Our new and great hero:
Milotin Ivanov

Under a watery sun we cycle from Belogradcik to Berkovica. After a climb past the last rock formations from Belogradcik we cycle over an offshoot of the Stara Planina. This mountain range forms the natural border between Serbia and Bulgaria and is home to a whole lot of different animal-species. Today we encounter some of them, mostly dead and on or next to the road. This is one of the few unpleasant aspects of cycling: the penetrating foul stench of corpses of dogs, cats, snakes, foxes, hares, bats, rats, hedgehogs or squirrels. Today this is compensated somewhat by the dozens of living storks that we see flying around our heads and sitting on their enormous nests.

The first village we reach is Montana. The communist name until recently was Mihailjovgrad. Montana is of course less poetic, but a lot easier to pronounce. The town is built according to the best communist tradition: concrete, numbered blocks of flats and a lot of industrial areas. Everything looks run down. It's very hard to find something of beauty in a town like Montana; everything is grey, drab and breathes a desperate atmosphere. You could get very depressed here.

Between Montana and Berkovica the surroundings get greener and the temperature higher, most insects seem to notice this as well. To avoid a premature and unwanted dinner we have to cycle with our mouths closed.

After a long day of cycling we arrive in Berkovica. While we're looking for affordable accommodations for the night, we meet a young Bulgarian who lives and works in Manhattan. His English is perfect; he helps us to find the police station. At the station we ask for a campsite or another safe place where we can put up our tent for the night. Our interpreter translates everything, he tells us that tourists are virtually unknown here and that the police are taking this situation very seriously; they'll do anything to guarantee us a safe stay. Moments later our interpreter discovers that the police contacted the major; this problem can't be solved without him. Protocols, rules and local regulations don't provide for this unusual situation. Policemen, inspectors and superintendent quite rightly don't dare to independently make decisions in such an important and delicate situation.
Our interpreter tells us the major ordered the police to let us stay on municipal grounds, for lack of a campsite. The place has to be guarded. In the end a decision is taken, we thank our interpreter for his help. The police ask us to follow a car that will lead us to our safe haven. We follow over the cobblestone-streets of the town, avoid pools and deep pits in the road that are a main feature of the road surface. Sometimes the speed is too fast. Therefore most of our attention is focused on following the car; this causes my frontwheel to dive into a deep hole. I stay upright, but I do have a puncture now. Luckily we just arrived at our destination: the local swimming pool. It's fantastic how the local authorities care about our night's rest and safety.
The manager of the swimming pool helps us putting up the tent and repairing the puncture. He finds us some chairs and an old table, so we don't have to sit on the soggy ground. In the empty building next to the swimming pool we can take a shower and use the dirty and broken toilet. All this makes us very happy; it's pure luxury!

A stormy wind keeps me awake at night. I drag the plastic chairs and table into the empty building to prevent them from being carried away by the wind. The tent takes every gust of wind without any problems.
The next day a long stage with a lot of climbing awaits us. To reach Sofia we have to cross the Petrohanski Prohod (1.438 metres) and cover over 90 kilometres. The outskirts of Berkovica are even shabbier then the town centre; a lot of houses and apartment buildings don't even have windows and we know that winters can be pretty severe here. After a few kilometres the road starts climbing gradually. It's about 15 kilometres to the summit of Petrohanski Prohod. The weather is pleasant, perfect for such a long climb. Behind us we hear the sounds of another cyclist, the cracking of the bicycle comes nearer and nearer. When he reaches us, we look aside and can't believe our eyes: an elderly man on an old city bicycle without gears with pedal brakes overtakes us. We greet him, panting he moans something at us. His forehead is covered in big drops of sweat. A wooden box is tied to the luggage-carrier. In it we see a sweater, some newspapers and a raincoat. With the one and only gear he has he passes us. He's having a hard time that's for sure. A long time we see him ahead of us. When the road gets a bit steeper, he has to stand on his pedals. With long strokes he stands on the pedals for minutes at a time, until the road flattens somewhat, then he can sit for a while. On a steep part he drops back and finally gets of his bicycle. This part he'll walk, the one gear he has isn't suitable for these gradients. We overtake him and greet him again. A little while later we see him coming again, when we're eating a sandwich at the side of the road. He stops and shows us the edible little yellow prunes that grow in the trees behind us. He doesn't carry any food with him.
He goes on, standing on his pedals. We wonder where he's heading for. At first we thought he could be one of the many mushroom-pickers we see here in the woods, but that's not the case. Moments later we get on our steel horses again and continue the climb through the forest. At a steep stretch we overtake the man again, walking alongside his bicycle. He's quite a go-getter.

Half an hour passes by and we arrive on the summit. Completely unexpected we stumble upon a stall with terrace. When our colleague arrives we invite him for a drink. His name is Milotin Ivanov and he's 55 years old. He plans to visit his daughter, who lives in Sofia. From Montana, where he lives, it's 140 kilometres with a lot of steep climbs. A lack of money and car force him to go by bicycle. He covers the distance in two days and eats from trees and bushes on the way. He doesn't mind have to cycle these distances to visit family and friends at his age. He resigns to his fate with contentment.
From now on he is our big hero, the three of us pose for a picture. That tour of us, with all those gears and perfect breaks, isn't really all that difficult compared to his achievement.

In Sofia we undergo a three day long culture shock. The city looks very modern after a number of weeks of plainness and countryside.

We visit a synagogue, the Banya Bashi-mosque and an internetcafe, eat Chinese food for the first time since long and discover after having been in Bulgaria for five days that our clocks have been one hour behind all this time.

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Communication with Bulgarians is and stays problematic: English is spoken very rarely, Russian always was the teaching-medium at schools. Most difficult is the reversed body language: shaking no with your head means yes, nodding yes means no. We simply can't get used to it.

The last days in Bulgaria we are in an excellent mood and make lots of kilometres in rain and burning sun. Twice we break our record; the following wind is a big help in accomplishing these records. The encounter with Ewan Torrekens, a 20-year old Belgium man who easily cycles 160 kilometres per day, is a source of inspiration for us.

However, to be perfectly honest, nobody beats Milotin Ivanov in the motivation-department. He shows us that life is simple and beautiful, that you can reach any place on your bicycle and age is of no importance at all.

Milotin: thanks again!