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Thirty

As a fifteen year old, I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to be when I grew up. Who does?

That sounds a bit like the narration from The Wonder Years.

Thirty. That’s old. At the time I thought — ‘That’s twice as old as I am now, and you don’t really remember the first few years.’ Would I be rich? Famous? Married? Kids? House? Car? Big telly? Would I be happy?

On September the third, 2015, I turned thirty. I had none of the things listed above, except the last one. I was homeless, and carried all my worldly possessions on my bike. Nice one.

I’d arrived in Batumi, Georgia, a couple of days before. First impressions were; cows are given free right of passage, drivers are mental (especially in cities), the landscape is lush, and they love a big statue. Oh, and the beer and food is cracking, and cheap, I mean really cheap. That’s me sorted then.

Three things intrigued me enough to take photos in Batumi - a street piano…

Three things intrigued me enough to take photos in Batumi – a street piano…

…Strannik, the half sunken boat…

…Strannik, the half sunken boat…

…and some Nikes.

…and some Nikes.

I managed to catch Fredrik riding around in the centre, luckily he hadn’t shit himself to death in the hotel back in Turkey, so we headed to Batumi Surf Hostel, which is an awesome place.

A couple of other cycle tourers turned up; Adam, a Californian who was cycling major wine regions in Europe finishing in Georgia at Tellavie, and Gaetan, a French lad who was on some kind of pilgrimage to Armenia, where his Mum’s from (I’ve already biked through Nunny, not as impressive, but lots more dangerous). We were all heading east for the next few days, so we had a bit of a peloton going.

This is Adam and the hostel kitty.

This is Adam and the hostel kitty.

My 30th started with a flurry of fucks leaving my mouth. I had to fill out Uzbekistan Letter of Invitation forms and manage to pay some money. This obviously took way longer than anticipated. It seems nowadays, whenever I open a laptop it releases all manner of stress, like a reverse Ghostbusters trap. I think I’ll try and keep it shut more often.

Fredrik’s the kind of cycle tourer that meticulously plans each day of riding. Elevation profiles, wind speeds, rest points, he should bike in a lab coat, and hopefully it’ll make me realise I should research the days ahead a bit more. Anyway, the next couple of days had a 2100 metre climb up a mountain range, split over a couple of days.

We headed east out of Batumi and pretty much followed a winding river up a valley the entire day, which was dressed with stone arch bridges and waterfalls. I think we only managed about 50km that day, so much warranted a ten minute stop.

The beginning…

The beginning…

Gaetan jumping off some stone bridge. Don't worry, there was water.

Gaetan jumping off some stone bridge. Don’t worry, there was water.

The road soon turned to dirt and rubble just after Khulo (which Adam happily told us is Spanish for butthole), which isn’t ideal when you’re carrying everything you own, but it does give it a feeling like you’re properly scaling a mountain.

About a quarter of the way up.

About a quarter of the way up.

I managed to take a ridiculous amount of photos, every switchback peeled away a set of trees to reveal another angle of the valley, until around 200 metres from the peak where grass took over in place of the snow during summer months.

Not on the dirt road yet.

Not on the dirt road yet.

Towards the top two guys jumped out of a truck carrying logs, ran over to me and Gaetan and gave us a rib crushing hug. They were so happy that we were in their country, riding up their mountain, that he almost had tears in his eyes, and demanded a photo to mark the occasion. By all means. Lovely bugger.

Almost there…

Almost there…

We camped right at the top. Well, everyone else did, I still have a knackered tent, so I jumped in the porch of an abandoned hut overlooking the valley. In the morning, I rolled over to see the clouds filling in the gaps down in the descent, decent way to start the day.

Some old shepherds walking into the sunset.

Some old shepherds walking into the sunset.

Mountain top camping, bit windy to be honest.

Mountain top camping, bit windy to be honest.

The sunset was a zinger.

The sunset was a zinger.

The view from my Thermarest.

The view from my Thermarest.

That is until Gaetan noticed my back wheel was buckled, and that we had 30km of rubble to ride down, but, as they say – ‘You can only shit with the arse you’ve got’.

It took me until Akhaltsike, another 30km to notice I had two snapped spokes on my rear wheel. After a look around and only finding the usual shops with kids bikes outside and a weird assortment of crap inside, I decided I had one of two choices –

1. Catch a bus to Tbilisi, find some replacement spokes and remember to carry some as spares in future.

2. Carry on riding until I find a temporary fix, risk completely knackering my wheel, then get a proper repair job in Tbilisi, and remember to carry some as spares in future.

I went with option 2. Both choices were a pain in the arse really, my original plan was to go to Armenia with Fredrik, that ship had sailed. He left for Yerevan that afternoon and I got a guesthouse with Adam and Gaetan. The next morning the host tried to help by finding a bike ‘master’. He wasn’t in, so he went to work on my wheel instead, against my protests, bending some old spokes together to make two new ones, giving me a puncture in the process (which I told him repeatedly would happen in German, our common language).

The most ridiculous bodge I've ever seen.

The most ridiculous bodge I’ve ever seen.

Adam and I said goodbye to Gaetan, who carried on with his pilgrimage, as we went north east towards Tbilisi, slowly, so my wheel, with a couple of spokes wearing bow ties, didn’t collapse into something that resembled a game of Ker-Plunk.

First stop on the road to Tbilisi was Borjomi. No bike shops. It is however, famous for its natural mineral water, which we pondered up the valley to try. This stuff has been known for its health benefits and healing properties since the dawn of time, or something. There was a big old rabble of people filling bottles and chugging it down. Adam was first up.

‘That is some wacky water man. It’s good.’

It tasted like lukewarm salty water to me, not impressed, I was expecting something fresh. It might make me feel better with its ‘superpowers’, but then again, so does a dose of Bovril at half time, and that tastes nice.

That night we decided on a hostel, due to a huge thunderstorm and us feeling knackered to be honest. The place was old and run-down, including the beds, so when I decided to turn in I realised the springs nearly touched the floor, and the blanket felt like it was moving. I kipped on the sofa.

Adam didn’t realise this though, and when he got up in the middle of the night, wandered through the pitch black room, chucked his shirt onto the sofa with yours truly on it, he wasn’t quite expecting me to grab his arm whilst I was half asleep, I wasn’t either to be honest.

I’ve never, ever heard a man scream so loudly, and for so long in sheer, sheer terror. I can still hear it now.

After scaring Adam shitless in the night, we rode out towards Gori, passing Kashuri on the way, where we managed to find a man in a shed who replaced my knackered spokes for two lari. That’s about 30p. Spokes and labour included. He even had some pumping tunes – when he flicked the switch for the compressor to pump my tyre back up, the speakers blasted out some house, which kept playing as we rode off.

Georgia loves a castle or two.

Georgia loves a castle or two.

Georgians are well known for their hospitality, sometimes to a fault, they’ll give until they haven’t got anymore. We were riding through one village seven kilometres short of Gori, when we got chatting to some locals — Dimi and Tornike. Before we knew it we had an impromptu bench by the side of the road with an entire meal to boot. More and more people pondered past and joined in. Then the homemade ChaCha came out to play. We drank so much of this stuff in such a short space of time, it was rocketfuel, toast after toast — for your mother, for your mother’s mother, for your mother’s mother’s pet budgie, you name it, it got toasted. In the end, they were squeezing the grapes dry by hand.

Dimi and Tornike's impromptu welcome party.

Dimi and Tornike’s impromptu welcome party.

Then the local policeman joined the party. Quick as a flash, or as quick as a massive, half naked, titted man can be, Dimi grabs the gun, cocks it, and fires it into the air.

Deafening. Adam was closest, he had tinnitus for days. Everyone was silent for a second, then giggled like school kids. A old woman ran down some stairs screaming, administering Dimi with a proper bollocking.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked Tornike

‘That’s Dimi’s Mum’

Your mum can always give you a bollocking. Five, ten, fifteen or fifty years old. Especially for showing off to the foreigners.

The last seven kilometres into Gori were pretty entertaining, in what turned out to be a drunken race against the sunset, and only got more entertaining when we bought some glasses of homemade wine from a corner shop — they were served in pints. It was that kind of night.

It took a couple of hours to shake the hangover off in the heat, but it was worse for Adam with a squealing ear from Dimi’s trigger happy gunshot. Fortunately, Georgia’s so nice to bike through it turned what should’ve been a grind of a day into a beautiful ride. We got cave towns, dirt roads, grassland, castles, valleys, you name it. The final stretch into Tbilisi wasn’t too bad either, barring the Georgian’s no holds barred city driving.

Some cave town that was almost on the way.

Some cave town that was almost on the way.

Dirt roads and grassland

Dirt roads and grassland

We took an extended break in Tbilisi, about five days. I managed to find a half decent bike shop to replace the temporary two lari spaghetti spokes. The mechanic gave me some black titanium ones, like gold teeth in a gangsta’s grill, and ten spares for the inevitable.

It’s a small, cycle touring world – Alex Duaurin turned up in our hostel the next day, the third time I’ve seen him, and I’ve only managed to cycle with him for about half a kilometre. One day… one day. He headed to the southern Azerbaijan border crossing, towards Baku, then south to Iran. Fredrik also turned up, and after printing our Azeri e-visa (which was much harder than it sounds – thanks Microsoft), we left with Adam, towards Tellavie.

Alex Duaurin, Frenchman, cyclist, rabid dog beater. Here he is with his sword.

Alex Duaurin, Frenchman, cyclist, rabid dog beater. Here he is with his sword.

Representing England, courtesy of flag-man Alex Duaurin!

Representing England, courtesy of flag-man Alex Duaurin!

We planned to camp before then, however we got taken in by Georgi about 15km short of the pass before Tellavie, and if I had a working tent, I’d have flat out refused and headed for the hills. It took me about half a minute to realise Georgi had a similar level of intelligence as a broom handle, he reminded me of the guy from Terry Gilliam’s Tideland, in terms of mannerisms and behaviour.

Georgi's porch.

Georgi’s porch.

Decent view.

Decent view.

We chilled on his porch and (kind of) met his Mum, toothless and haggard, who occasionally made noises at us. I could see where Georgi got it from.

The highlight of the night was as we sat together, making conversation with Georgi through the handful of Georgian words we’d learned, scribbled pictures and hand gestures, he scurries off, comes back, and hands Adam a knife. A seven inch, fixed blade combat knife. If there’s one thing that scares me, it’s idiots with weapons. Adam’s reaction was a slightly perturbed –

‘Oh, wow… a knife… very good.’

Mine wasn’t much different, before I tried to hand it to Fredrik for inspection.

‘No. I’m not fucking touching it.’ Fredrik said, hiding in Georgi’s inability to understand anything we were saying.

Adam tried to hand it back to Georgi.

‘No. You.’ Pushing it back to Adam.

That’s right, Georgi thought the best present for his guests was a weapon. Adam and I tried to explain we couldn’t take it because of border crossings, or any other reason that would make sense through hand gestures.

‘OK! SORRY!’ Georgi seemed pretty aggrieved by our refusal, and the knife got put on a nearby table as we went to kip for the night.

I woke up a few times and checked if it was still there. I know the score, I’ve seen the movies.

The final stretch up to the pass in the morning seemed a little weak. Normal asphalt, no dirt roads, leisurely switchbacks. The view at the top was alright, maybe I’ve been spoiled by Georgia a bit too much. On the way down we crossed the river Turdo though, I couldn’t take a picture because I was giggling too much and going too fast before I realised I should stop.

The last Georgian mountain.

The last Georgian mountain.

The view from the top, not at nice as the other one, but I'll take it.

The view from the top, not at nice as the other one, but I’ll take it.

Tellavie. This is where we said goodbye to Adam. A gentleman and scholar. I’m up and down more than a whore’s drawers but Adam’s one of those people who can lift my mood in seconds, a rarity. If, and when I get to America, I hope he joins me for a bit of a bike ride.

The last day of Georgia was a long stretch on the side of a valley, where strangely we saw kids going to school, the first time I’d seen on the trip, followed by a huge flat section across the valley to Lagodekhi National Park, where we were allowed to pitch our tents next to the Visitor Centre, except I don’t have a tent (the replacement poles should be in Baku waiting for me to pick up! Cheers Ben!).

This obviously meant one thing — thunderstorm! My plan of attack was to wrap my tent fly sheet around myself and everything I own, in a piss poor attempt at staying dry. Fortunately, the park ranger came out and told me to come inside, what a hero. I woke up in the morning surrounded by some badly stuffed woodland animals watching over me.

My lodgings for the night.

My lodgings for the night.

The morning was just a short roll out of Georgia into Azerbaijian. The sign on the way out said ‘Good luck’. If Azerbaijian’s have as fun as Georgia, we wouldn’t need it.

Good luck!

Good luck!

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