Lumps

Melancholic we say goodbye to hotelstaff and Istanbul. The city stole my heart, like it did Peter's twenty years ago. Once again we take the atmosphere in when we cross the Golden Horn passed fishermen, foodstalls, mosques and scenic roads. The Bosphorus is on our righthandside when we cycle in the direction of the second intercontinental bridge. The owner of the hotel is convinced that we will be allowed to pass this one. We will see.
We've already been on the way for hours when Peter discovers a strange lump in his trousers. He feels with his hand and it's a really big lump.
"Stop for a moment," he yells at me. We stop; he puts his hand in his pocket and fishes the huge lump out.
"Shit," I say, "what are we going to do with it?"
In his hand Peter holds the big key fob, with roomkey, of our hotel. On the fob the name of the hotel 'Paris' is printed in big letters.
"You go back and return it, I'll wait here." he says. Nice joke, but I don't fall for it. We search for a letterbox, hoping the Turkish post services will deliver the key at the rightful owner. This solution lacks something: there are no letterboxes in Istanbul, except for at post-offices and we're nowhere near one. We don't want to throw the key away; the hotel absolutely does not deserve this.
We stop a taxi-driver. "Could you please bring this to this hotel, when you're in the neighbourhood?" we ask the stunned man.
"No, I don't know the hotel," he answers us. Then we try somebody else.
"For how much?" He has dollarsigns in his eyes; this was not what we meant to happen.
"No, I never go to the Sultanahmet-quarter."
No taxi-driver is prepared to bring the trinket to the hotel. At our wits end we throw the key in a rubbish bin. We're very sorry, hotel Paris.

At the second intercontinental bridge it's obvious that this one is prohibited for cyclists and pedestrians as well, it's even a toll bridge. Via a parallel road we avoid the tollgates and cycle on to the bridge. This bridge is just as busy and dangerous as the other one to Asia. Here also is a kind of cycle- and pedestrianpath situated alongside the driving lanes. We get over the rails and cycle on over the quiet path. Just like at the other bridge a few days ago, we get stopped by a soldier who forces us back on the road. We're glad we're allowed to contunue our way on the bridge, but are not very pleased with the prospect of having to cycle centimetres from the insane traffic. We lift the bicycles over the rail again, wait for a quiet moment and get on. As fast as possible we cycle the kilometre and a half to the other side. There we see an enormous sign with the word 'Asia' on it. Fantastic! That would be a great picture: a sign with the name of a continent. We stop and take our camera out of the bag. Seconds after taking the picture something is pointed at us: before us we see and hear a soldier who's very mad, pointing his UZI and shouting that we have to get out of there. Blyme, we're no terrorists. We throw a very angry look at the stupid man. We've succeeded in cycling over both intercontinental bridges though! They can't take that away from us.

Thirteen kilometres later we finally leave the tentacles of this huge town. The landscape gets greener and greener. We cycle through picturesque villages, alongside a river with picnicplaces, over very lumpy tarmac, through a village with houses owned by millionairs, eat salad in a restaurant and climb. Our goal, the Black Sea, is reached sooner then we expected. Hand in hand we walk into the cool water, another milestone accomplished. In fact every day is a milestone, but a new sea or country is far more appealing.

The next days are mainly very arduous. It seems like we're not used to cycling anymore after a week of strolling in Istanbul. It's warm, humid and sultry. The road alongside the Black Sea consists of hundreds of short and steep climbs on tarmac that's very lumpy. In a nice descent we approach a village at 50 kilometres per hour, when Peter gets launched. Both his wheels are off the ground when he flies through the air for meters on end. I see it happening and can brake just in time before the invisible velocity-stopper in the shape of a lump over the whole width of the road launches me as well. Luckily Peter lands well and keeps his balance. Two panniers have become undone and flew of the bicycle. We fasten them again, nothing's damaged. The velocity-stopper isn't visible from a distance; it has the same colour as the road. From now on we'll have to anticipate on this kind of dangerous lumps as well.

Our welcome at the expensive campsite at the Black Sea is very hospitable. Like usual we tell about our journey, we then almost always get the discount we ask for. In Aksakese we can put our tent at one of the most beautiful spots of the campsite for a fraction of the amount of money the other guests pay. Even the hundreds of mosquitos can't prevent us from enjoying the grand view.
The next day we arrive at a small campsite in Agva. The sultry weather of the last days discharges itself in a hefty thunderstorm. A strange phenomenon of nature manifests itself right before our eyes: the thunderstorm heads towards us at a raging speed, a bit further we see trees bending to and fro because of the gusts of wind. Where we're standing there is no wind and no rain. The storm comes nearer again and comes to a standstill again. Before us we see an incredible water-parting: where we're standing it's dry, at three metres from us it's pouring. It takes a few minutes before the storm finally moves again and we get wet as well.

Two days later we're crossing the spit of land between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora. The cycling is getting better and we make a lot of kilometres. In the villages we drink tea with the locals. When we want to pay there is an absolute refusal. We cycle between dozens of hazelnutplantations and hundreds of figtrees. At Yalova an earthquake flattened a big part of the town three years ago. Thousands of wooden emergency houses are the silent witnesses of the tragedy that still goes on for a lot of the inhabitants.
In Cinarcik we decide to rest a day. The minus-four-stars-campsite is very snug. The Turkish people here are even more friendly and hospitable than before. After ten minutes they give us a table, two chairs, and six fried fishes. The only problem we encounter is when we look for a level place to put our tent. Our hindering associate we met so often the last days is here as well: lumps.