter training to be an English teacher delegated as translator, I discovered her mother was also a teacher. Another brief encounter but rich in simple generosity and courtesy.

Next morning I headed up the climb to the Kamchik Pass, slowly in the heat. Ahead I could see a big toll gate structure, buzzing with Police. I was immediately pulled aside "no cycles allowed over the pass, you need to get transport". I had barely finished my pleas with the officer when his colleagues had pulled over an empty van. Protest over the bike was bundled into the back of the van. My driver was as hyper as the other traffic on the road. Music blaring, Uzbek, Russian, Kazakh, Turkish, beats across most of central Asia. Periodically my phone would be commandeered to translate another question. A fun but hair raising ride, however the long dark tunnels at the top would have been a huge risk on the bike, so I was marginally safer.

The road to Samarkand was a forgettable brush with continuous heavy and noisy traffic. Then into Samarkand itself. Off the busy highway into whisper quiet ancient narrow twisting streets, ending at the traditional guest house I had found just a short walk from the famous Registan Square. Everything about the majesty and architectural beauty of the mosques and monuments exceeded expectations, despite my reluctance to be a "real" tourist. But the bonus for me was the historic charm of the guest house itself and the sense of history in the twisting lanes as I wandered in fascination.

Beautiful bread at every stop

The vibrant market immediately across the Uzbek border

Somas became a lunch regular

My slightly quirky hotel in Buka - a pity reception forgot to give my passport back on checkout

Leaving Jizzax and a rapid transition into desert

Courtyard of my beautiful old Samarkand guesthouse

History and beautiful architecture of Samarkand

​Kyrgyzstan (above following the Kyrgyz horses into Osh)

Many hours in the Tararuas in my early days taught me never to trust alpine weather. Those peaks were 1500 to 1700 metres. In high country which has the highest peak north of the Himalayas (7400m) Kyrgyzstan has that effect amplified. Sitting in my cowshed camp at nearly 3000 metres, it was spectacular watching the storm sweep up the valley which minutes earlier had been bathed in sunshine. The temperature plummeted 20 degrees and visibility dropped to 20 metres. Ahead was an even higher pass with a 200 kilometre off road trail with much of it over 3500 metres. For once wisdom prevailed over stubbornness and next morning I did my first U-turn. The downhill blast back down to Lake Issyk Kul was a fast blast, with sprays of mud from the heavy rain.

My first impressions crossing into Kyrgyzstan had been set by the easy border crossing, requiring nothing but a stamp in the passport and a “Welcome to Kyrgyzstan”. The main road towards Karakol  set the tone for the hard roads ahead. Fifteen degree slope over gravel the size of small boulders. An unfortunate young boy was directed by his Mum to lend a hand. Two kilometres of hard pushing earnt him a cake of chocolate and my very grateful thanks (he was not so happy with his Mum when they collected him in a creaky old Lada at the top of the climb).

Kyrgyzstan also has discovered tourists (or vice-versa). After encountering 3 cyclists in the previous 6000 kilometres, I met 5 on my first day. A French/German couple had been on the road for 3 years. They offered a lot of good advice for my route ahead ( including a useful note that a couple of roads on my route didn’t exist). Karakol was a shock, from being sole tourist I was now amongst hundreds. Karakol has become a centre for hiking and dozens of groups were coming or going from various hikes in the area. Tourist talk abounded, have you been there, you must see this.

I found excellent food in Karakol to supplement the daily pasta and canned fish. Lighthouse Cafe was also congregation point for passing tourists including a Belgium couple. They were able to solve the first of my Tajikistan permit problems with a credit card that worked on the government e-visa site. The conversation also resulted in a reroute over the 3800 metre Arabella pass (boldly attempted but resulting in the U turn described above). The final route used a 3020m pass but at least on a tarmac surface. Enjoyed a few days cycling the shores of Lake Issyk Kul, where I added two Belarusian cyclists to my growing list of cycling nationalities.

I arrived in Naryn in time to coincide with the international Silk Road bike packing race. Unfortunate to miss Kiwi Joe Nation who eventually won the race, but encountered a number of drop outs from this incredibly tough race.

From Naryn to Osh believe it or not the road had two huge passes to conquer. On the first I was lucky enough to find a sheltered camp site half way up with magnificent evening and morning views. Midway between the passes was Kazarman which had a guest house whose owner assured me he had driven the main highway to OSH 5 times on “good road”. Off I set on another route diversion. I began to get nervous with almost no traffic on the route. I stopped a downward headed car and the driver assured me “OK to Osh” (at least thats what I took from the Russian/sign-language exchange). Four hours of climbing later I was confronted by a very aggressive road worker, this time there was no uncertainty, road closed turn around and go on the gnarly dirt pass road. The compensation was the flying 40 kilometre downhill that fooled my track followers into believing I had jumped on a truck.

The next climb was hampered by stomach problems and slipping gears in the 3 vital lowest ratios. Seven kilometres from the summit I was reduced to a slow walk and gladly accepted a ride to the top. The day ended in a beautiful bush camp, sheltered from the strong wind if not the rain. Two days later I emerged onto the plain leading to Jalal Abad and onto Osh. Landscape turned very urban. In Jalal Abad I had a long pleasant conversation with a local welder. Great to have Google translate to have a little depth in a conversation with no common language, although I am beginning to remember some Russian.

Kyrgyzstan has been impacted by tourism. There is a noticeable increase in cost for similar accomodation I have stayed. Local children have picked up some habits (blocking the road asking for chocolate or money and most dangerous, little ones grabbing at handlebars). Fundamentally the people have been kind and generous, with a sense of fun. On Monday I cross the border to Uzbekistan.

First morning Kyrgyzstan

Lake Issyk Kul

And the mist rolls in towards Arabela Pass

Following the lake shore on route option 2

A very empty Otta Tokay reservoir on the way to Kochkor

Donkey corner on the climb over the pass to Naryn

Nomad Kyrgyz stalls along the gorge leading into Naryn

Racing some friends down the Naryn River valley

Camp sunrise  Naryn River valley

Kazarman babushkas

Andijan Reservoir across the Uzbekistan border approaching Osh

Beautiful park camp heading into Osh

And into Osh city