St. Hilarion

6.30am arrived pretty quickly this morning, I killed the alarm, looked out of the window at some strange looking grey things in the sky. I remember these things from my time back in Mordor UK, there they contained rain I recall. Could this be the first dirty trick of th eday from Cyclops? I turned on the internet and consulted the weather Gods. Three of them said it would rain, one of them said it wouldnt, and another didnt know cyprus existed. It was cooler than of late too. This was a good sign, as long as it wasn't going to tip down all day. The clouds were dark and heavy, and the tought of riding through a thunderstorm filled me with child like excitement. I got kitted up and decided that if it wasnt raining by the time I had squeezed into my lycra then it wasnt ever going to, so I would ride and the universe would conspire to keep me cool, dry and safe today.

 When I was last here in April I rode past the Castle at St. Hilarion, but due to time constraints on the ride that day I took a decision not to make the final climb up to the castle, in favor of returning some sunny day. Today may not have started out sunny, but it was the day I had decided to go back and finish the job at St. Hilarion.

 This was going to be a long ride and the thought of attempting it in the recent excessive heat and dust here hadn't been filling me with glee. The name of the game today was to outwit Cyclops and take full advantage of the cooler conditions and take a chance on it not raining. By 8am I was rolling. Rubic was riding really smoothly and life was good. The sky was red, reflecting the rising sun in the east behind me, the clouds looked ominous, but more importantly the wind was almost behind me having changed direction. All week it had been blowing from the south west whipping up all the dry dust on the plain and dumping it all inside my lungs. Todays north easterly meant the wind was coming in from the sea, and much to cyclops annoyance, wasn't poisoning me with each breath.

 Riding along in the direction of Nicossia with the wind gave me time to empty my head, one of the main reasons I ride a bike. Being so in touch with my surroundings out there on the bike keeps my head distracted, totally empty of thought, of memories, people, issues blah blah blah, all gone, just me, a bike and the open road. This is how I 'live in the moment'.

 At this time of day there is more traffic. I counted at least two cars passing me every five minutes or so. Then the highway around Nicossia arrived. Here the traffic increases a lot, but I had a cunning plan to thwart Cyclops' second trick of the day.

  

I turned off the highway and took a country road ( not on Cyclops' map) cutting diagonally across to the Huge Turkish flag on the hill visable from space apparently, as i saw it on google earth when mapping the route. Here the hills start to kick in, and since I'd turned north I had the 'benefit' of a strong headwind as well. Deepest joy. I aimed for the flag, put my head down and just kept turning the cranks, s l o w l y.

 

The white van coming towards me was flashing his lights and tooting. He had my full attention, not because of his flashing and sounding off, but because he was driving a white van. In the UK a white van is probably the single most dangerous thing a road cyclist can see. Clearly Cyclops had had a change of heart and had taken pity on this poor humble traveler out in the wilderness, and sent a minion with a halo in a white van, armed with a bottle of water, which was duely handed to me at 8mph with a smile and a barage of Turkish, which clearly meant 'Good luck, you are really gonna need this'. The climb up to St. Hilarion had begun. I reached the fast highway between Nicossia and Kyrenia and taking life and limb in hand crossed all four lanes with Rubic.




 The minor road up to St. Hilarion starts on the Kyrenia bound side of the highway here, so being a mere cyclist, Kyrenias town planners cleary felt it acceptable for me to die here rather than have a safe and pleasant tourist experience. This part of the climb is also on a good road surface. It starts with a half mile or so straight road and a thigh splitting gradiant before the first bend. Finally I saw the my first and last view of the castle.

Why last? Better ask the bloody United Nations that. Two camo kitted blue berets sent by cyclops approached me and flagged me down (not hard at 4 mph that). I was informed that due to United Nations rule numero 64i) subsection bollox, that I was not allowed to pass because I was a cyclist! In order to get to the castle itself the united nations commander in chief (cyclops) had apparently decreed that only cars and motorbikes are worthy. Cyclists are clearly vermin and as such I was expelled from the mountian with a reminder not to take photographs.

The two soldiers were as bemused as I was, and we got chatting about my rides as one was a keen rider himself. We spent 20 minutes chatting and laughing before I finally got back on rubic and headed down to Kyrenia. I had gone as far as I could and even though I still hadn't made it to the actual castle, just around the corner, it wasnt of my doing. I was good with that. After all it's just a pile of crusader rocks on a hill, once youve seen one castle you've seen them all! This was never about seeing an old castle, it was about the ride, and the ride was good.

 The downhill from here into Kyrenia is fun, fast and busy. You need your wits about you as it's a fast busy highway and the cars are 'understandably' in a race to the bottom and taking no prisoners. Fall off here and you are likely to find a 10 tonne truck on top of you. So I decided to stay upright.

  

  

 I headed straight down to the old port in Kyrenia / Girne . Nothing had changed since my last ride here in April. The local population was still Mancunian, the cafes were still flogging all day full English and endless piles of chips. The name of the game here is to get as many fat Mancunians into  excursion boats as possible. Here I overheard a restaurant tout in conversation with a Mancunian. He asked where they were from, England came the reply. To which he said "only rain in England!" I waited with anticipation for the reply, it didn't take long and I wasn't disappointent. "Yes Pal, that's why I came to Greece". Sigh.

 

 I like places like this, they keep the 'excursion purchasing community' on fishing trips & away from beautiful places like Kantara. I like that, well done Kyrenia. Jesting aside, Girne is a nice port and always worth a visit on a bike ride. And so it came to pass that this entrepid bike bum found himself turning his bike homeward. This meant only one thing. Head winds.

  

The ride back out of Girne eastwards is all on extremely good road surfaces, rolling hills hugging the coastline, with plenty of small market stores for water stops. I spent almost all of this sections on my aero bars, tucked in against the wind. On the downhill stretches I entertained myself, and passing truckers, with my new top tube crouch (it's all the rage at the TDF these days don't you know). For the entire stretch back behind the Kyrenia mountains I thought about precisely nothing at all. An empty mind is a happy mind.

At about this point a huge petroleum truck decided to pace me. He drew up alongside of me and instead of passing slowed down and matched my speed. Yelling the customary Fcuck Orf at him fell on deaf ears, he wanted to see how fast I was going even if it permanently eradicated me from this life. Eventually he honked and sped off. I've never seen this behaviour before.

I stopped at one market store for peach juice and water. Here I saw a wrinkly old man with sun weathered skin in baggy blue trousers and a stick. He was ahead of me at the check out and smiled at me when he saw me buying ice cold water. I followed him outside and sat down next to the 1tl grab a monkey with a crane machine in the corner. He however ran over to a table where three men were sitting, yelled incessantly at them and started poking them with his stick to get them to move. After much 'subtle negotiation' the three men surrendered and let him have his regular table back. I think he was a goat sheppard and I felt sorry for his flock.

 The final climb was upon us. I lent down and told Rubic that all we had to do now was get over the dam thing and we would have the gradiant and the wind in our favour all the way back. He just cruised it like a pro while I suffered. Bastard bike! Hitting speeds in excess of 50mph on the other side of the pass we were soon at the coast, then turned westward towards Bogaz.

Here I stopped to annoy a little dog who clearly felt my sense of fashion was inappropriate and growled and barked incessenty each time I moved. His young broadfaced owner tried to reason with the Mutt but eventually decided it was better to apologise to me profusly than to administer his size 12. We spoke the international language of laughter and watched the fishing boats rocking in the swell.

 Time to get back. I put the pedal to the metal and finished strongly along the road to Caesar resort. When I looked at my Garmin it said 109 miles approximatly. I fell into the pool in celebration updated this blog then spent over an hour in the turkish steam bath here. Perfick!

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Behind the mountians

 

 Todays ride was fun. I hooked up with a new friend Steve and we headed out about 8am before the heat of the day set in. The plan was to ride a loop ive done before which took us along the coast, turning left towards the mountian pass, then left past Kaplica, and back across the mountians to the plain ane back. We set off at a medium pace and it was really good to ride with somebody instead of alone for once. Chatting as we rode we were soon climbing towards the northern coast.

The climb here is relatively easy, although it does drag a bit in places. The roads are all perfect riding surfaces and there is as usual here almost zero traffic. The downhill from the top of the climb is great fun, fast, safe with the benefit of some lovely views down to the coastline as you descend.



 I wanted to ride this loop anti clockwise as I knew the wind would pick up later in the ride from the south west, and I wanted it with us on the final quarter of the ride. The wind on the northern shore is usually nothing compared to the gusts possible on the messaoria plain.



 Along the coastal road there was a cooling breeze, just the job really. We stopped to get some water and take a break, before making the climb back across.

 





Both climbs on this loop are relativley easy, steady gradiants on top class surfaces. On the way back down I saw a sign for some caves, so not being one to miss an opportunity to get detoured up a dusty road for nothing, I did just that.










We rode off course in search of a cave. However  farmers on tractors  had been sent by cyclops to inform us that the road we were on actually didnt go anywhere, and it was 'no road , no road' to iskele. Plan B was better.

 Plan B involved sitting on a garden wall in some shade nicking fresh limes off the garden tree behind us. There is nothing as refreshing as fresh lime juice in your water bottles. We decided to follow the advice of the farmers, after all they do live here, and abandon my little detour in favor of getting back on track.

On track meant sticking to the main road where we found cold water at the Gas station before heading off on the final leg. Here the wind was a real force to be reckoned with today. It was gusting to the point where even I as a heavy rider had to be careful not to get blown across the road. Thankfully it was a cross wind and not a head wind, as the dust it was whipping up all around was 'all part of the fun'...cough!



 Reaching Iskele roundabout we turned into the wind and battled our way through the last furlong in dust storm before falling into a cool swimming pool! Job done.

And on the 7th day

And on the 7th day Cyclops said, ' take thy lazy arse poolside'

The reason for this enforced madness is the dreaded W word.


 Here is a wind forcast for famagusta I just googled:


 Local Time Th Sep 25 Fr Sep 26 Sa Sep 27 Su Sep 28 SW 2-3 SW 3 NW 2 NW 2 a.m. (Gusts 50 mph) (Gusts 44 mph) SW 5 S 4-5 SW 5-6 S 4 p.m. (Gusts 56 mph) (Gusts 62 mph) (Gusts 37 mph) (Gusts 50 mph) evening NW 2-3 SW 2-3 S 3 W 2-3 (Wind speed in Beaufort) Last updated: Th, 25 Sep, 13:23 BST wind-converter

 Moral?

 Believe thee not in god garmins windspeed stats for verily he speaketh with forked tongue.

Believe better in the power of  ones bike bum instinct!

Buffavento Castle or 'bollox to the wind'

 Once upon a time a very long time ago some blokes decided it would be fun to build a castle right on top of a pig of a mountain to defend the island against Arabs. Now that sounds like a good plan to me so I decided that whatever a few hundred crusader types on donkeys could do, I could do on Rubic. Today was the day I needed to attack Buffavento Castle. I am reliably informed by a goat salesman from Nicossia parish that 'Buffavento' means 'Bollox to the wind'. Another good sign, clearly the crusaders who built the castle had the same attitude as I do. I didn't need an alarm clock, I had set my internal body clock to go off with a thud. At 6am I hit the deck as I fell out of bed. Today was 'Bollox to the wind day'.

 Breakfast was two bananas and a litre of water. I kitted up and hit the road just as the sun was rising behind me as I road west in the direction of Nicossia. All along the plain the wind was up to it's usual tricks making life on the bike painful in places, but as the sun gradually climbed higher I was gratefull the wind was there to cool me down. Here the battle between heat and wind is fought every day, and at this time of year the heat  wins. This was going to be a hot hard tough ride. Rubic and I were ready. I staid on the aero bars most of the way. The traffic consisted of about 30 cars maximum all the way along the plain. Rush hour here clearly. Leaving the highway I decided to turn right into the little villages and put my faith in God Garmin as I began the climb towards the mountains. The houses here are quite nice and the usual peaceful atmoshere of a Cypriot village was soon surrounding me. I was careful at junctions, my faith in God Garmin hadn't yet reached 100% as here the roads have not yet sworn an oath of allegiance to the God of mapping, Google.

 At one such junction a group of leather skinned cigarette smoking men were playing something similar to backgammon. Nobody was moving, all of them seemed frozen in time as they sat perfectly still staring at the board in front of them. Two alsation dogs came towards me, I was on red alert and got off and patted them because there was no way I could out cycle them up that hill, so I figured it was best to make friends with my enemies. Two women hung out the old mens washing while they played games. Cypriot men seem to have the relationship thing sussed I thought. Gradually the climb increased and I was really feeling the heat now. I had refilled my water bottles at a local 'market' shop in readiness for the mountian to come.

Taking a roadside shower

Look what Cyclops provided!

               
My skin, although covered in factor 30 sun cream was sizzling in the sun, I wanted something good to happen. Just then at the top of a short sharp gradiant I found the village washing fountain. Cyclops was on my side today. Within seconds I had de helmetted and had cold water running through my hair and all over. I cannot describe how good that felt! I was getting 'knowing looks' from the locals, a sure sign that the Mountain was coming and had been designed for goats only.

Commando Hill

 I looked up; the Mountain pass here has the word 'Kumando' written on it. I think this is Commando hill, clearly named  after numerous headcase foriegn cyclists and thier lack of underwear, I reasoned. Surely nothing to do with the Commandos during the 1974 war then. Here the road was being resurfaced and a line of cones had been set out along the centre of the entire climb, solely for use by huge trucks and cement mixers as a giant slalem course. One by one they came down the hill weaving in and out of the cones, occassionally clipping or flattening one, much to the amusement of the workmen on the road. The views got better as the climb progressed and although the heat was really uncomfortable, I knew that this was just the beginning.

   

The real climb was yet to come. Reaching the restaurant at the top of the road pass I stopped under a shady bush and sat on a wall. Here I got chatting to the Head of flag waving operations for the construction company. This guy was in charge of the red flag, and waved it at every truck until they surrendered and pulled over. He then shouted instructions at a thousand words a second (the slalem course rules I guessed) before they were allowed down the other side. He was interested in where I was going, had come from, and why Scotsmen wore kilts. He had qualified in Turkey as a red flag waver and had come over to Cyprus to put his skillsets to good use. I said my goodbyes. Sign language is a wonderful thing. I turned off the main road here and took the smaller road to the Castle some 6km away.

Switchbacks on the rough 6km road to the Castle car park

Looking down across to Nicossia

 The road surface here became rougher, with some loose chippings over a tarmaced road. It was totally rideable but I took it slow, all the while being wary of a visit from the puncture fairy, who clearly lived up here. The views here border on amazing, 'amazing' was however yet to come. Riding slowly in intense heat the climb started to drag a little, I was talking to my new mate Rubic all the way up, like a pilgrim on his mule. Rubic was solid on the climb and I felt safe.

This is my 'Goat' Rubic with the castle on top of the ridge behind

                                                       

On and on and on went this winding road...until suddenly under a tree sat an old man. We had arrived at the end of the road. Here this man was entrusted with ensuring the shade was used for its intended purpose. Smoking under. Looking up at the castle above and the winding goat track to the very summit I asked him if it was possible to take Rubic up to the top. He nodded, smiled and said 'Yes Mr, Ok Mr'.

                                                 

Half way up the Goat track I realized that his efforts sitting under the tree had made him delusional. Clearly when he had looked at Rubic he had seen a goat. Onwards and onwards I walked. The Goat track up to the top was paved in places but gradually this deteriorated to loose rocks. I decided to park Rubic and continue up alone. I was out of breath, clearly a sign of altitude sickness I summized, as this was as close to real mountaineering as I ever want to get again!

The edge of the path

Back to the wall and dont look down

Up and up, I went, in the baking mid day sun. Looking down at any point was NOT an option. The sheer drops in places were enough to send Sir Edmund Hilary himself crawling on his belly. Finally I saw the castle wall. I inched closer hugging the rockface as loose stones, dislodged by my road shoes, fell over the edge down to eternity. The final bend came, I was there. Or was I? here the path was less than 2 ' wide, with a sheer drop to my left. The footting was loose and unstable. I was wearing cycle road shoes (not hiking boots) and I was getting very dizzy. I sat down, in some goat shit, and had a chat with myself.
Was reaching a pile of crusader blokes rocks 5 metres away worth risking my life for? The answer, strangely enough, came to me in an instant. 'Sod this for a game of soldiers!'

Decision time on the edge of the world

The castle wall

 I was clinging to a thorn bush for dear life as I turned and looked back down. BIG mistake! The full enormity of the climb I had just done reared up in front of me and my head started to spin in the heat. Surely this wasn't my time? If it was I would fall happy, but right now I wasn't about to let that happen. I sat down and discovered a new ability to 'arse crawl' back down the loose rocks to the more solid path below. I was good with my decision. I had given it my very best and had said 'bollox to the wind'.

Loose rock path near the top

        

On the way down I noticed all the lizards were hugging the rockface, away from the edge. Clearly a sign from Cyclops, so I decided to follow it to the letter! After all, why argue with a cycle god at a time like this? Eventually I hooked back up with Rubic who was busy being admired by a group of three south african lady climbers about to go forth where I had just crawled. I bade them good luck and a fond farewell and headed down to see the old bloke under the tree.

A huge boulder blocks the path, landside anyone?

Looking down to Kyrenia

The Tree man hadn't moved, but I think he had re lit his cigarette. He smiled a knowing smile clearly perfected over centuries for use with dumbass tourists stupid enough to climb his mountain in lycra and road shoes. We grunted our goodbyes and I left him in charge of his tree.

The huge quarry I rode past on the way up

 

Rolling back down the 6km rough road to the restaurant on the main road just seemed to take forever. Even though I had two full water bottles at the bottom of the goat track before I went up , I was more thirsty than I was even in Kansas when I road across the states in 2012!

Rubic on the 6km rough road back to the flag waver and start of the slalem course

I rode right past my friend the red flag waver again and directly into the restaurant. I ordered two cokes, and three litres of cold water and sat down in some well earned shade, free of any delussional smoking leathery blokes, and proceeded to down the lot, slowly.

It's nice but what was really nice was it had WATER!

The view from my table

 Here I could have ventured down the other side of the mountain to Girne, but given the heat, the right decision for me was to head back the same way I had came up. The gradiant would be with me and possibly the wind in places.

The run down was fun, but each time I wound in and out of the slalem course Rubics brakes screached in agony. The heat was getting to his rubber bits, not a good thing really I thought. So I continued down the course at top speed regardless, over taking the truck carrying more molten tar, the cement mixer and two cars to claim my rightful gold KOM podium position at the bottom. Speeding on through the little village again I stopped at the junction. Here one of the old blokes had  finally made his back gammon move, now that his washing was dry.

 Back on the main road that runs along the plain the wind once again reared its ugly head. Today it was mainly from the south and I had a cross wind most of the way back. I was frying in the heat and even with copious amounts of sun block I found myself shade hopping from one gas station to the next.

Looking back at no underwear hill on the way back

Finally I reached Iskele, and a final turn into the wind south. This one mile stretch was killer. Tired and over heating against a serious headwind, it was a case of down on the aero bars and ride hell bent for leather back to base camp. Rolling up to the pool bar, it took me less than 2 seconds to de kit, and fall backwards into the pool. The water sizzled as my skin hit it,I had arrived. Maybe not in style, but I had arrived.



Footnote:
For thost 'Stataholics' out there let me add that the Garmin stats for the wind force here are a complete lie. On this ride the average speed is low because of the amount of walking up the Goat path to the summit.